The alarms went off at 6:07 AM.
Red lights flared in the security hallways. Upstairs, students scrambled out of their dorms in confusion. Logan was already halfway to the hangar bay with claws extended, while Cyclops and Storm coordinated a lockdown from the main control room.
A sleek jet unlike any in SHIELD or the U.S. Air Force hovered above the front lawn, humming low with magnetic repulsion fields. Its underside glowed like the core of a star—controlled, powerful, and deliberately slow in its descent.
Outside, a dozen X-Men stood in formation by the front steps. Logan rolled his shoulders with a growl. "If it's who I think it is, I've been waitin' years to settle the score."
The landing gear touched grass. The engines silenced.
Then the ramp lowered.
And from within stepped Magneto.
He wore his classic attire—regal crimson and black, high-collared, his helmet gleaming under the morning light. He didn't hurry. He didn't flinch.
"Don't," came the calm voice from the second-floor balcony.
Charles Xavier, in his chair, his blanket across his lap, looked down at his students without raising his voice.
"Stand down," he said. "He's not here to fight."
There was hesitation. Logan bared his teeth. Cyclops muttered something under his breath.
But the X-Men obeyed. Reluctantly.
Erik stopped at the edge of the steps, lifting his gaze.
"Hello, old friend," he said, voice smooth and unreadable.
Charles inclined his head slightly. "To what do I owe the honor?"
Magneto's eyes flicked past the students, past the young faces frozen between training and war. His voice was low, but it carried.
"I came to talk. About your dream. And mine."
Magneto ascended the steps as if he belonged there. His cape drifted behind him like a banner, and his helmet gleamed like a holy crown in the morning light.
"I hope you don't mind offering me some breakfast," he said smoothly, as if he were a guest and not the school's most dangerous visitor. "I haven't had anything to eat since leaving Europe."
Charles arched a brow. "Of course. Come inside."
He turned his chair and led the way, calm as ever.
The dining hall wasn't built for moments like this. A long wooden table ran the center, sunlight filtering in through tall windows. A few chairs were already pulled out from early risers, but the Professor rolled to the head and nodded toward the place beside him.
"Sit," he said simply.
Magneto did, without hesitation.
Within minutes, the kitchen staff—some mutant, some not—served eggs, toast, coffee, and tea. No one asked questions. No one dared.
The X-Men stood around the edges of the room like a security detail, arms crossed and eyes unblinking. Logan leaned against a wall near the door, claws just below the skin. Cyclops stood by the coffee maker, eyeing Erik like a coiled spring. Even Storm, serene and composed, looked ready to raise a hurricane at the first wrong move.
And in the middle of it all, Charles and Erik sat like two old professors at a university table. Two men who'd once shared a dream. Two men who had broken it in half.
Erik cut his toast precisely, calmly. "You know, Charles… I always did appreciate the way you refused to panic. You make it so easy to pretend this is just a civilized chat between two friends."
Charles lifted his tea. "Because it is."
Erik smirked. "Tell that to your students. They're practically vibrating."
"I trust them to control themselves," Charles said, without looking up.
"That's more trust than I'd show," Erik replied, though his tone was more amused than mocking.
He sipped his coffee, glanced at the food, and then at the room.
"This place hasn't changed," he said. "It still feels like hope wrapped in wood and stone. I wonder how long it'll last when the world finally stops pretending to be fair."
His gaze lingered on the younger students peeking nervously through the door.
Charles followed his eyes. "That's why we fight. To give them more time to grow into something better."
Erik gave a quiet, thoughtful hum.
"Or to teach them that power is the only thing that truly protects them."
The room tensed again.
But Charles only smiled gently. "There it is," he said. "Your thesis. Shall we debate it over jam and eggs?"
Erik lifted his fork. "By all means."
The clink of silverware and the occasional shuffle of boots were the only sounds for a long moment. Then Erik set down his fork and looked directly at Charles.
"Tell me Charles, how do you see the new development? With Albion."
The two had had these kinds of talks many times over the last few decades, always the same back and forth. Both always firm in their conviction. They always met up after each major development, trying to use it to their advantage.
Yet, neither had ever been willing to change their stance. Still, this time Erik was confident.
Charles looked at Erik with something closer to familiarity than challenge. "You speak like a man standing outside the fire," he said quietly. "But we both know you're not. Raven may have delivered the message… but the Brotherhood built the hearth."
Around the edges of the room, a few students whispered again. "Did he just say the Brotherhood?" — "I thought they were terrorists."
"Indeed, I won't dismiss my own hand in this, but I asked what you think of it. A nation welcoming to our kind, it's our dream, isn't it? Or at least, your dream." After all, his dream had long since changed; now he realized that Mutants shouldn't be equal to humans; they should be above them.
Charles looked Erik in the eye, his tone unwavering, serene. "I think it's beautiful," he said plainly. "A nation that opened its arms to mutants. Not out of fear, or necessity, but out of purpose. Albion is the most promising step forward I've ever seen in my lifetime."
That statement sent another ripple of whispers through the watching students.
"Are you serious?" Cyclops muttered under his breath, but Charles ignored it.
Erik raised an eyebrow, amused. "You surprise me. I expected hesitation, especially given the… situation that is the global political situation."
Charles smiled faintly. "I agree, I would have loved to see the UK embrace mutantkind without having a magical king use military force and fear to conquer it, but it still shows that there is hope. As long as we can overcome the bias, people will accept us, like with Albion."
Erik leaned back slightly, swirling his coffee in the cup, watching the ripples move as he weighed his words.
"You mistake acceptance born from strength for understanding, Charles. Albion didn't win hearts—it bent them." His voice was calm, but each syllable carried weight. "And you mistake the king of Albion for a normal person, she might not be a human, but surely you see? Albion welcomes enhanced, even magic, because an enhanced sits on the throne."
