Chapter 232 - 213: A Tale Of Sanctuary

Chapter 232: Chapter 213: A Tale Of Sanctuary

Across the Crossroads City, far removed from the bourgeois streets, premium storefronts, polished cobblestones, manicured lawns, and opulent manors occupied by Caerleon’s wealthier residents, the city center pulsed with its familiar weekend rhythm as students from Excalibur Academy flooded the streets in search of food, supplies, entertainment, or simply a few hours away from lectures and schoolwork.

Bakeries filled the air with the comforting scents of butter, cinnamon, and powdered sugar, while cafés competed with the richer aromas of roasted coffee, cream, caramel, hazelnut, and one peculiar flavor introduced by Vagabonds from their own time and worlds, a seasonal concoction known only as pumpkin spice. Strange as it had seemed when it first appeared, it had grown remarkably popular over the past several years, especially among younger crowds who seemed to treat its arrival as an unofficial announcement that autumn had finally begun.

Other establishments saw just as much traffic from Excalibur’s students, particularly stationery stores where shelves of parchment, scrolls, quills, ink, and enchanted writing tools were steadily stripped bare throughout the weekend. Potion suppliers, dungeon-delving shops, armorers, and magical equipment vendors enjoyed the same rush, while even Quibble Scroll had seen a considerable increase in students frequenting his shop for books and academic supplies. The compensation he had received following the Siege had been more than enough to stabilize his finances, and the goblin had joked more than once about sending the Wizarding Council a handwritten letter thanking them for their generosity, if only to rub salt into whatever figurative and literal wounds they were still nursing after the newly appointed Grand Regent, Machon Duchannes, had demanded his pound of flesh.

The story had already spread across Avalon and become yet another source of public ridicule aimed at the Council, an institution many had despised for years, while some citizens had even turned the entire affair into bawdy songs they made a point of singing whenever a Councilman or woman came within earshot. Mycellus, in particular, had reportedly stormed away from more than one public gathering the moment he heard the opening verse.

The wet scrape of a straw against the bottom of a plastic cup pulled Salazar’s attention away from the surrounding noise, and his emerald gaze settled on Helga with an expression caught somewhere between amusement and quiet disgust. In her hands was what he could only describe as an insult to coffee-related beverages, a towering mixture of shattered ice, milk, coffee, syrup, whipped cream, and a dusting of brown spice so generous that he suspected the drink contained more sugar than actual coffee.

Helga, however, looked positively delighted as the three friends made their way down the busy sidewalk, passing café tables crowded with students, bakers calling out fresh specials, vendors announcing their wares, and automobiles humming steadily along the cobblestoned roads. The crystalline residue expelled from their exhausts drifted faintly through the air, leaving behind the muted sweetness that had become a familiar part of Caerleon’s streets.

"By Fornac’s gummy gumdrops, I don’t know about you two, but whoever came up with pumpkin spice deserves a statue somewhere," Helga said with a grin, dressed comfortably in a yellow sweater, black slacks, boots, and a brown-and-yellow scarf wrapped around her neck. She took another long sip and practically melted with satisfaction. "Seriously, how am I supposed to survive until next fall once they stop serving this?"

"My dear Helga, I remain positively baffled by your ability to derive pleasure from that abomination they have so carelessly declared a beverage," Salazar replied, dressed in a black turtleneck beneath an overcoat, jeans, loafers, and a green-and-silver scarf. Although a grin tugged at his mouth, the slight twist in his expression made his opinion abundantly clear. "I took one sip earlier and nearly felt my teeth surrender from the amount of sugar."

"I don’t normally agree with Salazar when he’s being dramatic, but he’s right about this," Rowena said, walking alongside Helga in a gray jacket beneath a navy-blue coat, jeans, black boots, and a sapphire-blue-and-gray scarf. "And I know I probably shouldn’t speak ill of Vagabonds or whatever future they come from, but I genuinely worry about a civilization that willingly puts that much syrup into one cup and calls it normal."

"Bah, you’re both just jealous because they’ve got taste," Helga said, returning to her drink with a smug little smile. "Besides, it’s not like I have these all the time."

Rowena gave her a level stare. "That’s exactly what you said yesterday, and the day before that." She sighed and shook her head. "By Hecate, Helga, you’ve spent more coin on pumpkin spice lattes this week than you normally spend on cake, and you’re supposed to be replenishing your supplies. You ran out of parchment three days ago."

Helga’s cheeks flushed as she lowered the cup slightly. "That wasn’t my fault. I was still waiting for the payout from our last contract, and besides, I didn’t buy that many."

"This is your third one since this morning," Rowena said with a flat stare.

Helga pouted and took another sip anyway.

"Speaking of supplies," Salazar said before the argument could loop around again, "I do believe Jeanne asked us to pick up a few things on her behalf. Those additional classes she has been taking with the professors have left her with precious little personal time." His eyes rolled slightly. "As for why Helena willingly chose to subject herself to the same misery, that remains entirely beyond me."

"Unlike some people who believe natural talent excuses them from effort," Rowena said, glancing toward him, "Jeanne has a lot of catching up to do, same as Godric. Helena is just an overachiever, though I suppose that shouldn’t surprise anyone when she’s aiming to become the next Ignis Visionary."

"Tell me about it," Salazar groaned. "That is practically all she talks about, even when we—" He stopped himself so abruptly that Helga’s expression changed almost immediately, her eyes narrowing with mischievous interest while a slow grin spread across her face. Salazar cleared his throat and recovered with as much dignity as he could manage. "E-even when we happen to engage in casual conversations over supper. Nothing more."

"Right," Helga said, drawing the word out as her grin widened. "You know, Sal, one of these days you’re gonna have to come clean."

Salazar’s embarrassment vanished beneath a smirk as he leaned slightly closer. "Only if you do the same regarding your rather obvious fancy for one Lucian Graymark."

Helga flushed bright red so quickly that Rowena almost laughed. "T-That’s neither here nor there, and what do you mean, fancy? I don’t fancy him at all!"

"Of course, you don’t," Salazar replied with effortless satisfaction before his gaze shifted toward Rowena. "And amusingly enough, since you mentioned our wayward Gryffindor, have we heard anything from our dear friend since he was spirited away by that fiery Vermillion?"

Rowena sighed, her sapphire eyes briefly catching on a baker arranging a dozen cinnamon rolls behind one of the storefront windows before she looked back toward them. "Not recently, but if I had to guess, he’s probably reached the Vermillion Estate by now. It’s far east of Caerleon, maybe half a day by airship depending on the route." She considered the thought for a moment before adding, "I wouldn’t worry too much. The Vermillions are a little..."

"Crazy, insane, explosive, brash?" Helga offered, that same grin returning.

