The Great Hall hummed with the familiar symphony of clinking cutlery against porcelain, mingling with the ceaseless chatter of students. Conversations ebbed and flowed across the long tables, though the once-dominant talk of the Lion of Ignis and the Calishans had begun to wane, replaced by a far more pressing topic—the Clock Tower. Whispers of increased law enforcement, of armored patrols combing the streets of Caerleon, stirred a growing unease among the student body.
The city, often regarded as the crossroads of Avalon, was no stranger to its fair share of guards and officials, but never in such overwhelming numbers. The sight of uniformed men clad in reinforced gear, lingering at street corners, inspecting alleyways, speaking in hushed tones—it was enough to put the city on edge. Some students dismissed it as nothing more than routine security measures, a mere drill to keep the Clock Tower at its peak readiness. Others were convinced that something much larger loomed beneath the surface, an impending storm masked by official statements. But the prevailing rumor—the one that spread through the Academy like wildfire—was that Asriel Valerian and his faction, Nemesis, were the reason behind it all.
Speculation ran rampant, weaving through conversations like an invisible thread tying all uncertainties together. The faculty had yet to make an official statement, but the atmosphere within the school had shifted. Even those who claimed indifference treaded the halls with newfound caution.
At their usual corner of the Great Hall, Salazar, Rowena, and Helga sat together, speaking over sliced roast, thick cuts of ham, and sautéed vegetables. One notable absence weighed heavily at the table—one that had not gone unnoticed.
Salazar exhaled sharply, already knowing where his friend had gone. Godric, undoubtedly, was skulking through the corridors like a damned revenant, prowling for his next challenge in some fool's attempt to quell the inferno raging within him. The cycle was predictable—so predictable it was exhausting.
He lifted a piece of roast to his mouth but barely had the chance to take a bite before his fork was knocked from his grasp, landing unceremoniously back onto his plate with a dull clatter. He barely had time to scowl before Helga, still grinning, elbowed him in the ribs.
"Oh, you should've seen Row's face when Professor Ashford called her out," she laughed, barely able to contain herself. "She looked like a deer caught in torchlight!"
Rowena groaned, rubbing her temple. "Helga, you're exaggerating."
"Am I?" Helga smirked.
Rowena sighed. "Professor Ashford can be... blunt, I'll admit. But he's undeniably well-versed in mundane subjects. Though I could do without the sarcasm."
Salazar, having finally retrieved his fork, smirked as he bit into his meal. "Are you telling me our new professor isn't one for playing favorites with the class suck-up?"
Rowena shot him a glare. "I am not a suck-up, thank you very much." She shut her book with an audible thud. "It's not my fault if none of you can keep up with my intellect."
Salazar's smirk widened. "My dear Rowena, there's a fine line between being intellectual and feeling the need to proclaim yourself as such." He stabbed a piece of roast. "That being said, I think I may reconsider my stance on Mundane Studies. Any subject, no matter how insufferable, is worth enduring if it means watching Professor Ashford take the piss out of you at every opportunity."
Rowena rolled her eyes. "Oh, grow up, Salazar."
"Though, I am rather curious about the new face among us," Salazar remarked, shifting his gaze toward Jeanne, who sat opposite him. Her blue eyes widened slightly, a faint blush rising to her cheeks.
"Oh, I thought…" she hesitated, glancing down at her plate. "I do not mean to intrude. If it bothers you, I'll leave."
"Ignore him," Rowena said, slicing a bread roll in half before methodically spreading butter across its surface. "Salazar treats company like fine wine—selective to the point of absurdity and subject to relentless scrutiny."
"Tell me about it," Helga chimed in, rolling her eyes before taking another bite of her roast. "It took me and Row ages to move from being tolerated to actually being considered friends."
"Oh, girls, you wound me," Salazar clutched his chest in mock agony. "Have you no heart? After everything we've been through together? Oh, the tragedy."
Jeanne chuckled at his theatrics, while Rowena and Helga exchanged knowing smiles.
