Chapter 94: A Tale Of Asriel Valerian

Rowena burst through the hospital doors, her breaths sharp and uneven, her heart pounding as if trying to escape the fear tightening around her chest. Helga, Salazar, and Godric followed close behind, their eyes scanning the unfamiliar halls, their expressions tense.

The pristine facility was a stark contrast to the rough stone walls of Castle Excalibur's Hospital Wing. Bright, sterile white tiles stretched beneath their feet, lined with soft pastel blue, while walls gleamed under artificial light, making everything feel too clean, too orderly for the chaos twisting inside her mind. The sharp scent of disinfectant and alcohol clung to the air, adding to the suffocating weight of anxiety pressing down on her.

Rowena had never been fond of airships. It wasn't the height—her chambers in the Ventus Tower soared high above the castle grounds—but the lack of control, the unsettling reality of being suspended miles above the earth with nothing but faith in engineering and magic to keep her there. Yet, any discomfort she might have felt paled in comparison to the suffocating weight of fear gripping her chest.

The journey had been agonizing. Every second stretched unbearably, each gust of wind against the hull feeling like an omen. Silent prayers—pleas to the Gods she had long neglected—tumbled through her mind in a desperate loop. She had no time for faith, yet in that moment, she would have bartered anything for it.

Her gaze swept desperately across the floor, over passing patients and medical staff moving with precision and urgency. The white-coated doctors weaved through the corridors, tending to their own crises, their voices a distant murmur against the roaring panic in her mind.

Rowena rushed to the reception counter. "Excuse me," she managed, barely keeping her composure. The nurse behind the desk, an auburn-haired woman, glanced up from her stack of papers with a polite but distant expression.

"I'm looking for Bran Ravenclaw," Rowena said quickly. "I need to know where his room is."

The nurse flipped open a file, running her finger down the list. "Are you family?" she asked.

"I'm his w—" Rowena caught herself, her throat tightening before she forced out, "I'm his sister. Rowena Ravenclaw."

The woman scanned the document before nodding. "Down the hall, first one on the right."

"Thank you," Rowena said, already moving before the words had fully left her mouth. She bolted down the hallway, her boots hitting the tile in hurried steps, her friends close behind.

The moment she reached the door, she shoved it open with a force that made it bang against the wall.

"Bran!"

Rowena's sapphire eyes locked onto the figure in the hospital bed, her breath catching at the sight of him swathed in layers of bandages. His usually sharp features were pale, his face marred with bruises and cuts, yet his eyes—though heavy with exhaustion—remained open. Laxus stood beside him, his own injuries telling a grim story. A thick bandage wrapped around his head, plasters covering fresh gashes across his cheekbone and temple. One eye was swollen shut, a deep, ugly shade of purple. His right arm hung motionless in a sling, his posture rigid, unreadable.

Despite everything, Bran managed a small, tired smile. "R-Rowena?" His words were hoarse, laced with pain and disbelief. "You're here, but how did you—?"

"I see you got my message," Laxus cut in, though his usual easygoing tone was absent, replaced with something heavier, something strained.

Rowena didn't respond. Her chest tightened as she rushed forward, dropping onto the edge of Bran's bed, her fingers trembling as they hovered near him but never quite touched. Her vision blurred as tears welled up, slipping down her cheeks before she could stop them.

"I was so worried," she whispered as she finally let her arms wrap around him. She felt him stiffen at first, no doubt from the pain, but then he exhaled, leaning into her hold just slightly.

Bran let out a quiet chuckle, though it carried more pain than mirth. "I've been through worse, Rowena," he murmured. "It'll take more than a few bruises and a bit of blood to see me off."

Rowena pulled back, wiping at her eyes before glaring at him. "This is not a bit of blood and bruises, Bran!" she snapped. "And what of Mother? Father?" she pressed. "Grandfather?"

Bran gave a slow nod, shifting slightly against the headboard with a faint wince. He gestured weakly with his hand. "They're on their way as we speak," he said. "Should be here by tomorrow at the latest."

A voice, smooth and edged with dry amusement, cut through the tension. "And so we meet again, Mister Adjudicator."

Bran turned his head, his lime-green eyes settling on Salazar, who stood with his arms folded, his emerald gaze filled with something just shy of amusement. "I see you're a little worse for wear," Salazar continued, tilting his head slightly.

Bran let out a quiet chuckle, though it was laced with a faint wince. "Nothing I haven't been through before," he admitted, adjusting against the pillows. "Took worse beatings during the Visionary Trials."

"That's an understatement," Laxus quipped, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "I was laid up in the Hospital Wing for nearly a month. The price we pay for a bit of glory, eh?"