"That, yes, though I was going to say eccentric," Rowena replied. "Unlike most of the other Imperial Families, the Vermillions are warriors first and nobles second. They’ve served as knights, royal guards, officers, and just about every form of law enforcement you can imagine for generations. Mereoleona herself is one of the captains in King Uther’s Crownsguard, and her brothers serve there as well."

She let out a quiet breath as they continued through the crowd. "My father and grandfather have enough stories about that family to fill an entire library. They’re honorable, at least by most accounts, but they live for combat and seem completely obsessed with becoming stronger and staying stronger than everyone around them. Naturally, they aren’t especially fond of the Tower either, though they’ve made exceptions for my family over the years."

Helga looked toward Salazar, then back to Rowena. "So basically, Godric got kidnapped by an entire family of battle-crazed nobles."

Rowena considered it for a moment before giving a reluctant nod. "When you put it that way, yes."

Salazar’s grin returned. "Then I am certain he is having a marvelous time."

Helga chuckled and took another sip from her latte as the three of them continued down the crowded street. "When you put it that way, I guess he’ll be fine. Still, I can’t imagine why Lady Mereoleona would care that much about Godric just because he jury-rigged some of their spells onto his sword."

"Interestingly enough, it isn’t quite that simple," Rowena said, drawing both Helga and Salazar’s attention. "Calidus, at its core, is more than enchantment magic. It taps directly into the wielder’s mana."

She paused when both of them looked at her blankly, then let out an exasperated sigh. "Honestly, don’t either of you read? And I mean actual books, not novels about brooding teenage vampires or catalogues full of cursed objects."

Helga and Salazar leaned back at the same time, hands pressed to their chests in matching offense. "What, moi?" they said together. "How dare. We’re appalled."

Rowena stared at them for a long moment before continuing as though she regretted ever starting the explanation. "Anyway, mana is an ancient term for magical energy. It exists within anyone capable of wielding magic, and the simplest way to think of it is as magical stamina. The problem is that mana in its natural state is raw and unfocused. You can train yourself to channel it directly, but doing that safely takes years of discipline and control, which is why witches and wizards use wands."

"That much I understand, my dear Rowena," Salazar said with a level look. "And as much as it pains me to admit it, I suspect even Helga, with the collective IQ of a famished niffler, understands the concept."

"Yeah," Helga said brightly before her smile slowly turned into a scowl. "Hey!"

"I’m getting there," Rowena replied. "For us, mana becomes magic through structure. Wand movements, incantations, intent, all of it gives that raw energy shape and purpose. Calidus is different because it skips a large part of that process. Instead of shaping mana into a conventional spell first, the wielder converts it almost immediately into a usable effect and releases it in a single motion."

Salazar’s brow lifted. "The way you describe it, that sounds remarkably similar to Vis Vitalis."

"That crossed my mind too," Rowena said. "And I’m sure someone as experienced as Lady Mereoleona noticed the similarity the moment she saw Godric use it. But I think what really caught the Vermillions’ attention is what he managed to do with Calidus itself."

The low hum of an automobile passing along the cobblestones filled the brief pause before Rowena continued. "As you probably overheard back at the Great Hall, Calidus is traditionally used barehanded. The Vermillions believe weapons are unnecessary because, apparently, hitting something with your own fists is morally superior to using a sword."

Helga snorted while Salazar gave a weary sigh.

"Don’t ask," Rowena said flatly. "The point is that once the family made their Imperial Artes publicly available for others to learn, people naturally started experimenting with it, and the results ranged from innovative to catastrophically stupid. It’s difficult enough to learn with proper instruction, but without a teacher, a lot of people ended up injuring themselves because nobody outside the family seems to fully understand how the Vermillions tap directly into their mana without suffering serious backlash. And their explanation, naturally, is grit."

Salazar chuckled. "A wonderfully useless answer whenever absurdity happens to produce results. Rather like Godric last year when he first learned of Vis Vitalis and insisted anyone could do it if they simply tried hard enough."

"He really did believe that, didn’t he?" Helga said with a laugh.

Rowena nodded. "And eventually people tried applying Calidus to weapons. Swords, spears, axes, whatever they could get their hands on, but those attempts ended badly too. Nobody could figure out how to bind that kind of raw output to a weapon and still control it the way the Vermillions control it through their bodies."

"Until Godric, that is," Salazar said.

Helga took another sip before adding, "To be fair, he’s used enchantment magic on his sword before. He did it during his duel with Volg."

Rowena glanced toward the cup just as Helga made an increasingly desperate attempt to pull something through the straw, only the notice it was empty. "No, Helga, you’ve had enough."

Helga looked down at the empty cup with genuine disappointment.

"And yes, you’re right," Rowena continued. "But what Godric used back then was conventional enchantment. He applied fire to the blade, and that was mostly the extent of it. What he’s doing now is different. He uses the enchantment as a foundation, then channels his own magic through it and treats the sword like a conduit. That’s how he’s able to produce those larger fire attacks instead of simply carrying a flaming blade."

Salazar’s expression shifted as the pieces came together. "But that would require an exceptional degree of magical control." His emerald eyes widened slightly. "Which he already possesses."

Rowena nodded. "That’s where Vis Vitalis comes in. Godric has already trained himself to channel his inner magic through his body, so adapting that control to Calidus gives him an advantage nobody else had. As far as anyone knows, he may be the first person who’s managed to make the technique work consistently through a weapon."

"Consistently seems rather generous," Salazar said, his expression tightening as he tilted his head. "I seem to recall him coming to supper with both arms wrapped in bandages so often that, by the end of it, he looked less like a student and more like a poorly preserved mummy."

"Exactly," Rowena agreed. "His version is still crude, unrefined, and dangerous. Calidus isn’t supposed to burn or injure its wielder, but Godric hasn’t figured out how to prevent the backlash because, from the look of it, he basically forced several concepts together until something worked."

Helga’s face lit with realization. "Ohhh. So that’s why the big scary lady kidnapped him. He figured out something everybody else tried and failed to do."

"Pretty much," Rowena said. "And honestly, I think this might be good for him. If anyone can teach Godric how to stabilize what he’s created, it’s the family that invented Calidus in the first place. If Mereoleona actually decides to train him rather than simply beat him into the ground for entertainment, he could come back stronger and far more in control of what he’s doing."

Salazar smirked. "Well, I can hardly imagine a more appropriate spell for the Lion of Ignis, can you?"

"Funny you should mention that," Rowena said. "Do either of you know what Lady Mereoleona is called?"

Helga and Salazar looked toward her, waiting.

"Among her rivals, she’s known as the Uncrowned Undefeated Lioness," Rowena said, a faint smile forming. "Across Avalon, though, most people call her the Crimson Lioness."

Salazar went still for a moment before laughter broke through his composure, while Helga tried and failed to smother her own behind one hand.

"Oh, that is far too rich," Salazar said once he managed to breathe again. "They do say lions live in prides, and it would appear our little lion cub may have stumbled directly into one."