"So, a little birdie told me you hail from France," Salazar drawled, his gaze now fixed on Jeanne with mild intrigue. "I hear it has quite the culture."
"I suppose you could say that," Jeanne replied, though her expression faltered slightly. "It's not exactly the most peaceful of times, but despite it all, France remains a beacon for the arts and faith." She hesitated, then added, "I know I'm not supposed to speak of it in detail, but I consider myself a pious person. Just as my parents are."
Salazar smirked. "You'll find that in Avalon, the Gods are more of an expression rather than entities of guidance and truth," he said, resting his chin on the back of his hand. "Personally, I find the notion of a higher power governing our lives rather ludicrous."
Jeanne pursed her lips. "But surely, even you must admit that everything we are, everything we've learned and achieved—both as mundanes and as wizards—is owed to the grace of God and His guidance."
"Well, to each their own, I suppose," Salazar straightened slightly. "Everyone needs something—or someone—to believe in. After all, the greatest fear we mortals face is the idea that we're alone in the universe."
He tilted his head slightly, the smirk on his lips deepening. "And if we are alone, that would mean our greatest atrocities come from within us… and not from the hands of unseen entities."
Jeanne's eyes widened for a moment, her lips parting as if to respond, but before she could, Helga cut in with a nervous chuckle.
"I think we need to steer away from this topic," she said quickly. "It's getting a little too heavy for dinner."
"Agreed," Rowena muttered, narrowing her eyes at Salazar, who simply grinned. "Also, don't read too much into it," Rowena added, casting Jeanne a reassuring glance. "Salazar's idea of entertainment is debating people on their beliefs and perspectives. To him, it's practically a sport. So much, I bet he would give Socrates a run for his Platas."
"Well, it's hardly my fault if the average person struggles to keep up with my intellect," Salazar quipped, his smirk widening with insufferable smugness. He turned to Rowena with an exaggerated air of confidence. "Wouldn't you agree?"
Rowena barely spared him a glance before rolling her eyes. "Once again, Salazar—grow up."
Jeanne chuckled softly, but her smile faded as she fidgeted with the fork in her hand, tracing patterns on the edge of her plate. After a moment's hesitation, she finally spoke. "It's a pity Godric couldn't be here to join us. I would have liked to get to know him better."
A somber air settled over the table, the three friends exchanging quiet glances.
"A word of advice, Jeanne," Salazar said, swirling the deep crimson liquid in his goblet before taking a sip. "I know your heart's in the right place but do yourself a favor and keep your distance from him. Not because we've abandoned him—because we haven't. But the boy is fire, and if you're not careful, you might just get burned."
"I don't always agree with Sal, but this time, he's right," Helga admitted. "Godric's in a place none of us can reach. Believe me, we tried. We're not giving up on him, but… he has to want to be saved first."
Jeanne paused, her blue eyes lowering to the half-eaten roast on her plate. "I heard about what happened," she said. "About Raine."
Rowena exhaled. Her gaze distant. "Then you understand why he's like this." She leaned back in her chair; arms crossed over her chest. "Godric wasn't always this way. He was the fire in the dark—strong, bright, unyielding. But when Raine was taken from him, that fire…" She hesitated. "It didn't go out. It just changed."
"I would argue it's grown reckless," Salazar added, his fingers steepled as he regarded Jeanne carefully. "Like the folly of Ignis, a flame that burns too brightly—consuming everything in its path."
Jeanne opened her mouth to respond, but Salazar cut her off before she could even begin.
"And I already know what you're thinking," he said smoothly, his emerald eyes sharp as they locked onto hers. "That through the grace of your God, you can somehow lead him back into your idea of salvation. That if you just say the right words, show enough kindness, you can pull him out of whatever abyss he's thrown himself into."
A knowing smirk ghosted over his lips. "Believe me, Jeanne, you wouldn't be the first bleeding heart to look at a wounded animal and decide it's your solemn duty to save it."
