The quaint, family-run diner on the street corner had quickly become one of Langston's preferred retreats since his reassignment to Caerleon barely a month ago. During the bustling morning hours and lunch rush, it thrived with chatter and the clatter of cutlery. But now, well past ten, it was all but deserted—just the hum of appliances, the occasional sizzle from the kitchen, and the soft murmur of rain against the windows.
Langston sat in his usual booth, a steaming cup of black coffee in hand and a half-eaten slice of apple pie resting beside his fork. Outside, the streets of Caerleon glistened under the downpour. Neon signs reflected across waterlogged pavement, casting rippling blues and reds against the puddles. Pedestrians moved briskly beneath umbrellas, their silhouettes blurred by the cascading rain.
Caerleon was a far cry from the Crown City. Where Camelot was a churning machine—grimy with industry, teeming with ambition—Caerleon still held onto its character. Smaller, quieter, unspoiled by the steel claws of unchecked expansion. Langston hoped it would remain that way, shielded under the looming shadow of Excalibur Academy.
He leaned back slightly, lifting his mug as he glanced up at the mounted screen in the corner. His own face greeted him.
The server, a young woman wiping down the counter, blinked in recognition before scrambling for the remote. With a quick press, the muted broadcast filled the diner.
"Good afternoon, Caerleon. I'm Vikki Danvers," announced the elven woman on-screen, her tone carrying the seasoned cadence of someone who had spent decades in front of a camera. Dressed impeccably, with tanned skin, heavily applied makeup, and lips painted in a shade of red that bordered on theatrical, she offered a practiced smile. "And joining us today is none other than a living legend—Captain Shane Langston."
Langston's brow lifted ever so slightly. Across the room, the server stared at the screen, then turned to him with wide eyes. She looked between him and the glowing image on the monitor, starstruck.
He offered a small, sheepish shrug. "Yeah," he murmured under his breath, "that's me."
****
Langston sat on the leather couch, the cushions worn and sagging from years of use, their once-rich color faded to a tired shade of brown. He rested his clasped hands on his lap, legs crossed neatly as the bright studio lights bore down from above, their heat pooling on his skin beneath his uniform. Three bulky cameras loomed in the corners of the room—cold, impassive observers that reminded him more of battlefield machinery than recording equipment.
Across from him, Vikki Danvers sat poised in her armchair, her posture perfect, her expression polished into that practiced media smile. Shane met her gaze briefly. Not that it mattered—he could see her eyes weren't truly focused on him. They were focused on the performance.
They had already burned through the expected questions—where he was born, what his parents did, what he liked to do in his spare time. Familiar pleasantries. Warm-up questions designed to paint him in a flattering light, to soften his edges and shape him into something palatable for the public. Langston understood the game. He had seen it before. This was the same kind of charade Wilhelm had endured, sitting in this very studio decades ago, giving the same polite nods and patient smiles.
And like Wilhelm, Langston wore the same kind of smile now. The kind you rehearsed in the mirror. The kind you gave the press when you knew the truth wasn't part of the script. It wasn't real. It wasn't earned. It was theatre. Stage lighting and fake laughter and smiles that didn't quite reach the eyes.
He hated it.
He would have gladly traded the lights and the cameras for the blood-soaked mud of the Vol'dunin frontlines. At least there, you knew where you stood. With the enemy. With your brothers in arms. With your own conscience.
Here, under the spotlight, everything felt colder.
And it was only a matter of time before the warm-up ended, and they got to the real reason he'd been dragged into this farce.
"Now, Captain Langston," Vikki began, "many of us have heard tales of your legendary exploits during the Orc Insurrection of Vol'dunin. Could you tell us more about your experience there?"
Langston leaned back in his seat. "Well," he began slowly, "calling it an insurrection is a bit of a misnomer. You see, the orcs don't have a unified nation—never have. Vol'dunin may be their ancestral land, but they're tribal by nature. Hundreds of clans once roamed those plains—nearly three hundred, in fact. Scattered, independent, often at odds with one another."