"Well, I'm just glad you're alright," Helga said, letting out a relieved sigh. "Rowena was a wreck the whole trip over."

"Oh, was she now?" Bran's eyes gleamed with mischief as he turned toward his sister, his brow quirking.

Rowena's face burned crimson. "Helga!" she gasped, spinning toward her friend in betrayal. "It's not like that! I was just…"

Bran chuckled, but his amusement faltered when his gaze landed on Godric. The boy stood near the wall, arms folded tightly across his chest, his posture stiff with unspoken tension. His crimson eyes narrowed, locked onto Bran in a glare that made the room feel several degrees colder. For a split second, something flickered in Bran's expression—recognition, regret—but he looked away just as quickly. Laxus caught the exchange, his gaze sharpening, but he remained silent, watching carefully.

Then Salazar, ever tactful, broke the moment. "By the way, what in Scáthach's name happened to the both of you? You look like you've been chewed up by a Romanian Longhorn and spat back out."

Bran and Laxus stiffened. A shadow crossed Bran's face, his jaw tensing as he exchanged a look with Laxus—one filled with hesitation, an unspoken agreement passing between them.

Salazar, ever perceptive, caught it immediately. "Oh, come now," he drawled. "Don't tell me whatever you ran into actually shook the two of you? That would be a first."

"My apologies, it's just—" Bran started, but Laxus cut him off.

"No." His good blue eye darkened. "This isn't the time for secrets. And if those monsters really are coming for Caerleon, they need to know exactly what we're up against."

Rowena's brow furrowed as she crossed her arms. "Monsters?" she repeated. "What are you talking about?"

Bran exhaled, rolling his shoulders slightly as if steadying himself. "Alright," he said. "Let's start from the beginning. In short, the Clock Tower has been grappling with a series of high-profile assassinations for months now. Captains, Judges, Directors—nearly two dozen confirmed dead so far."

He paused, his expression tightening. "As for everyone else? Collateral damage. Guards, Aurors, Barristers, Adjudicators—anyone unfortunate enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time."

The four friends remained silent, their expressions shifting from curiosity to something far more serious.

"So, we're dealing with a band of mass murderers with a grudge against the Clock Tower," Salazar mused. A sharp glint flickered in his emerald eyes. "Not that I'm particularly shocked, but do carry on."

"Wait, if this has been happening for months, why are we only hearing about it now?" Rowena asked, her lips pressing into a thin line.

"Bureaucracy," Laxus muttered, his jaw tightening. "The Tower has been working around the clock to suppress the news. Keeping the incidents buried, preventing widespread panic."

"Didn't exactly work, did it?" Helga scoffed, folding her arms.

Bran exhaled, shaking his head. "At first, we assumed it was a series of isolated killings—lone actors, perhaps a group, as you say, nursing a grudge against the Tower. Hardly unprecedented. We expected it would only be a matter of time before they were caught." His expression darkened. "But it was far worse than we ever imagined."

He leaned back slightly. "Following a lead from one of the survivors, we tracked them to Stornoway—a small town east of here. We thought we'd be dealing with trained mercenaries, maybe a rogue faction. People we could handle—arrest, interrogate, bring to justice." His jaw tensed. "But what we found… was something else entirely."

Laxus shook his head. "These people… if they were ever human, that part of them is long gone."

The four of them exchanged glances, confusion flickering in their expressions.

"I need you all to understand something," Bran said, his lime-green eyes sweeping over each of them. "This isn't an exaggeration. It's not some overblown tale conjured up by overactive imaginations, nor the fevered ramblings of two men who barely escaped with their lives." His fingers curled into the blanket draped over his lap. "This is real. Every bit of it."

A brief silence settled over the room before Laxus finally spoke. "Tell me." His gaze flickered between them. "Have any of you ever heard the story of the Sword of Damocles?"

Helga, Rowena, and Godric remained silent, their expressions shifting from confusion to something closer to unease. Salazar, however, furrowed his brow. "We know of it," he said slowly, his mind already working through possibilities. "But what does an old legend have to do with—"

"They have it," Bran interrupted, his voice low but weighted. "These killers—their leader. He wields the sword." His fingers curled into the sheets. "And it has given him power. Not magic as we understand it. Something older. Something that shouldn't exist." His lime-green eyes flickered with something unreadable. "Power, I have only ever seen described in myths."