She blinked, taken aback. "That's not—"
"Isn't it?" Salazar interrupted again, though this time his tone was measured rather than mocking. He sighed, rolling the goblet in his hand. "He saved you in Camelot," he continued, his emerald gaze flicking toward Jeanne. "And I use that term rather loosely, considering how close it came to being a tragedy. And now, because of that, you feel it's your duty to return the favor."
Jeanne's breath hitched—just for a moment—before her expression settled, though the flicker of surprise in her eyes did not go unnoticed.
"Look, I'm not here to ridicule you, nor am I dismissing your faith. You're free to believe whatever you like." His fingers tapped against the stem of his cup as he studied her. "But Godric never asked to be saved. He doesn't want to be saved. And if you push too hard, if you reach too far, you might find him pushing back in ways you won't be prepared for."
His words hung between them, weighty and unflinching. Jeanne bit the inside of her cheek, her fingers tightening around her fork as she lowered her gaze.
"I'm not trying to save him," she said softly. "I just…" She hesitated, exhaling. "I just don't think he should have to carry all that pain alone."
Salazar tilted his head slightly, his gaze unreadable. "Then you've already stepped too close to the fire."
"I'll admit, none of us have known Godric as long as we've known each other," Rowena said, her sapphire gaze settling on Jeanne as she reached across the table, placing a gentle hand over hers. "But Volg and the Calishans—that was a darkness we faced together, one we endured, and ultimately overcame. The bond we forged through it… it's more than just friendship."
Helga beamed, leaning in with a familiar warmth. "As Godric said, we're family.'"
Salazar chuckled, swirling his goblet. "In more ways than one."
Jeanne glanced between them, absorbing the weight of their words, their unspoken understanding of the pain Godric carried.
"Despite everything, we all want to see Godric find his way back," Rowena said. "But none of us can truly grasp the weight he carries or the pain he endures. Our caution doesn't come from fear, but from care." She met Jeanne's gaze, her sapphire eyes searching. "We don't want to see him slip further than he already has."
She sighed, exchanging a brief look with Helga and Salazar before turning back to Jeanne. "I won't fault you for wanting to reach out to him. In fact, I think it's admirable that you want to try." Her lips pressed together for a moment. "Maybe that's exactly what he needs right now—someone new, someone outside of all of this, to remind him of the person he used to be."
She gave Jeanne's hand a gentle squeeze. "Just… tread carefully."
Jeanne hesitated, then offered a small but determined smile. "I'll do my best."
"Speaking of family," Salazar's gaze flicked to Rowena. "Much like your dear brother Bran," he gestured air quotes with his fingers, "you've conveniently failed to mention that you're on a first-name basis with Lamar Burgess—the Director of The Clock Tower."
"Yeah, and you called him Uncle Lamar," Helga chimed in, raising an eyebrow. "What's that about?"
Rowena's eyes widened for a fraction of a second before she cleared her throat. "Well, he's not really my uncle. He's more of a close family friend."
"Oh? How amusing." Salazar leaned lazily against the table. "It would seem the Ravenclaws have friends in rather high places after all."
"It's not like that," Rowena snapped, her gaze sharpening. "Uncle Lamar and my grandfather go way back. They were both partners as Aurors for years, practically inseparable. Eventually, he was promoted to Director, and my grandfather retired."
She exhaled. "I grew up hearing stories about them. Back in their day, they were a force to be reckoned with—no criminal in Avalon didn't know their names." A wistful smile ghosted across her lips.
"Uncle Lamar was always around when I was a child. He and his wife never had kids, so he used to say I was the granddaughter he never had." Her fingers traced the edge of the table absently. "He was even there at my wedding with Bran."
Jeanne blinked. "Wait… you're married?"
"Oh, boy, wait till you find out who Bran is," Helga said, grinning.
"Delightfully and deliciously scandalous, if I may add," Salazar drawled, smirking.
Rowena pinched the bridge of her nose. "Honestly. Why do I even bother?"