"I mean, the red hair kind of gives it away too," Helga said through her laughter.

Salazar drew in a breath and regained what little dignity he had left. "Well, wherever he is, I sincerely hope they return him in one piece and resist the urge to arrange some impromptu marriage while he is there."

Rowena raised an eyebrow. "I fail to understand that implication."

"Think about it, Rowena," Salazar said, folding his arms. "The Lion of Ignis, Hero of Caerleon, the boy who defeated Grim Reaper Burgess, wielder of lost magic, and now apparently the first outsider to successfully adapt an Imperial Family’s signature technique to a weapon. Between you and me, does that not sound remarkably close to marriage material for an ambitious noble house?"

Helga’s eyes widened. "You don’t seriously think they’d try something like that."

"My dear Helga, after meeting Mereoleona, I would hesitate to rule out anything."

Rowena shook her head. "You’re both ridiculous."

"Perhaps," Salazar said, lifting his gaze toward the muted gray sky above the city as his smirk returned, "but wherever you are, dear friend, I pray the Gods show you mercy, because if the Vermillions decide to make your invitation into the pride official, I intend to enjoy every recollection of your discomfort when you return."

****

Miles east of the Crossroads City, beyond Camelot and deep within a valley enclosed by the Everstone Mountains and their snow-dusted peaks, lay the town of Dunkeld. To Godric, the journey there had been considerably less picturesque than the destination, especially after Mereoleona confined him to one of the airship’s cabins for most of the trip. Ropes had been used at first, but after she discovered just how resourceful he could be with a broken bottle, a little patience, and far too much determination, those ropes had quickly been replaced with chains. His escape attempt had lasted all of several minutes before she caught him, dragged him back inside, and made it abundantly clear that trying again would only result in heavier restraints.

By the time they reached Dunkeld, Godric was already in a foul enough mood that even the scenery had trouble winning him over, though he had to admit the town was striking. It reminded him somewhat of Meyruelle, only smaller, rougher around the edges, and considerably warmer. Even with autumn settling over Avalon and the mountain air carrying a persistent chill, the streets below felt closer to a pleasant summer day than anything approaching winter.

From inside the automobile carrying them through the stone-lined streets, Godric watched the town pass beyond the windows with growing interest. Most of the shops appeared to belong to stonemasons, smiths, metalworkers, and craftsmen of every kind, staffed by exactly the assortment of people one might expect in a place built around fire, stone, and iron. Dwarves worked alongside humans and orcs, with the occasional elf or therian moving between open-front workshops where hammers struck red-hot metal and sent sparks scattering across the floors.

Elsewhere, masons worked chisels into slabs of stone, filling the air with pale dust while heavy chimneys poured smoke above the rooftops and furnaces burned hot enough to stain the windows orange. Even from inside the automobile, Godric could catch traces of iron, ash, clay, and sweat every time the breeze slipped through a gap in the carriage.

The road eventually carried them beyond the denser streets of Dunkeld and toward something Godric had not expected at all. A broad river cut through the valley ahead, steam rising from its surface in thick white veils, and as the automobile crossed the bridge, the windows began to fog beneath the sudden warmth. Dunkeld, he soon realized, was not simply known for its smithies and stonework, but for its hot springs, with inns and bathhouses built all across the region to take advantage of the naturally heated waters. Godric had read about places like this before, had seen sketches and descriptions buried in travel books, but he had never actually stood in a place where entire rivers ran warm beneath the open sky.

Their destination waited at the far edge of the valley, where a sprawling manor rose behind red-and-black stone walls adorned with gothic carvings of dragons and lions. It was larger than the D’Arc estate by a considerable margin and carried more than a passing resemblance to the Ignis common room, though at that point Godric had long since stopped caring about architecture or hospitality. The moment Mereoleona hauled him through the enormous oak doors and deeper into the manor, a small and increasingly paranoid part of him had become convinced that this was finally where the Vermillions intended to kill him for having the nerve to tamper with their family’s magic.

He had imagined interrogation chambers, dueling pits, perhaps some humiliating tribunal where half a dozen furious nobles took turns explaining precisely why he had offended generations of tradition.

Instead, he found himself sitting in the middle of an enormous bathhouse.

The bathing pool alone was large enough to accommodate an entire household, lined with black, white, and yellow-veined marble polished until it reflected the diffuse light above. Steam drifted lazily toward the ceiling in thick clouds, softening the edges of the room and turning the surrounding columns, benches, and decorative stonework into blurred shapes beyond the water. Godric sat submerged to his chest with his eyes wide and his expression caught somewhere between nervous confusion and disbelief, still trying to understand how he had gone from being abducted by a battle-crazed Imperial noble to soaking in what was easily the most luxurious bath he had ever seen.

The worst part was that the water felt incredible.

Heat seeped into his battered muscles and loosened the soreness Mereoleona had beaten into him the day before, gradually easing the ache in his shoulders, arms, and back despite his stubborn refusal to relax completely. Every instinct continued insisting that something was wrong, that nobody kidnapped a student, chained him to an airship cabin, dragged him halfway across Avalon, and then rewarded him with a hot spring without some far more unpleasant surprise waiting afterward.

So Godric remained where he was, shoulders tense despite the soothing water, staring through the steam with the wary expression of someone who had learned the hard way that whenever his life became unexpectedly comfortable, trouble was usually only a few minutes behind it.

"So, you’re the lad all of Avalon has been talking about," a deep voice said from somewhere beside Godric, carrying easily through the steam. "The one they call the Hero of Caerleon, the boy who bested Grim Reaper Burgess, and, of course, the Lion of Ignis."

Godric’s eyes widened as he craned his neck to the left, and through a thinning veil of steam, the shape of another person slowly came into view. Sitting only a short distance away was a man who looked several years younger than Mereoleona, with long, straight vermilion hair and the same powerful build that seemed to run through the family. Red markings framed his eyes, while a diamond-shaped mark of the same color rested in the center of his forehead. His arms were folded comfortably against his chest, and although he barely turned his head, his lavender eyes shifted toward Godric with an appraising calm that somehow made the young Gryffindor feel as though he were being inspected.

"I must admit, you’re considerably shorter than I imagined," the man continued, drawing a slow breath before offering the faintest hint of a smile. "Fuegoleon Vermillion, second scion of House Vermillion and eldest son of the family. A pleasure to finally meet you, Godric Gryffindor."

"Short is one thing," another voice cut in from Godric’s right. "He looks like a strong breeze could knock him over. There’s no way this guy took Burgess down by himself."

Godric twisted the other way and found a younger man lounging against the edge of the pool, seemingly much closer to his own age, with long, messy vermilion hair and turquoise eyes filled with poorly concealed mischief. The stranger grinned and pointed a thumb toward himself. "Leopold Vermillion, youngest of the family and second son. And before you ask, yeah, I was expecting somebody bigger too."