He exhaled, gaze drifting for a moment. "It wasn't until a thousand years ago that a war-chief—Broughston Ashorc, one of the Five Heroes—managed to unite them under a single banner. For a time, it worked. Centuries, even. The land knew peace, fragile though it was."
He paused, then continued. "But orcs are a proud people. Restless. Ambitious. The unity Ashorc forged eventually fractured. About five hundred years ago, the old alliances splintered. The clans turned inward, then outward. Vol'dunin descended once more into war."
Langston's jaw tensed slightly. "So no, it wasn't an insurrection. It was a campaign of expansion—led by the Blackrock Tribe. The largest and most ferocious of them all." His hands tightened slightly in his lap. "The conflict lasted six years. I did three tours. But when I first set foot on that battlefield, I was barely eighteen. Just a boy, fresh out of the Academy."
His gaze dropped for a moment. "The Blackrock orcs were brutal. Unrelenting. They fought with a kind of fury that no doctrine could prepare you for. Like every battle was a sacrament." He looked back up. "And we lost a lot of good people. Not just soldiers. Brothers. Mentors. The kind of leaders who could hold a broken battalion together with nothing more than a word."
Vikki's smile had faded, replaced by something softer, quieter. Even the crew behind the cameras shifted uneasily, their expressions muted.
"I've seen things… and done things," Langston said. "Things I've tried to justify. To myself. To others. Told myself it was war. That in war, nothing is ever black and white. Just endless shades of grey." He inhaled deeply. "The worst part? It wasn't just our losses that weighed heavy. It was theirs too. The smaller orc tribes—those who wanted no part of the Blackrocks' conquest. Tribes that were subjugated, their men conscripted, their women and children enslaved. They were pawns—tools of war like the rest of us."
"By the time the sixth year rolled around, I'd already made Captain. Twenty-four years old. Leading the entire Tower presence in Vol'dunin." He offered a bitter chuckle. "It wasn't a promotion. It was a sentence. And somehow, I survived it."
Vikki gave a nervous chuckle, clearly trying to cut through the heaviness. "But you did survive… and, well, you single-handedly brought an end to the insur—ah—campaign." She cast a quick glance at the camera, then returned her focus to him with a rehearsed smile. "We know how the story ends—but perhaps you could tell the audience yourself?"
Langston's gaze lingered on her for a moment before shifting to the camera lens. "Yes. I ended it," he said. "I put a stop to the Blackrock Tribe's advance, once and for all. But it came at a cost."
He paused, just long enough for the silence to settle.
"I negotiated peace with their warchief, Zhor. And for that peace to hold… certain sacrifices had to be made. Ones I carry with me to this day."
Vikki nodded, her smile still faint but faltering at the edges. "And because of that decision, there hasn't been a single major conflict in Vol'dunin for nearly twenty years. That's thanks to you, Captain Langston. A legacy worthy of the title Hero of Vol'dunin."
Langston offered a restrained nod, though his gaze had dropped to his hands. "If you say so."
"And there you have it," Vikki turned back toward the camera with a professional smile. "An exclusive conversation with the man behind the myth—Captain Shane Langston. Thank you again for joining us."
Langston hesitated briefly before answering. "The pleasure's mine."
The cameras dimmed; the red recording lights faded to black.
****
Langston eased back into his seat, the clink of his fork on the empty plate marking the end of his meal. The apple pie, once a welcome indulgence, had turned to ash on his tongue. The sweetness left a bitter aftertaste—much like the interview itself.
It wasn't anger that settled in his chest. It was disgust.
Not just at being paraded like some polished relic of the Tower, trotted out to soothe public fears and polish a tarnished image. Not even at the carefully curated truths they allowed him to share, truths half-buried beneath omissions and softened edges. No, it was deeper than that.
He hadn't lied. Every word had been true. But sometimes the truth, in its rawest form, was viler than any falsehood.