****
Like the crystalline fragments shifting within the grand hourglass of the Great Hall, time flowed in a slow, measured cadence, marked by the deep chimes of the Excalibur clocktower as dusk surrendered to night. Yet, beyond the reach of moonlight and prying eyes, deep within the hidden corridors of The Congregation, the academy's underworld pulsed with life. Here, the night did not bring stillness—it set the stage for competition, ambition, and the relentless pursuit of glory.
The tavern brimmed with patrons, their laughter and heated debates rising above the clinking of tankards and the scrape of cutlery against plates. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meats and aged ale, mingling with the faint tang of sweat and ambition. Bookkeepers scrawled frantic calculations on blackboards, chalk dust swirling in the dim glow of enchanted lanterns as bets were placed and odds adjusted. Stacks of gold, silver, and platinum coins shifted hands, the weight of fortune resting on the outcome of battles yet to be fought.
Jeanne could only stare, wide-eyed, struggling to keep up with Helena as they wove through the bustling corridors. Excitement warred with trepidation as she took in the towering banners bearing the sigils of warring Clans, the silent enforcers ensuring order among the chaos, the overseers seated at their administrative posts, orchestrating the endless transactions of combat and coin.
Her mind reeled. Never in her life had she imagined a place like this existing within an institution as esteemed as Excalibur Academy. A world built on its own laws, its own hierarchy, thriving beneath the surface of what most would call civilization. In her time, in her world, such a thing would have been unthinkable—an organization like this, not only permitted but ingrained into the very culture of the academy itself. A part of her was overwhelmed. Another part, undeniably intrigued.
"You look just like Godric did when he first set foot in The Congregation," Helena remarked, a knowing smirk playing at her lips. "Though, to be fair, most students have the same expression their first time down here."
Jeanne blinked, pulled from her reverie, but her awe had yet to fade. Her eyes roamed the vast ceiling high above, aglow with suspended crystal lights casting a golden hue over the expanse. "It's… unbelievable," she admitted, shaking her head slightly. "I was already astonished just from your description, but to actually see it—to stand here, in the middle of it all—it's overwhelming."
"You'll get used to it," Helena assured her with an amused glance. "Though, just so you know, simply being here doesn't make you part of The Congregation. Official membership is reserved for those who belong to a Clan. Otherwise, you're just a visitor."
Jeanne's brows lifted as she maneuvered around a passing patron, keeping close to Helena as they wove through the bustling floor. "And how exactly does one join a Clan?"
Helena tapped a finger against her chin. "Well, that depends on the Clan itself. Each one has its own requirements—some have a strict recruitment process; others just pick whoever fits their criteria. Take the Hounds of Cu, for example." She gestured toward a rounded sofa where Údar, Cú, and the rest of the Hounds lounged, their attention fixed on the ongoing duel in the arena.
"They primarily recruit from Scotland and Ireland—mostly from the Highland clans, though there are exceptions," Helena explained. "Some Clans only accept purebloods. Others favor a particular ethnicity, skill set, or even faith. People like to argue that it's discriminatory, but under the Old Laws and the Old Ways, Clans have the right to operate by their own rules—at least within their own ranks."
Jeanne absorbed the information with a slow nod. "I see…" She hesitated before glancing at Helena. "So… is Godric part of a Clan?"
Helena shifted uncomfortably. "Well… yes and no," she admitted. "Godric's case is unique. Because he had the backing of one of the Chairs of the High Table, he and his friends were granted special entry under their own personal banner." She turned to Jeanne. "Technically speaking, they are registered members of The Congregation, but since they have no official name or crest, they aren't recognized as a proper Clan."
Jeanne tilted her head. "So, Godric is part of a nameless Clan?"
"More or less." Helena shrugged. "It's not unheard of. Some Clans start off using their leader's name while they work on something more fitting. After all, naming a Clan isn't something you do on a whim. Even with the freedom to forge their own identity, no one wants to be known as, say… The Sparkling Unicorns." She smirked. "That doesn't exactly inspire fear or adoration, now does it? If anything, it'd just invite ridicule."