Godric looked between them, still trying to catch up with the fact that two complete strangers had somehow appeared in what he had assumed was a private bath without making so much as a sound.

"Pleasure," he muttered uncertainly before his confusion finally overwhelmed his manners. "But can somebody please explain why the hell you two are in here with me?" he said, before he jerked backwards and screamed. "And why the hell are you two naked?!"

Fuegoleon regarded him with a long, almost disappointed look. "Honestly, from what dark and uncivilized corner of the world were you raised?" He paused before Godric could answer and gave a small shrug. "Actually, never mind. I can hazard a reasonably accurate guess. Allow me to spare us both the explanation and simply educate you instead."

He gestured around the enormous bathhouse. "The Vermillions have maintained communal baths for generations. We do not separate members of the household, nor do we attach any particular embarrassment to bathing together. It is tradition, and one we have never found reason to change."

Godric stared at him as the meaning sank in far more slowly than Fuegoleon probably intended. "C-Communal?" His crimson eyes widened further as several unpleasant possibilities began assembling themselves inside his head. "Wait, when you say communal, you mean everybody in the family uses the same—"

"Oi," a familiar voice called from farther through the steam, accompanied by the gentle movement of water. "How about you keep it down over there? It’s been a long flight, and some of us are trying to relax."

All three men turned toward the sound, though Godric already knew exactly who it belonged to before the steam shifted enough to reveal Mereoleona standing farther across the bath, her figure mercifully obscured beneath the water and dense white vapor. She looked entirely unbothered by his presence, which only made the horror spreading across Godric’s face considerably worse.

His jaw dropped as he looked from Mereoleona to Fuegoleon, then toward Leopold, before finally snapping his gaze somewhere safely toward the ceiling and letting out a loud scream.

Leopold immediately burst into laughter, sinking farther against the edge of the pool as Godric’s panic echoed through the bathhouse, while Fuegoleon merely folded his arms more tightly and shook his head with the weary composure of someone discovering that Avalon’s newest hero had apparently never encountered a communal bath in his life.

****

Godric sat curled up beside the fireplace with his knees drawn tightly against his chest, staring miserably into the flames as though they might somehow absolve him of his sins. "Raine, forgive me. Forgive your lecherous mate."

The sitting room occupying the manor’s eastern wing was every bit as extravagant as the rest of the estate, though it carried the same rugged character Godric had already begun associating with House Vermillion. The walls surrounding the hearth were built from dark, scorched stone resembling obsidian, with tiny mineral grains embedded throughout its surface that caught the shifting firelight and glittered like scattered stars. The fireplace itself had been carved into the shape of two enormous lions rearing upon their hind legs, their mouths opened in silent roars around the flames burning between them.

A tall family portrait dominated the wall above the mantel, depicting five members of House Vermillion. An older man and woman sat upon ornate golden chairs at the center, while their three children stood around them. Mereoleona occupied the left side beside the older man, whom Godric assumed had to be her father and the head of the family, given the same unmistakable vermilion hair and red markings around his eyes. Fuegoleon and Leopold stood beside their mother on the opposite side, the former wearing the same stern expression he seemed incapable of abandoning even in portraiture, while Leopold displayed a bright, confident grin that looked remarkably similar to the one he wore now.

Mereoleona sat in a large armchair near the fireplace with her arms and legs crossed, watching Godric with a half-lidded stare that made it clear his ongoing crisis was rapidly exhausting what little patience she possessed. A broad coffee table separated them, covered with plates of biscuits, cookies, pastries, and cakes alongside polished silver pots filled with coffee and tea. Fuegoleon and Leopold occupied the larger sofa nearby, although the contrast between the two brothers could hardly have been greater.

Fuegoleon calmly sipped his tea with one hand while balancing the saucer in the other, whereas Leopold was already shoveling down pastries and chasing them with mouthfuls of coffee quickly enough to draw repeated looks of irritation from his older brother.

"When you’re done being dramatic, how about you actually sit down?" Mereoleona said, one fang showing beneath her scowl. "Seriously, if there’s one thing I can’t stand about Ignis brats, it’s how theatrical you people get over the smallest inconvenience."

Leopold paused halfway through another biscuit and looked between his sister and Godric. "But weren’t you and big brother Fuego in Ignis too?"

Fuegoleon closed his eyes briefly and lowered his teacup onto its saucer. "Indeed, she was, and I can assure you our dear sister was every bit as dramatic during her own years at school."

Mereoleona’s head snapped toward him. "Hah?!" Her arms and legs immediately unfolded as she leaned forward. "You don’t get to sit there calling me dramatic when you used to scream and carry on over every little—"

"All right, that’s it!"

Godric shot to his feet so abruptly that everyone turned toward him. "You dragged me halfway across Avalon, chained me inside an airship, dumped me into some giant communal bath without explaining anything, and now you’re making me sit around while you drink tea and eat cookies like this is some perfectly normal visit!"

He swept one hand toward the crowded table before glaring at all three siblings. "I want to know what the heck is going on. Why am I here? If you’re planning to kill me, then just get it over with, because I seriously can’t take another minute of this!"

Fuegoleon blinked once before a long-suffering sigh escaped him, and he pinched the bridge of his nose as his gaze settled upon Mereoleona. "You did not tell him, did you?"

Godric’s glare immediately shifted between them. "Tell me what?"

The growing urge to reach for his sword was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.

Mereoleona waved a hand dismissively. "I was going to. Sheesh, you’re impatient." She leaned against the armrest and rested her cheek against one fist. "But if you want answers, sit down first. I’m not explaining this while you’re standing there looking like you’re about to challenge the furniture to a duel."

Godric continued glaring at the three of them for several seconds before finally looking toward the empty armchair opposite Mereoleona. With obvious reluctance, he pulled the sword from across his back, lowered himself into the chair, and rested the weapon carefully against the side within easy reach.

Fuegoleon’s attention immediately settled upon the blade, his earlier exasperation giving way to quiet curiosity as his eyes followed its length. "If you don’t mind my saying, that is quite an extraordinary sword." His gaze lifted toward Godric. "A family heirloom, perhaps?"

"A gift," Godric replied flatly. "My uncle gave it to me, although I guess you could call it an heirloom." He folded his arms and turned his attention back toward Mereoleona, clearly finished with every distraction the Vermillions seemed determined to throw in his path. "You wanted to talk, so talk."

"Straight to business, then," Mereoleona said, a smirk cutting across her face. "Let’s get the obvious part out of the way first. I know you’ve been tinkering with Calidus, our family’s Imperial Artes, and our predecessors were the first ones stupid enough to share it with the masses."