Charles nodded once, not dismissively, but as one acknowledges a hard truth. "Yes, perhaps to some extent you are right, but how many knights of the Round Table are there? And how many normal humans? The citizens of Albion will learn from their king, they will see that mutants are not to be feared, and that acceptance will spread."
Erik gave a quiet, skeptical hum.
"That's a comforting thought," he said, "but I've lived too long, Charles, to trust that the masses will learn anything except obedience to power. They'll cheer the mutants in Albion because they are Albion's, not because they are mutants."
He set down his cup with a soft clink.
"You say they'll learn from their king," he continued, "but we both know that the world won't accept their king, they will bring down Albion, tear it apart, and your dream will be nothing, only as long as the king is strong, can the mutants be safe."
A few of the students shifted at that. Logan muttered something under his breath. But Charles remained calm.
Charles could only sigh, because on this point, he did indeed agree with Erik. He was well aware of the schemes and plans being made right now. The world indeed didn't accept Albion, and he understood it.
The nation was born from bloodshed and power, and people were afraid, it was this fear that drove them to hate mutants, he knew that, just as well as Erik did.
Erik had felt that hate on his own body, endured it, but Charles, he felt it, read it off the minds of the parents of his students, the fear, the hate.
But while Erik only felt fear, he only saw hate. Charles, too, saw the good. Even now, here at his school, there were non-mutants, often a parent of a student.
If only Erik could see that love, but he was blind to it, hate had blinded him.
"I agree that there are challenges to overcome, but this is the first step. The settlement you have built, it's a beautiful place, even if I would have preferred to see the mutants living among the normal population, rather than separated from them."
Erik's eyes flicked toward him, sharp as a blade—but not cutting, not yet.
"They are among the population, Charles. They just happen to be the ones building the homes, raising the walls, and teaching their own children not to be ashamed of what they are." His voice was firm, the edge of pride unmistakable. "They're not hiding. They're thriving."
"Behind walls," Charles said gently.
"To keep them safe."
"To keep them apart."
A heavier silence settled between them, thick with old wounds and familiar arguments.
Erik leaned forward, folding his hands on the table. "I gave the helpless, the poor, the lost, those who don't fit into your school, a home. I have taken the first step, but it only happened due to power, to fear, don't you see?
Even if we can live in Albion, that will only be at the mercy of their king. If we are to have a real home, we can, but we must take it. If we act now… while the world is already nervous about dealing with Albion, they won't have the resources to deal with us."
Charles didn't argue that point. Instead, he studied Erik with a look of quiet sorrow.
"I had hoped you would now see the beauty in peace and harmony, yet you only see the conquest, war, and power. You want to cause more chaos, to push the world harder… I find myself disappointed with you."
Erik's expression didn't falter. If anything, Charles's words seemed to harden the lines of his face—less in anger, more in inevitability.
"I did see the beauty once," Erik said. "Long ago, when we were young and foolish and thought good intentions were enough. But I've buried too many children to believe in harmony without strength behind it."
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
"All Albion has done," he continued, "is prove my thesis. That safety is not granted—it is taken. And that peace only exists when those with the power to destroy it choose not to."
"And what of trust?" Charles asked softly. "What of teaching the world not to fear us?"
"They will always fear us," Erik said. "The difference is whether they fear hurting us… or fear what happens when they try."
That silence returned—heavier than before. Outside, the morning light crept up the windows. In the hall, a student coughed and quickly silenced themselves.
Charles looked around at his students, then back to the man across from him.
"So what is it you've come here for, Erik? To gloat? To rally? Or to say goodbye before you start a war of your own?"
Erik took his time answering. He glanced at the eggs cooling on his plate, then back at his oldest friend.
"I came," he said, "because I still believe, in some corner of your mind, you know that I am right, and that you will join me. Together, we could do this, we could take Ireland, right next to Albion, we could be safe there."
Charles's eyes narrowed—not in anger, but in something like pain.
"You would take Ireland?" he repeated softly, almost disbelieving. "You would create peace by war? Security through conquest? You've become the very tyrant you once vowed to resist."
Erik didn't flinch. "Don't act surprised, Charles. I've never lied about who I am. And I am done waiting for humanity's approval. Albion rose because it had the will. The strength. The right person on the throne."
"That person," Charles said firmly, "opened their doors to you. Gave your people sanctuary. Are you really suggesting we respond by carving up their neighbor?"
Erik stood slowly, the chair sliding back with a soft scrape of wood against floor. His cape swayed with the motion.
"I'm suggesting we learn from them. Before the world unites in fear and crushes us both. You have your school, I have my settlement. But how long will they last, Charles, when the bombs start falling again? When the tolerance dries up the moment it's inconvenient?"
He leaned over the table slightly—not menacing, but close enough to command attention. "You think your dream is safe just because Albion exists. I think it's living on borrowed time. But we could extend that time, help them, and help us."
The weight of his words lingered like smoke. He didn't wait for permission this time—he turned and began walking toward the door.
"Erik…" Charles called after him, voice low, almost pleading. "Don't do this."
"If not me, then who will?" Erik replied without looking back. "I will wait for you to call me, but don't take too long."
And with that, he was gone.
Outside, the hum of his jet began to rise again.
Inside, the X-Men remained silent.
Charles sat there for a long time, his hands folded, his tea cold, his heart heavier than it had been in years.
(End of chapter)
Alright, the X-men, the X-man? The mutants have already shown up, and therefore, I felt that they should have some time in the spotlight.
Magento is someone who is both the bad guy, and the good guy depending on who the real big bad guy is. He can't be both, and that means he is both, always standing just between the two sides.
Here, I will be exploring what he will do, when he is shown the path of kings.