Jeanne chuckled, shaking her head. "No argument there."
Their conversation was abruptly interrupted by the sharp chime of a bell, its sound reverberating through the chamber as Anton's voice boomed across the structure. Perched above the arena, the master of ceremonies stood tall, his signature black tuxedo immaculate, golden buttons gleaming under the crystalline lights. His magnificent mustache, groomed to perfection, twitched with barely contained excitement as he spread his arms wide in a grand gesture.
"Ladies and gentlemen, the duel is decided!" he bellowed. "For the fourth consecutive victory tonight, your champion—The Lion of Ignis, Godric Gryffindor!"
A chorus of cheers, applause, and scattered jeers erupted from the stands. Coins clinked and exchanged hands as bets were settled. Jeanne and Helena's attention was drawn to the arena as they made their way to the banisters, leaning over to get a better view.
Below them stood Godric, shirtless, his sword planted into the ground, its blade buried deep in the sand. Sweat and blood slicked his torso, a stark contrast against the pale war paint smeared across his face, the blackened markings around his eyes resembling a hunter's mask. Helena felt a warm flush creep up her cheeks as her gaze swept over his form—his physique had changed yet again, his muscles honed, carved by relentless training and an insatiable drive that hadn't wavered since his return.
Jeanne, however, felt something else entirely. Her sapphire eyes traced the fresh wounds that marred his body, overlapping scars both old and new, evidence of a cycle that never seemed to end. He bore them without hesitation, without care, but she could feel the weight of them pressing into her chest. A sadness stirred within her, an ache that had no name.
But then she saw them.
Nearly half a dozen bodies lay scattered across the arena floor—boys and girls alike, some barely conscious, others completely still. Some bled freely from deep gashes, while others lay with limbs twisted unnaturally, bones jutting through torn flesh. Medical personnel were already moving in, lifting the broken combatants onto stretchers, carrying them away one by one.
Yet Godric didn't so much as glance in their direction.
Jeanne swallowed hard, her fingers tightening against the banister as her gaze flickered back to him. He stood amidst the carnage, unfazed, unshaken. There was no remorse in his eyes. No satisfaction. Only hunger—a gnawing, insatiable need that refused to be sated. Even after all of this, it was still not enough.
Helena exhaled, shaking her head as she leaned against the railing. "Of course, it had to be him," she muttered. "I don't know what's worse—the Congregation growing richer off the backs of Godric and his opponents, or the fact that the Hospital Wing is practically overflowing with the people he's put there."
Jeanne turned to her, disbelief evident in her expression. "You're saying this happens often?"
"That's putting it lightly." Helena crossed her arms, her brown eyes darkening. "Ever since the Bellum Inter Duos, ever since Raine and… well, the incident, Godric's been here every night. Clan after Clan, opponent after opponent—he's cutting through them like a man possessed." She gestured to the unconscious fighters being dragged from the sand.
"It doesn't matter if they step into that ring out of pride, greed, recklessness, or plain stupidity. The result is always the same. Broken. Beaten. Half-dead." She sighed. "And the worst part? He wants it. He's not just fighting, Jeanne—he's hurting them. He's breaking them."
Her words softened, a note of something close to pity slipping through. "His standing in the Congregation doesn't even matter anymore. He doesn't care about honor, about reputation. This is his new normal. His nature."
Jeanne swallowed hard, her gaze returning to the arena, to the blood staining the sand, to Godric standing amidst it all like some untouchable wraith. "Why doesn't the Congregation stop him?" she asked. "Surely they could at least suspend him. Having so many members maimed like this—it can't sit well with anyone."
Helena scoffed. "Because of the Old Ways and the Old Laws," she said simply. "Godric hasn't broken any rules. The moment you step into that ring, you accept the consequences. The Congregation isn't about fairness, Jeanne. It's about rules and consequences. No one is forced to fight him. They step into that arena knowing what'll happen." She met Jeanne's troubled gaze. "And that means, in the eyes of the Congregation, it's on them."