She chuckled. "Not that it did most people any good. Every hardass who knew how to throw a decent punch convinced themselves they could master it, and then came the smartasses who figured they’d improve on the idea by using swords, spears, axes, whatever else they could get their hands on. Naturally, they all failed spectacularly." Her eyes rolled. "More people have gotten burned, both figuratively and literally, trying to learn our Artes than just about any of the others."

Godric gave her a half-lidded stare. "That’s not exactly the boast you seem to think it is, but go on."

"Smartass, aren’t you?" Mereoleona replied, her smirk never fading. "Still, every one of them failed until you came along."

"I get that part," Godric said as he straightened in his chair. "But I already told you, what I’m doing is an imitation at best. I took what I could figure out, changed the parts that didn’t work for me, then used it the same way I’d use any other magic. It’s really not that hard."

Leopold stopped chewing and stared at him. "Not that hard?" He snorted and pointed at Godric with the biscuit in his hand. "Are you hearing this guy?"

"What my elder sister and younger brother are trying, rather inelegantly, to tell you is that you appear to have no idea how much mana control Calidus actually requires," Fuegoleon said.

Godric’s confused expression made him pause, and after a moment, Fuegoleon let out a quiet sigh. "Of course. We have read enough about you to know that you were not born in this world and that you spent most of your life without any formal understanding of magic, so perhaps I should begin there. Mana is the magical energy that exists within every living thing capable of wielding magic. Every spell you cast draws upon it in much the same way physical effort draws upon stamina, and like stamina, it replenishes with rest."

"We all have mana circuits running through our bodies," Mereoleona added, tapping two fingers against her forearm. "What do you think those glowing lines are when you use Vis Vitalis?"

Leopold’s eyes widened immediately. "Wait a second." He pointed his thumb toward Godric. "You’re the guy who knows Vis Vitalis?"

Godric blinked.

"That’s awesome," Leopold said, his entire expression brightening. "That’s basically your own Imperial Artes. You’ve gotta teach me."

Godric leaned back slightly. "I wish I could. I barely understand how I’m doing it myself." He turned back toward Mereoleona before shifting his attention to Fuegoleon. "And I know about mana circuits and magical control. I’ve learned that much. What I don’t understand is what any of it has to do with Calidus."

Fuegoleon regarded him for a moment before arching a brow. "Honestly, were you so preoccupied during your duel with my boneheaded sister that you failed to notice something so glaringly obvious?" Mereoleona shot him a glare at the comparison, but Fuegoleon ignored her and continued. "Think back, Gryffindor."

Godric frowned as he searched through the memory, replaying the duel in his head until the answer finally clicked into place. His eyes widened as he looked up, and Mereoleona’s smirk sharpened almost immediately.

"She didn’t have a wand," Godric said. "She was casting the entire time, but she never used one. How the heck was she doing that?"

"Wandless and silent casting certainly exist," Fuegoleon explained, "and both are normally introduced to more advanced students, but mastering either requires years of discipline and practice. Calidus, however, is something entirely different. Rather than shaping mana through a wand, incantation, or conventional casting method, the wielder must control the mana directly and give it form through the body."

He lifted his teacup and took a measured sip before continuing. "That level of control must be exceedingly precise. A mistake does not simply cause the spell to fail, it can cause the mana itself to recoil through the wielder."

"Which is why idiots keep setting themselves on fire," Mereoleona added.

Fuegoleon gave her a brief look before returning his attention to Godric. "Crude phrasing, but essentially correct. Calidus is already difficult enough to wield safely through the bare hands, where the body itself acts as the conduit. Applying that same principle through a weapon was long considered impractical at best and impossible at worst."

Fuegoleon’s lavender eyes shifted briefly toward Godric’s sword resting beside the chair. "Until you proved otherwise. My hypothesis is that your mastery of Vis Vitalis, which relies upon many of the same principles of mana control, allowed you to apply that knowledge instinctively when constructing your rather improvised version of Calidus. Your technique is undoubtedly unrefined, but the underlying foundation is remarkably similar."

"So, here’s the deal, Gryffindor," Mereoleona said, leaning forward with an eager grin. "We want to figure out exactly how you pulled it off. With some help from the nerds over at the Wandering Sea, we’ll study how you channel your mana, take some notes, compare it to the real thing, and maybe we’ll learn something that can make Calidus even stronger for us." Her grin widened. "We already sent word. They’ll be here tomorrow morning."

"Wait, wait, hold on!" Godric shot to his feet, waving both hands as if he could physically stop the conversation before it went any further. "You want to stick me in some room and let a bunch of strangers study me like I’m some kind of magical beast?" He swept one hand aside. "Forget it. I’m nobody’s guinea pig, and there’s nothing you can say that’s gonna change my mind. Threaten me, lock me up, chain me to another airship, throw every Plata your family has at me, I don’t care. I’m not doing it!"

He pointed toward Mereoleona, his temper rising with every word. "And if you’re planning to force me, then you’d better be ready for a fight. I don’t care if you’re nobles, I don’t care how powerful your family is, I—"

Mereoleona suddenly threw her head back and laughed, cutting him off so completely that Godric could only stare at her. As her laughter rolled through the room, the flames inside the fireplace began to swell, rising higher between the carved lions until the hearth seemed to roar along with her.

"Force you?" she said, looking back at him with an amused smirk. "You seriously think that’s what this is about?" Her eyes flicked toward her brothers before settling on Godric again. "And while we’re on the subject, you really think you could take me? Or all three of us?"

The heat from the fireplace intensified enough that Godric instinctively shifted a step away from it.

"We’re the scions of House Vermillion, Gryffindor," Mereoleona continued. "We’re not the richest Imperial Family, and we sure as hell aren’t the most politically influential, but when it comes to combat, nobody sits above us. There’s a reason King Uther keeps Vermillions in the Crownsguard. He knows exactly what we’re capable of, and he knows we’re the kind of allies you don’t casually make enemies out of."

Fuegoleon gave his sister a mildly disapproving look over the rim of his teacup. "You do have a remarkable talent for making loyalty sound suspiciously like a threat."

"She gets the point across," Leopold said around another mouthful of biscuit.

Mereoleona ignored them both. "But I didn’t drag you here because I wanted to lock you in a room and let a bunch of scholars poke at you until they got bored." Her expression changed as she studied Godric more carefully, the humor fading from her eyes. "I brought you here because you want something we want too."

Godric’s anger faltered.

"I saw it when we fought," Mereoleona said. "You want strength. Not because you’re chasing revenge anymore, and not because you’re trying to punish the world for what happened to you. That version of you died with Burgess." Her gaze never left his. "What you’re chasing now is different. You want to become strong enough that nobody you care about ever has to go through what you went through again."

Godric’s expression softened, his raised hand slowly falling back to his side.

Mereoleona’s words lost some of its usual bite. "Believe me, Gryffindor, I know that feeling better than most. I know what it looks like when somebody stops wanting strength because they hate what’s behind them and starts wanting it because they’re terrified of what might happen to the people standing beside them."