His fingers tightened around the handle of his coffee mug. The porcelain creaked beneath the strain. Sacrifices, he'd said on air. A word that sounded noble in the mouth of a hero. But what they had done—what he had done—was something else entirely. Drenched in blood, stained in silence, and dressed up in the language of duty.
He clenched his jaw. Maybe the judgment he'd cast on Astrea had been too harsh. Maybe it wasn't his place—not anymore. Not with hands as tainted as his. Not when he'd built peace atop the bones of the innocent.
The soft clink of a coffee mug on the table drew Langston from his thoughts. Iris had slid into the seat across from him, a fresh brew in hand. "I've lived in Caerleon my whole life," she said, glancing around the quiet diner, "and I'm a bit ashamed this place escaped me. The food's amazing—and I can keep going back for refills without judgment." She raised her mug with a grin.
Langston chuckled, the weight on his shoulders easing—if only slightly. "Happy to share," he said, lifting his own mug. "The pie reminds me of home, actually. My mother—bless her—was an incredible baker. Never did it for a living. Just a hobby, but... her apple pies?" He gave a soft, wistful smile. "I swear, nothing in this world ever came close."
"She must've been a remarkable woman," Iris said.
Langston nodded, then exhaled. "Yeah... she was."
There was a short lull as the rain continued its muted dance against the windows. Iris's gaze drifted to the muted holographic screen still looping highlights from the earlier broadcast, before returning to the man in front of her.
"That thing you said," she began, "about sacrifices." Her expression sobered. "The records are vague. And I could tell in the interview—you didn't want to go into it." She hesitated, then continued. "I know you don't owe me anything, Captain, but... I need to ask. What did it really cost? And was it worth it?"
Langston didn't answer immediately. His eyes dropped to the black swirl of coffee in his mug, steam curling into the air like ghosts. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet.
"Everything."
He let the word hang for a moment, before lifting his gaze to hers. "And as for whether it was worth it..." He paused. "I used to think it was. I needed to believe it was."
His jaw tightened slightly.
"But now? I'm not so sure anymore."
****
Langston and Iris stepped out of the diner, the soft jingle of the brass bell overhead quickly drowned by the steady downpour outside. The chrome and glass door clicked shut behind them, sealing in the warmth. Rain had thickened to a cold curtain, sweeping across the streets in sheets, glistening beneath neon lights that blinked and hummed from towering holographic signs overhead. The city was hushed—empty sidewalks, abandoned roads, and flickering billboards the only signs of life.
Neither of them seemed to care that they were getting soaked. Their coats were already heavy with water, rain slipping down their faces, clinging to hair and fabric alike. Langston walked with his hands buried in his coat pockets, gaze distant. Iris followed at his side, keeping pace in silence until they reached the middle of the road. There, she stopped.
Langston noticed, turning back. "Something wrong?" he asked, brow furrowed.
Iris shook her head, her expression soft, sincere. "No. I just wanted to say something." She stepped forward. "Captain Langston… no matter what you think of yourself, or what others might say—you did what you had to do. And there's no shame in that."
His eyes flicked to hers, surprised. He looked down, jaw tense as the rain continued to strike the pavement in rhythmic patters. "I'm afraid it's not as simple as that, Iris."
"It is to me," she said. "And to the men who made it home because of you." Her hand reached for his, cold and wet as she clasped his fingers. "You're a hero, Captain Langston. My hero."
Langston blinked. A quiet smile crept across his face—
And then it vanished.
His nostrils flared. Something acrid in the air—smoke. Ash. Burning.
Before he could speak, the space behind Iris warped, blackened smoke swirling into shape, embers briefly flashing in the air like fireflies from the abyss. A towering figure emerged from the dark, wreathed in steam and shadow. The weight of a massive war hammer pulled reality around it—its obsidian steel veined with emberlight. Without a word, the hammer swung.
Langston's eyes widened. "Iris!" he roared.
Too late.