His jaw tightened, and he exhaled sharply. "To witness it firsthand… to stand in its presence and know, in that moment, that I was completely, utterly powerless." His gaze dropped to his bandaged hand. "I was a fool. We both were. We thought we were strong enough." A dry, humorless chuckle escaped him. "It's a miracle we're still here. And the only reason we are…" His fingers twitched. "Is because he let us live."

Rowena's breath caught in her throat. "He?" she asked, her sapphire eyes narrowing as she studied Bran's face. "You speak of him like you know him."

Laxus inhaled deeply, as if steadying himself before delivering a truth he wished wasn't real. "Their leader. His name is Asriel Valerian." He paused, his gaze flickering with something that looked suspiciously like grief. "He is—was—the former Ferrum Visionary, and one of the Five who sat at the Table."

He swallowed hard before adding, "And once upon a time, he was also our friend."

The air in the room turned suffocatingly still.

"Wait… Visionary?" Helga's amber eyes wide with disbelief. "You mean to tell me he was one of the strongest students in Excalibur Academy?" Her hands tightened around the edge of Bran's bed as though she needed something solid to hold onto.

Salazar exhaled sharply, his emerald eyes narrowing as realization dawned upon him. "And Asriel Valerian?" He let the name settle on his tongue, the weight of it unmistakable. "The Asriel Valerian? The one they called The Terror of Death?" There was something in his tone—part awe, part wariness, and beneath it all, a flicker of something unspoken.

Rowena's lips parted, but no words came. Her usual sharp wit, her encyclopedic knowledge, all failed her in this moment. She had read about him. Everyone had. But reading about a legend and standing on the precipice of his return were two vastly different things.

Godric, however, remained silent. He didn't flinch, didn't react—not in the way the others did. His crimson gaze locked onto Laxus, unwavering, his jaw clenched so tightly a muscle ticked at its edge. His expression was unreadable, but his silence carried more weight than any words could.

Bran exhaled slowly, the weight of his words pressing into the room. "Yes," he admitted, his voice quieter now, yet heavy with meaning. "That Asriel." His expression hardened, a shadow passing over his lime-green eyes. "He was—and still is—one of the most formidable wizards of our time. Laxus and I could stand toe-to-toe with the best of them, but Asriel? He wasn't just a warrior. He was a force."

Bran's gaze swept over them. "And it wasn't just magic. His skill with a sword was unparalleled. He didn't simply fight—he tore through his enemies like an unrelenting storm. Blades shattered against his, shields splintered beneath his strikes. When he moved, it was with the force of something beyond mortal—more beast than man. And his battle cries?" Bran shook his head. "They sent terror rippling through the ranks long before his blade ever touched flesh. He wasn't an opponent you wanted to face on the battlefield… and he was certainly not an enemy you'd wish to make."

Laxus nodded, his expression grim. "Back in his days at The Congregation, he led one of the most formidable Clans. His strength, his skill, his sheer ruthlessness—it all earned him the name The Terror of Death. And that reputation? It wasn't built in Excalibur. No, he carried it long before he ever set foot in the Academy."

He exhaled sharply. "The High Table isn't some council where power is handed out. You don't get elected. You take your place. You earn it in blood, through skill, through sheer force of will. Anyone can challenge for a seat, but only the strongest keep it."

"That's why the Five can't afford to show weakness—not for a second. I defended my seat until the day I graduated, but not without cost." He let that hang in the air for a moment before adding, "But when Asriel joined The Congregation? He didn't just earn his seat. He ripped it from the hands of the strongest leader at the time. And he did it so thoroughly that no one dared challenge him again."

"Asriel was never the most social of individuals," Bran said, almost reflective. "Even among his fellow Visionaries, the Table, even his own Clan—he kept to himself. Laxus and I were the only ones he might have considered friends, though even then, it was a distant sort of camaraderie."

"The other students kept a respectful distance, not because he demanded it, but because the fear he inspired made it an unspoken rule. It wasn't intentional—just a byproduct of the kind of man he was."

"For the longest time, I thought he was incapable of forming any real connections. That he was destined to walk alone, by choice or by circumstance." Bran's gaze dropped slightly. "And then… he met her."

"Tala Se'lai," Laxus said, though there was a quiet sadness woven into his tone. "She is—was—an elven girl from House Ventus. His betrothed." He let out a bitter chuckle, shaking his head slightly. "I have to admit, I've never seen a man love someone the way Asriel loved her. He was completely and utterly gone for that girl."

His gaze flicked toward Godric, eyes narrowing just slightly. "Kinda reminds me of you, actually."

Godric's jaw tightened as he folded his arms across his chest, his gaze shifting away, unwilling to meet Laxus's eyes.