Jeanne shuddered. "That's… horrifying."
The heavy grinding of iron filled the arena as the massive gates lifted, the chains rattling with mechanical precision. The crowd erupted into a frenzy, voices rising in a deafening roar as the next duel was set to commence.
From the shadows of the tunnel emerged six boys, their movements sharp and deliberate, clad in the whites and ocean blue of their Clan uniforms. Embroidered upon their backs was the unmistakable sigil of the Sea Farers, the symbol catching the light as they strode onto the sand.
Helena's eyes widened as her gaze landed on the figure leading them. Toby Melville. A three-point trident rested in his grip, the polished blue steel of its tips gleaming beneath the crystal lights. His jaw was tight, his muscles wound with tension, but it was his eyes—dark and burning with fury—that spoke volumes. His glare locked onto Godric, filled with barely restrained hatred.
Helena groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Oh, by the stars. That braindead idiot—if he didn't want to end up in a hospital bed next to his brother, he's sure as hell asking for it now."
Jeanne turned to Helena, her brow furrowing. "Helena, isn't that…?"
Helena scoffed, arms crossing tightly over her chest. "Yeah, it's exactly who you think it is." Her gaze flicked down to the group below, her expression curling into one of pure distaste. "Our beloved chimpanzee Toby and his wretched band of flying monkeys."
Jeanne frowned, but before she could ask, Helena continued, jerking her chin toward the arena. "In case you missed the first time around, his older brother was one of Godric's opponents a few weeks ago. Poor bastard's still in a coma." Her brown eyes darkened. "And Toby's been foaming at the mouth for payback ever since."
She let out a sharp exhale, shaking her head. "I get it, I really do—but picking a fight with Godric right now?" She leaned on the railing. "He's either got a death wish, or he's a bigger fool than I thought."
Jeanne swallowed hard, her fingers tightening around the railing as she turned her gaze back to the sand below. Godric stood in the center of the arena, utterly still, watching the approaching group with a gaze as sharp as the blade in the sand. No words were exchanged. No bravado. No taunts. Just a silence so heavy it felt like the calm before a storm.
"Dear Mother Mary…" Jeanne whispered, watching as Godric tilted his head slightly, his crimson eyes gleaming like smoldering embers.
She had seen fury before. She had seen battle-hardened men filled with the desire for vengeance.
But whatever this was?
It was something else entirely.
****
"Ladies and gentlemen!" Anton's voice boomed across the arena, amplified by the wand at his throat. His arms stretched wide as he grinned, soaking in the electric energy of the crowd. "Without further ado—our next event!"
The floor rumbled beneath the weight of the audience's excitement. Some hammered their fists against the banisters, their cheers reverberating through the chamber, while others sat in restless silence, eyes narrowed in cautious anticipation.
"Back for a rematch, under the leadership of Toby Melville—The Sea Farers!"
The crowd erupted in approval as Toby twirled his trident in a practiced flourish, the polished steel catching the light in sharp glints. His clan stood behind him, clad in full gear, their expressions set with unwavering resolve.
"And in this corner—he needs no introduction." Anton let the words hang in the air before smirking. "Your reigning champion…" He stretched out a hand. "The Lion of Ignis—Godric Gryffindor!"
The chamber exploded. The chant of his name thundered through the walls, the fervor of the crowd bordering on worship. It was as if he were no longer just a duelist, but something more—a force, an icon, a legend taking shape before their very eyes.
Toby sneered, rolling his shoulders before leveling his trident at Godric, his smirk stretching into something twisted.
"Today's the day, Gryffindor!" he spat, eyes dark with fury. "Today's the day I make you pay for what you did to Ted." He paced slightly. His movements slow, predatory. "Those pesky Visionaries may have gotten in the way last time, but this time?" His lips curled further. "Here in The Congregation? No one's coming to save you."
He took another step forward, trident gleaming under the glow of the arena's torches. "I'm going to rip you limb from limb, and I'm going to enjoy every moment of it." His words dripped with venom. "Then—and only then—will your debt be paid."