The hammer crashed into her side with a sickening crack. The impact sent her flying through the diner window in an eruption of shattered glass. Her body slammed into the counter with a metallic crunch, the entire structure crumpling beneath her weight, red splattered across steel and tile.
Langston raced in her direction, leaping through the broken window, and skidding beside her ruined body. "Iris—no, no, no!" he cried, kneeling over her.
Her eyes fluttered, unfocused. Blood leaked from her mouth; her limbs bent in unnatural ways. Her chest barely rose.
"C-Captain…" she rasped.
"Don't speak—don't you speak!" Langston shouted. He turned to the server, frozen in terror behind the counter. "Call an ambulance, now!"
But he already knew. Iris's hand gripped his for a moment longer, trembling, then slackened.
"This… isn't your fault…" she whispered, and then her eyes dimmed, her head lolling to the side. Still.
Langston froze, breath caught in his throat. The scream came seconds later—a guttural, broken sound that tore from his chest. He fell backward, clutching his hair, staring at her lifeless face. His mind reeled, fury and anguish battling for control.
Behind him, the figure approached, its presence like a wound in the world.
"Ah," the deep voice rumbled, thick with bitter mockery. "The sound of pain… of loss. Familiar, isn't it?"
Langston turned slowly. Eyes wide with horror.
"It's the same sound I made," the figure growled, pulling back the soaked hood of his cloak. Rain slid down the jagged contours of his face — a face Langston hadn't seen in years but would never forget. Scars marked his lips and brow. His amber eyes, sharp and smoldering, locked onto him. "When I cradled the broken remains of my family in my arms."
Langston staggered to his feet. "Orgrim… Darqtide."
The name hung heavy in the air.
Orgrim stepped forward, war hammer dragging behind him with a low scrape. His expression hardened. "Your sins, Captain… they've come for you."
A pause. A faint sneer.
"Old friend."
****
Bastion pushed through the tavern doors and stepped into the curtain of rain, groaning as the cold droplets soaked through the greys of his uniform. With a slow exhale, he tucked his hands into his pockets and started down the slick, puddle-riddled streets. The shorter sword at his hip knocked lightly against his thigh, while the greatsword strapped to his back swayed with every step, its tip nearly grazing the heels of his boots.
His stomach was full, the warmth of stew and ale still lingering pleasantly. He yawned, already looking forward to a hot bath and the weight of soft blankets after a long day. Hopefully, Rem had taken the hint this time—not waiting up with a reheated plate or a freshly drawn tub. The girl meant well. Perhaps a little too well.
A faint chuckle escaped him, a flush creeping onto his cheeks. She was cute, no denying that.
But Bastion shook the thought from his head.
He had long since sworn off any notions of settling down. With his commitment to the Tower and the endless demands of AEGIS, there was simply no room left for dreams of hearth and home—despite Frank's constant pestering or his mother's not-so-subtle hints.
Frank, of all people, was hardly a model family man, what with his fractured ties and haunted past. And his grandfather—the Overdeath—was worse. A paragon of justice, revered across Avalon, and yet… a stranger at the dinner table. The emblem on his chest shone brighter than his presence at home ever did.
The echo of Bastion's footsteps filled the empty streets, each step sending ripples through shallow puddles. For all the good his grandfather had done for the world, it was a legacy paid in loneliness. His mother rarely spoke of her father, and Bastion knew why. Heroism didn't leave much room for affection. Duty demanded everything—and gave little in return.
A part of him understood now. A part of him feared becoming the same.
And so, he walked on, beneath the rain, bearing the weight of steel and legacy both.
As Bastion rounded the corner, he nearly collided with someone. He caught himself mid-step, blinking against the rain—only to find himself face-to-face with a familiar figure standing dry beneath the shelter of a large black umbrella. A satchel hung from one shoulder, worn leather creaking with every subtle movement. Their eyes met.
"Good evening, officer," Salazar said with a grin—more fox than friend. "Bit late for a stroll, isn't it? And in this charming weather, no less."