For several seconds, Godric said nothing.

"So, here’s my proposal," Mereoleona continued. "You let us study what you’ve done with Calidus. We figure out how you made it work, why your version behaves the way it does, and whether there’s something in your method that even our family can learn from." She gestured toward herself and her brothers. "In return, the three of us train you properly."

Godric’s eyes narrowed slightly. "Train me?"

"In Calidus," she said. "The real thing."

Mereoleona raised her right hand, and fire burst across her palm before winding around her forearm in bright, controlled spirals. Unlike the violent flames Godric had seen during their duel, these moved with extraordinary precision, never once scorching her skin or slipping beyond where she intended them to go.

"We’ll teach you everything we know," she said. "How to draw the mana out properly, how to shape it, how to release it without tearing yourself apart, and most importantly, how to control it instead of forcing it to obey you."

Her fingers slowly curled into a fist, and the flames collapsed inward before disappearing without so much as a spark.

"The Vermillions gave Calidus to the world generations ago, but we’ve never personally trained anyone outside our bloodline." Mereoleona’s smirk returned, though there was something more serious behind it now. "You’d be the first."

Godric remained standing across from her, staring at the hand that had been burning only moments earlier. "And I promise you this, Godric Gryffindor," Mereoleona said. "If you accept, then by the time we’re finished with you, you won’t just be copying our Artes anymore. You’ll understand it, control it, and make it your own." Her grin sharpened. "When that happens, you’ll be every bit a lion of House Vermillion as you are the Lion of Ignis."

Fuegoleon settled the teacup back on the saucer. "What say you, lad?" he asked. Leopold grinned on the chair next to him.

A brief silence settled over the room as Godric considered Mereoleona’s offer, but before he could answer, the door opened with a heavy crack and the old hinges let out a protesting squeal. Light spilled in from the hallway beyond as a new set of footsteps entered, drawing Godric’s crimson eyes toward a young woman with light vermillion hair who looked to be around his age. She wore a puffy cream-colored sweater with long sleeves, white shorts cut in the same soft style, and a brown corset fitted around her waist, with a lighter brown piece of fabric beneath it trimmed in frills.

"Leona, Fuego, Leo, we just arrived, so I thought I’d come by and—" Her voice was soft and polite, standing in immediate contrast to the three siblings already occupying the room. She stopped when her yellow eyes found the unfamiliar face near the fireplace. "Oh, I didn’t realize you had a guest. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude."

"Oi, Mimosa, good to see you!" Leopold exclaimed, waving her over without a second thought. "Come on, sit down and grab something. We’ve got plenty."

"I accept," Godric said suddenly.

Mereoleona and Fuegoleon both looked back toward him. Godric straightened and met Mereoleona’s gaze. "I’ll take your deal. I’ll help you study Calidus, and you teach me how to use it properly. I just have one question."

Mereoleona’s smirk returned almost immediately. "What’s on your mind?"

Godric raised a finger. "How exactly is this supposed to work? This place isn’t exactly within walking distance of Excalibur, and I still have school."

Mereoleona blinked before throwing her head back with another laugh. "You seriously think House Vermillion doesn’t own property in Caerleon?" She settled back into her chair with a grin. "I’ll just stay there for a couple of months while we work on you. Besides, Camelot’s been boring the hell out of me lately, so a change of scenery sounds pretty good."

Fuegoleon gave a small shrug as he lifted his teacup again. "Ser Clarus is going to have an aneurysm when he hears that, I’m certain." His attention then shifted toward the young woman still standing near the doorway. "And where are our manners? Mimosa, if you would be so kind as to introduce yourself."

Mimosa blinked before smoothing her hands over her clothes and offering Godric a small curtsy. "Oh, um, of course. I’m Mimosa Vermillion. I’m their younger cousin, and you are?"

"Gryffindor. Godric Gryffindor," he said with a friendly smile. "Nice to meet you."

Her yellow eyes widened immediately. "G-Godric Gryffindor? As in the Lion of Ignis? The Hero of Caerleon?" The words spilled out faster with each title. "The leader of the Marauders who beat the Cali—"

She caught herself too late as every pair of eyes in the room turned toward her. Fuegoleon slowly lowered his teacup. "Mimosa, are you following Congregation matters?"

"N-No!" she blurted, her face turning bright red. "Of course not. I would never!"

Leopold burst out laughing and covered part of his face with one hand. "Well, what do you know? Guess she really is one of us after all."

Godric looked between them. "Wait, you’re all part of the Congregation too?" He stared for a second before rolling his eyes. "Of course, you are. It’d be weirder if the Vermillions stayed away from a place built around wagers, fights, and people beating the hell out of each other for fun."

"Oh, yeah," Mereoleona said with a grin. "Who do you think had that seat before it ended up with that lunkhead Laxus?" She rolled one shoulder and cracked her neck. "Now there’s a guy who knows how to throw a damn punch. Laxus Dryfus and I used to go at it almost every week. The Thunder Emperor loved a good fight nearly as much as I did."

"Coming from you, I can believe that," Godric replied with a grin.

Fuegoleon regarded the two of them for a moment before a thoughtful look crossed his face. "You know, now that I think about it, perhaps this entire matter of keeping Calidus within the family can be resolved rather elegantly after all."

Godric narrowed his eyes as Mimosa glanced toward him uncertainly. Fuegoleon’s gaze moved between the two teenagers with far too much composure. "You are both fifteen. Would either of you consider a future marriage arrangement?"

Mimosa’s face turned crimson so quickly that even Leopold stopped laughing for half a second. Godric, meanwhile, gave Fuegoleon a flat stare and waved one hand through the air. "Absolutely not."

That was enough to send Mereoleona and Leopold into laughter all over again, while Mimosa looked as though she might disappear into the floor if given the opportunity.

Fuegoleon merely lifted his teacup once more, entirely unbothered by the reaction. Mereoleona leaned back in her chair with a broad smirk, clearly enjoying the situation far more than anyone else.

"Well," she said, "I don’t know about the rest of you, but this just got a hell of a lot more interesting."

****

The late-morning sun hung bright over Caerleon as the iron hands of Excalibur Academy’s clock tower crept steadily toward noon, casting long shadows across the surrounding streets while amber leaves skittered over the cobblestones in the autumn breeze. Teams of city workers moved between the avenues with brooms, carts, and collection charms, clearing away the constant fall of leaves from pavements and roadways even though everyone knew it was a losing battle. Winter was closing in quickly now, and it would not be long before the first snowflakes began drifting over the city.

Among the students, however, most thoughts had already turned toward the approaching Samhain Ball, and excitement over the event had taken on an entirely different character after news of Godric Gryffindor’s private little soirée with Raine at the lake became common knowledge. Most of the girls had declared the whole thing hopelessly romantic, while a considerable number of boys had found themselves burdened with an unexpected problem. Godric had apparently set a standard none of them had asked for, leaving anyone hoping to impress a date with the unenviable choice of somehow surpassing what he had done or producing something equally memorable. More than a few had already begun openly dreading the weeks ahead.