Godric exhaled slowly, his gaze sweeping across the arena. Six opponents. All of them ready, weapons in hand.
He shrugged off the towel draped over his shoulders, letting it drop into the sand without ceremony. His bare chest rose and fell with steady breaths as he stepped toward his sword, gripping the handle before wrenching it free from the ground.
The silver blade sang as it sliced through the air, the unnerving trill sending a shudder through the more cautious spectators. He gave it a casual flourish, shifting his weight as if rolling the stiffness from his shoulders.
Toby's grip tightened around his weapon, his feet setting into position. His Clan did the same, muscles coiled, ready to strike.
"Say your prayers, Gryffindor," Toby growled, lowering into a battle stance. "Because the last thing you'll remember is my trident rammed straight through your gut!"
Godric stood motionless, his grip steady around his blade.
The match had already begun. They just didn't know it yet.
****
Helena's eyes widened as a familiar charge crackled through the air. The energy was thick, almost tangible, sending a static hum through her skin. Every hair on her arms stood on end as she rubbed her fingers together, feeling tiny sparks jump between them. Her gaze snapped to the arena, locking onto Godric.
The intricate web of magical circuits surged beneath his skin, igniting with a deep amber glow. Like veins of raw lightning, the energy pulsed and flickered across his body, arcing between his muscles with each controlled breath. His crimson eyes shimmered, no longer just eyes but smoldering embers burning within him.
Jeanne turned sharply to Helena. Her sapphire eyes wide with unease. "Helena, what's happening? What is this?"
The air itself seemed to vibrate, an invisible force pressing down on everything within The Congregation. It wasn't just her imagination—she saw it in the others too. The crowd had gone still, eyes locked on the arena with something between awe and trepidation. The very structure of the underground halls felt charged, as if the stone pillars and wooden bannisters themselves had become conduits for the energy coursing through the space.
"It's Godric's magic," Helena murmured. "Vis Vitalis."
Jeanne's breath hitched at the name, but Helena wasn't done. Her grip tightened on the railing as her gaze darkened. "I've seen him use it before, many times in fact, but never like this."
****
The bell tolled, signaling the start of the duel.
"Prepare to—"
Toby's words never finished.
In an instant, Godric vanished, the ground beneath him exploding into a spiderweb of cracks from the sheer force of his departure. A blinding flash streaked across the arena, a shrill, metallic trill slicing through the air. Before anyone could even register what had happened, he reappeared behind his opponents, sword in hand, stance relaxed.
A pause.
Then the world seemed to catch up.
A deafening boom erupted through the arena, shaking the entire structure as if the very air had been torn apart. The force of it sent wooden splinters flying from the walls, deep, jagged slashes carving through the stone and sand like a force of nature had been unleashed. The ground quaked beneath the impact, splitting apart in uneven fractures.
And then came the bodies.
All six boys were launched into the air, their limbs flailing like ragdolls caught in a storm. Blood sprayed across the sand as if wrung from them by the sheer violence of the strike. Weapons shattered in their hands—Toby's trident reduced to little more than splinters of metal; his friends' wands broken at the hilt. Their bodies bent at grotesque angles, bones snapped in multiple places, gashes littering their forms where the edges of Godric's sword had grazed too close.
Silence. Not a whisper, not a breath. The very air felt sucked dry in the aftermath, leaving only a high-pitched ringing in everyone's ears.
Then, all at once, gravity reclaimed its hold.
The six crashed to the ground in a heap of broken bodies and shredded garments, the sound of impact lost beneath the ringing still echoing in the space. Toby lay sprawled across the sand, his chest convulsing with weak, erratic breaths, blood trickling from his mouth as he coughed. His body twitched involuntarily; the pain so overwhelming that even his nerves struggled to comprehend it.
Godric barely acknowledged him. Over his shoulder, his gaze was blank, devoid of anything resembling triumph or satisfaction. No smirk, no smug remark—just cold, silent judgment.