Bastion gave him a once-over. "Could say the same to you… Slytherin, right?" He folded his arms. "Don't students have a curfew?"
Salazar offered a languid shrug. "Rules, dear sir, are meant to be bent—not broken. As long as I'm not out and about summoning demons at the town square, most of the staff are content to turn a blind eye."
"Huh," Bastion replied, unimpressed. "And what exactly are you doing out here, then?"
Salazar's brow arched, the umbrella tilting slightly as he leaned forward. "Are you questioning me, officer? Or am I officially under arrest?"
Bastion smirked. "If I had a reason, you'd already be in cuffs. And honestly, I don't think dragging some wet kid back to school for being out late is worth the paperwork."
"Well," Salazar said, adjusting the grip on his bag, "it's refreshing to meet a lawman who understands the nuance of discretion."
He turned slightly, preparing to continue on his way. "Now, as fascinating as this exchange has been, I do believe we're both overdue for a warm bath and something soft to collapse into."
Bastion glanced down the street and jerked his head. "Well, since Excalibur's that way—and my place isn't far from there—guess we're headed the same direction. You mind if I walk with you?"
Salazar gave a courteous bow. "Not in the least. Lead the way, officer."
With that, the two fell into step beneath the gleam of rain-soaked lamplight, boots tapping gently against the wet stone as the city slumbered around them.
****
The clash of steel rang out through the rain-slicked street, echoing down the empty road like a war drum. Each impact sent shockwaves rippling through the falling rain, scattering embers with every violent strike. Orgrim spun his war hammer with terrifying ease—its haft long as a pike, its head massive, forged from blackened steel veined with molten fire. It looked like it should crush bones just by existing—but in Orgrim's hands, it moved like an extension of his rage.
Langston ducked under a wide swing, his broadsword catching the blow with a scream of metal that sent tremors through his arms. The sheer weight behind the strikes forced him back step by step, his boots slipping slightly against the drenched asphalt. Sparks flew, heat and cold colliding in a symphony of fury and survival.
Then—impact.
The hammer met steel, and the force sent Langston sliding backward across the road, his heels carving tracks through puddles. He dropped to one knee, bracing himself with his sword jammed into the pavement. His shoulders heaved, breath ragged, the rain washing away sweat and blood alike. Across from him, Orgrim stood tall, looming like a figure carved from vengeance and fire.
"Twenty years," the orc rumbled. "Twenty years I've waited for this moment."
He stepped forward, embers trailing in his wake, the rain hissing as it met his smoldering weapon.
"Twenty years I've dreamt of the ruin of the man who brought fire and death to my tribe. Who tore from me everything I ever loved." His amber eyes locked on Langston's. "A man who looked me in the eye… and gave me his word that everything would be alright."
"When you spoke of cost," Orgrim continued. "… of sacrifice… was my family among them?"
His war hammer dragged along the rain-slicked asphalt with a grinding scrape that echoed through the street.
"Was my wife a sacrifice?" His voice rose. "My son? My daughter?" His amber eyes burned as they locked on Langston. "Was the Warsong Tribe—my tribe—just another line in the ledger of acceptable losses?!"
Orgrim let out a roar as he swung, the hammer arcing like a falling star. Langston's eyes snapped wide—he threw himself aside just as the weapon came crashing down, shattering the road in a burst of stone and fire. In a flash, Langston countered. His blade lashed across Orgrim's side, biting into flesh. Black ichor sprayed across the pavement, sizzled by the rain. The orc stumbled, gripping the wound—but when he pulled his hand away, Langston's stomach turned.
The wound was sealing shut, cauterized from within by a line of molten fire.
"Twenty years I've mourned," he said. "Twenty years of hearing their cries every night—my wife, my children, every soul you and your soldiers butchered."
Orgrim raised his head.
"I welcomed you into my home. We shared bread. You laughed with my children. You drank from my fire." His expression twisted, grief bleeding into rage.
"And you… betrayed us all."