Far from that conversation, Salazar, Helga, and Rowena continued toward Caerleon’s outer districts until they reached an area commonly known as the Projects, and the change in scenery was so abrupt that it felt as though they had crossed into an entirely different city. The polished stonework, manicured greenery, decorative façades, and carefully maintained streets of the inner districts disappeared behind them, replaced by cracked concrete, faded brick, and an overwhelming sense that this part of Caerleon had been allowed to age without anyone particularly caring what became of it.

Rows of tall red-brick buildings crowded the streets, their edges chipped and their mortar stained beneath years of rain and neglect. Paint peeled from window frames and old signs, while several structures still carried wounds from the Siege that had never been properly repaired. Broken sections of masonry exposed rusting reinforcement bars beneath the stone, and in some places even the underlying foundations were visible through collapsed walls. The roads were little better, covered in uneven layers of tar laid over one another across the years, some patches faded nearly gray while others remained almost black, all of it broken apart by potholes that forced passing automobiles to weave around them.

Rowena’s gaze moved slowly across the buildings as they walked, and what unsettled her most was not merely the damage but the absence of character. The structures were little more than towering rectangular blocks arranged for function and density, with none of the carvings, stonework, balconies, enchanted ornamentation, or architectural flourishes so common throughout central Caerleon. They looked as though someone had simply decided people needed somewhere to live and built the minimum necessary to accomplish it.

Several storefronts had been shuttered entirely, their broken windows covered by warped boards and old foreclosure notices curling at the corners. Lamp posts leaned slightly beneath layers of rust, while railings, public benches, and wastebins showed the same corrosion. Even those businesses that remained open seemed tired, their signs faded and their windows reinforced with iron grilles that spoke more clearly about the neighborhood than any warning ever could.

The air itself felt heavier. Crystal residue from passing automobiles mixed with the smell of stagnant gutter water, damp stone, old smoke, and overflowing rubbish bins, creating a stale haze that clung between the buildings. Helga abruptly jumped aside when something enormous burst from beside one of the bins, and for half a second, she looked ready to draw her wand before realizing it was only a rat nearly the size of an oversized niffler. The creature vanished into a narrow alley without slowing, disappearing beneath hanging laundry and exposed pipes.

"By Hecate," she muttered under her breath, watching it go.

Raised voices carried from open windows somewhere above them, arguments blending with unfamiliar music and the occasional crash of something being thrown or dropped inside one of the apartments. People lingered around cracked sidewalks and neglected parks, humans, orcs, and therians alike watching the three students pass with varying degrees of curiosity, suspicion, and open hostility. More than once, Rowena noticed someone’s gaze linger on their clothing, their scarves, or the visible outlines of their wands.

Without discussing it, all three of them had begun keeping their hands a little closer to them. Salazar said nothing as he surveyed the street ahead, though his expression had hardened considerably since they entered the district. He had spent enough time around thieves, opportunists, and people willing to test strangers for weakness to recognize the kinds of looks being directed their way. Some were merely curious, others resentful, but a few carried the unmistakable calculation of someone deciding whether the three well-dressed academy students walking through their neighborhood were worth the trouble.

What kept those thoughts from becoming action, Salazar suspected, was recognition. The Marauders were hardly anonymous anymore. Whether that reputation would continue protecting them once they went deeper into the Projects, however, remained to be seen.

"Um, Row, are you sure this is where the haven is?" Helga asked, her amber eyes drifting toward one of the orcs watching them from across the street. "I don’t know about you, but this place is seriously giving me the creeps."

"According to the address Ruben gave us, yes," Rowena replied, though the tension in her expression suggested she was beginning to share Helga’s concerns. "Excalibur has warned students more than once to stay away from the outer ring unless there’s a good reason to be here, especially the Projects, the Heights, and the Slums." She swallowed and looked farther down the street. "Camelot isn’t much different. Every large city seems to have places like this."

"Of course, it does," Salazar said, his emerald gaze hardening as he took in the neglected buildings around them. "Every grand city requires somewhere to tuck away the undesirables, the outcasts, and the downtrodden so the upper echelons needn’t be reminded they exist. Gods forbid poverty should spoil the scenery." He gave a quiet scoff. "And naturally, everyone unfortunate enough to fall between the cracks ends up deposited alongside them."

Rowena glanced toward him. "That’s rather cynical, even for you."

"Is it?" Salazar asked. "For all the pomp and endless lip service Mayor Ramonda has offered over the years, it seems most of the improvements Caerleon celebrates have remained comfortably within the inner districts. The people out here are apparently expected to make do with whatever happens to trickle down." His expression tightened as they passed another boarded storefront. "I have neither sympathy nor patience for criminals who willingly prey upon others, but it would be foolish to pretend every person living here chose this life. Some are simply victims of circumstance."

"Mayor Ramonda has done what she can, Salazar," Rowena replied, turning toward him. "By that standard, you could accuse King Uther of the same failure across Camelot. Grandfather told me that under Ramonda’s administration, Caerleon opened its gates to refugees from countless worlds and timelines when other cities and kingdoms refused to take them in. People who had nowhere else to go were given a place here."

Her gaze lowered toward the cracked pavement beneath them. "But I suppose generosity alone can only carry a city so far."

"Precisely," Salazar said. "Good intentions mean very little without the means to sustain them. Offering someone shelter is admirable, but if you leave them without work, stability, protection, or any genuine path forward, desperation inevitably follows." His eyes narrowed as he looked toward the surrounding apartment blocks. "And desperation has an unpleasant habit of turning into resentment when those suffering are forced to live within sight of people who have everything they lack."

Rowena’s expression tightened, but Salazar continued before she could interrupt.

"All it takes is the right accusation, the right grievance, or one sufficiently persuasive individual to give that resentment a direction, and suddenly years of frustration have somewhere to go." He turned his gaze toward her. "Look at the Colors tearing through Caerleon and tell me dissatisfaction had nothing to do with how easily they found followers."

Rowena opened her mouth to answer, but whatever argument she had prepared failed to come together. Her eyes drifted toward the surrounding buildings instead, and for several seconds she said nothing.

"Okay, okay, come on," Helga cut in before the silence could deepen, forcing some brightness back into her words as she clasped her hands behind her head and kept walking. "It’s way too early in the day for politics, poverty, and the collapse of society. If we’re gonna have a depressing conversation about everything wrong with Avalon, I’d at least like to do it after I’ve eaten something."

"Helga..." Rowena sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose as she shook her head.

"What?" Helga asked innocently. "Heavy conversations burn calories."