"I had no choice, Orgrim," Langston said, hoarse as he raised his sword, its edge trembling in the rain. "Zhor demanded Warsong land—your land—in exchange for peace. If I hadn't agreed, he would've razed the southern tribes. Thousands would've died. It wasn't my fault."
Orgrim's eyes flared, his face twisting into fury. "Not. Your. Fault?"
He swung.
The hammer came like a thunderclap. Langston barely caught it on his blade, the force jolting down his arms, bones rattling.
"Who gave the orders?!" Blow after blow raining down like judgement. Langston was forced back, his boots sliding across fractured asphalt, cracks forming beneath him.
"Who came in the black of night like cowards?! Who led the charge while my people slept?" Orgrim cried out. "Who stood by as men, women, and children were butchered?!"
Langston braced as Orgrim's hammer came down with a deafening crash, meeting the flat of his sword. The ground beneath him buckled, the pavement caving from the impact.
"I saw you that night," Orgrim hissed, pressing his weight down, forcing Langston to his knees. "I called out to you. I screamed your name."
He leaned in, their faces inches apart, rain spilling down between them.
"You looked me in the eye… and you turned away," Orgrim growled. "You left me there. Left me to die."
He drew a trembling breath. "But I didn't. Death never came. Not even the end I begged for. No… I lived. Like the rot of a curse festering in the veins—I lived." His voice deepened. "While you were met with cheers. Draped in banners. Showered in praise. A hero's welcome. Medals. Accolades. Your name sung in reverence."
"I crawled through mud. Slept in caves. Fed off rats. I forgot the taste of bread. The warmth of a fire. The sound of a voice that didn't want me dead."
"And if not for him… if not for Asriel, I would've rotted in that hole." His eyes narrowed. "You failed me, Langston. You failed my family. You failed my tribe."
His gaze shifted toward the diner—toward Iris's broken, bloodied body crumpled against the shattered counter.
"Just as you did her."
Langston's breath hitched. His body wavered.
With a snarl, Orgrim flipped his hammer and drove it into his chest. Langston gasped; the air torn from his lungs as he flew backward. He slammed against the asphalt, skidding and rolling, his sword scattering beside him. He coughed, blood painting his lips, washed away in the rain.
"Humor me, Captain Langston…" Orgrim strode forward, his hammer resting against his shoulder. "When was the last time you actually set foot in Vol'dunin? The land of your so-called greatest achievement… the site of your greatest atrocity."
Langston forced himself upright, limbs trembling. "Zhor… he gave me his word," he rasped. His eyes drifted to his fallen sword. He reached for it. "He said the Blackrocks would never harm another tribe again."
Orgrim laughed bitterly. "And you believed him?"
Langston's fingers wrapped around his hilt.
"Not even a month passed before the raids began anew," Orgrim spat. "They never meant to keep their word. They never intended peace."
Langston froze. His eyes widened. "No… that's not… the Tower would have known—"
"Known?" Orgrim barked. "The war bled them dry. They didn't want to know. You handed them a neat ending to a costly campaign, and they buried the truth beneath a mountain of silence." He stopped; gaze sharp. "You weren't their hero. You were their convenient story."
Langston said nothing. He couldn't.
"The only reason there's peace in Vol'dunin," Orgrim continued, reaching behind him, "is because Zhor and the Blackrocks are gone."
He drew forth a chain lined with shrunken skulls—tusks curling beneath each jaw, bone scorched and blackened. They clinked together like trophies. Or warnings.
Langston's breath caught. He stared, jaw clenched.
"I ended them," Orgrim said, low and steady. "Every last one. Zhor's tribe. His bloodline. His children. His wife. I razed their camps in fire and made him watch. He cried. He begged. He screamed for mercy. And when I was done…"
Orgrim's eyes burned like embers.
"I tore his skull from his spine."
He tucked the grisly chain away.
"Now tell me, old friend," he said, lifting his hammer once more. "Will you die with dignity? With the courage of the Hero of Vol'dunin?"
A pause.
"Or will you die screaming… just as he did?"