Salazar was already opening his mouth to deliver another quip, that same sharp grin still lingering on his face, when the three of them slowed to a stop before a square building tucked awkwardly against the corner of the street. It stood five stories tall in a near-perfect rectangle, its exterior lined with red brick that had faded considerably beneath years of rain, smoke, and neglect. Gray concrete framed the windows, while aging steel braces divided panes of glass clouded by dust and grime. The ground floor was faced in bare concrete, with a short flight of steps leading up to a narrow landing and a black door bordered by glass.

Beside it, a bronze plaque had been fixed into the wall, its edges already turning green with oxidation.

EAST OF EDEN SLAVE SANCTUARY

The name had been forged deep into the metal, though the building itself looked far less permanent. It was worn, weathered, and clearly in need of repair, but it still carried the quiet impression of a place that had managed to remain functional through determination alone.

Salazar drew in a slow breath and let it out. "I suppose this is the place." His emerald eyes traveled across the building, taking in the cracked brickwork and dulled windows before he added, "A rather poor excuse for a sanctuary, but I imagine those in need of one rarely have the luxury of choosing where salvation finds them."

Rowena gave him a sideways glance but said nothing, instead climbing the steps with Helga and Salazar following behind. At the landing, she noticed a small bronze button set beside the door and pressed it. A harsh buzz sounded somewhere inside, followed a few moments later by approaching footsteps.

The lock clicked, the knob turned, and the door opened to reveal a familiar face.

Denora’s expression shifted immediately from caution to surprise. "Oh, Rowena, Helga, Salazar. I wasn’t expecting to see you here." She glanced between the three of them. "Does Ruben know you’re coming?"

Rowena shook her head. "No, we just..." She briefly looked back toward Helga and Salazar before continuing. "We thought it was about time we finally came by. We wanted to see the place for ourselves and, if there’s anything that needs doing, offer whatever help we can."

Denora’s expression softened into a grateful smile. "Thank you. That means more than you probably realize."

She stepped aside and opened the door wider. "Well, I’m not going to leave you standing out there. Come in. I’ll go find Ruben and let him know you’re here."

"Much obliged, Miss Denora," Salazar said with a polite nod.

As the three of them crossed the threshold, the first thing they noticed was the warmth. Compared to the chill outside, the foyer felt almost stifling at first, and they began unwinding their scarves as their eyes adjusted to the dimmer interior. Unfortunately, the inside of East Of Eden looked every bit as tired as the exterior. The walls had faded badly with age, their paint chipped and bubbled by years of moisture, and where sections had peeled away, several older layers were visible beneath them, evidence that someone had repeatedly painted over the damage rather than fixing what caused it. The parquet flooring was scuffed and scratched from decades of use, with entire pieces missing in places and bare concrete showing through beneath.

Salazar’s expression tightened, though not from disgust at the building itself. What bothered him was the realization that this was apparently the best refuge available to people who had already endured far worse. One glance toward Rowena told him she was thinking much the same, while Helga looked openly troubled as she took in the worn walls and damaged floors. Overhead, amber crystals cast a soft glow across the foyer, lending the place a warmth its condition otherwise lacked.

A long reception counter stood near the entrance with an empty chair behind it, while stacks of files had been piled carefully toward one end. At the far side sat an elderly woman working her way through a collection of manila folders, turning pages one by one as she made notes with a quill. Her spectacles were so thick that Salazar briefly wondered whether they could double as binoculars. When she finally looked up, all three of them instinctively leaned back at the sight of her dramatically magnified eyes. The woman simply smiled at them before returning to her paperwork.

"Oh, that’s Mona, our resident secretary," Denora said, leaning closer. "Most people wouldn’t guess it now, but back in her day she was one of the fiercest barristers in the Slave Courts. A lot of the Guild’s own barristers knew her by name." Her expression brightened. "She’s retired now, but she volunteers here and works closely with Miss Tiana, our resident barrister."

Helga tilted her head. "Barrister? Is that kind of like an Adjudicator?"

"That’s... not entirely wrong," Rowena said, glancing toward her. "Adjudicators arbitrate disputes on behalf of the courts, but their authority comes from the Clock Tower and isn’t necessarily tied to one city or nation. Barristers are different. They argue cases directly before Magistrates when arbitration either fails or reaches an impasse." She gave a small shrug. "Similar areas of law, but very different disciplines."

Denora nodded. "That’s more or less it. After all..." Her words softened as her fingers rose to the obsidian-black collar around her neck. "The Ius Servitium, barbaric as it is, is still recognized law. Slaves are bound by it, and so is the Guild. That means some of our battles have to be fought in court rather than through violence or the kind of terror Libertas favors."

She let her hand fall again. "The problem is finding barristers willing to represent slaves without charging anything. Most of us can’t afford legal representation at all, which is why people like Miss Mona and Miss Tiana mean so much to us. Miss Tiana has managed to win stays for quite a few people living here, especially the children."

Salazar’s brow furrowed. "Children?"

"Denora! Denora!"

The patter of small feet across the floor pulled everyone’s attention toward a young therian girl who could not have been older than six. She had brown hair, fox ears, and a matching tail that flicked excitedly behind her as she hurried over with her arms raised. The black collar around her neck immediately caught all three of their eyes.

Denora smiled and bent down to scoop the child into her arms. "Easy, easy, we’ve got guests," she said, lightly tapping the girl on the nose and making her giggle before looking back toward Salazar. Her expression became more solemn. "Yes, children. I imagine you already knew that, though, considering there are child slaves at Excalibur too."

"Unfortunately," Salazar said, his face hardening.

Helga hesitated before asking, "How many children do you have here?"

Denora paused for a moment. "Around twenty right now. The others are mostly teenagers and young adults, with one or two elderly residents." She glanced toward the little girl in her arms. "Most of the people here are women and girls. A lot of the younger children were being prepared for sale before someone managed to get them out."

Her words faltered slightly when she continued. "The teenagers are different. Most of them came from pleasure houses, or the Mills."

Salazar’s expression darkened immediately, while the color seemed to drain from Helga and Rowena’s faces. Denora noticed and quickly shifted the conversation before the silence could become unbearable.

"Anyway, I should take you to Ruben’s office. I’m sure he’ll be glad to see you." She adjusted the child comfortably against her hip before turning toward the hallway. "Come on, it’s this way."

Helga and Rowena exchanged a brief look before following after her while Salazar remained where he was for a moment longer. A faint hiss came from one of the vents overhead as warm air passed through the old system, and he lifted his gaze toward the ceiling before his eyes drifted back across the worn foyer, the stacked legal files, and the people moving quietly through the halls beyond.

"Quite right, my dear," he murmured under his breath. "What a cruel and thoroughly despicable world we have the misfortune of calling home. Some days, I truly understand the temptation to simply set fire to the whole bloody thing."

Then he stepped forward and followed the others deeper into East Eden.