Bran's hands curled into fists atop the blanket draped over his lap. "We always thought he was meant for something greater," he said, his voice quieter now, more measured. "That he'd leave Excalibur behind and carve out his own legacy." He exhaled slowly, his gaze flickering with something unreadable. "But then, twelve years ago… everything changed."

The four friends sat motionless, the weight of the moment pressing down on them as Bran continued.

"We were in our final years at Excalibur Academy when the Clock Tower arrested Asriel," Bran said. "For the murder of his betrothed… and her entire family." His lime-green eyes lifted, meeting theirs with a solemn intensity. "Our father was one of the Aurors on scene. He told us it was one of the most horrifying sights he had ever witnessed in all his years of service."

Rowena paled, while Helga covered her mouth, stifling a gasp.

"News of the massacre sent shockwaves through the Academy," Bran said. "Laxus and I didn't want to believe it. We couldn't." He clenched his teeth. "It went against everything we knew about him—everything we had ever seen."

"It was bullshit," Laxus said with a scoff. "But our word didn't mean a damn thing against the Tower."

"The man swore he was innocent," Bran continued. "He insisted—again and again—that the Clock Tower had framed him. That none of it was real. But the evidence…" He exhaled sharply. "The evidence was overwhelming. Every trace of magic, every forensic spell, every damning piece of proof pointed to him."

A shadow settled over his features. "In the end, there was no room for doubt. The verdict was absolute." He swallowed. "And so, he was sentenced to die.

The heavy silence continued to stretch between them.

"Hold on." Salazar leaned forward, his fingers interlaced as he studied Bran intently. "If he was truly sentenced to death," he said, his voice measured, "then how, pray tell, is he still alive today?"

"That's because the transport moving him to Revel's End never made it," Laxus said grimly. "There was an accident. Official reports claimed he escaped. A manhunt was launched to bring him in, dead or alive." He leaned back against the large window behind him. "But let's just say Asriel didn't go down without a fight. He left a trail of dead Aurors in his wake. It took weeks, but eventually, his luck ran out. He was caught in the crossfire and killed."

Bran shook his head. "But somewhere along the way, he must have found it—the Sword of Damocles."

Godric, who had been silent until now, finally spoke, his crimson gaze sharp. "Why wait twelve years?" he asked, his voice edged with skepticism. "If revenge was his goal, why didn't he go after the Clock Tower the moment he had the power to do it?"

"That's what I wondered too," Laxus admitted. "But here's the thing—he wasn't alone. He had three others with him, and they weren't just lackeys. They carried the same power, the same corruption." His jaw tightened. "He knew he couldn't take on the Tower by himself, so he waited. He bided his time, built his strength… and found others just like him."

Salazar scoffed, though there was little humor in it. "Others," he mused. "People with their own vendettas. Their own grievances against the Tower. How convenient." His emerald eyes flicked toward Bran. "You sing the praises of the Clock Tower so often, and yet, here we are, standing knee-deep in the corpses it left in its wake."

Bran's jaw tensed, but he didn't refute it.

"The precinct in Stornoway," Bran continued after a beat. "It had close to a hundred AEGIS guards stationed there. Highly trained. Armed. Ready for anything." His expression darkened. "And when we arrived… it was a massacre. Not a single one left standing. Every last one of them, butchered like animals."

He let the words settle, their meaning sinking deep into the marrow of the room.

"They left none alive," Bran murmured. "Not a single one."

"Something isn't adding up."

All eyes turned to Godric as he pushed off the wall, his expression sharp, unreadable. "I've looked into the Sword of Damocles," he said. "Legend says it can only be wielded in vengeance—real vengeance. It doesn't answer to delusions. It doesn't serve the guilty." His crimson gaze locked onto Bran, unwavering, unrelenting. "If Asriel truly was responsible for those murders, the sword would have rejected him." His gaze narrowed. "But it didn't."

The weight of his words settled over the room like a storm on the horizon. "Which means he was telling the truth."

Rowena shifted, crossing her arms. "Godric, you don't know that for certain."

"Don't I?" he asked, sharp and cold. "His grudge is against the Tower. He believes he was framed. He believes the Tower destroyed his life. And if that sword—that sword—chose him, then it means his vengeance is justified."

His hands curled into fists. "And if his vengeance is justified, then the Tower did set him up. It did cover up the real crime."

Bran inhaled sharply, but no words came.

"Unbelievable, you people took Raine from me." Godric's voice wavered, but it wasn't weakness—it was barely restrained fury, simmering just beneath the surface. "You tore her away because the law wouldn't allow it. You looked me in the eye and told me it wasn't personal. That rules had to be followed. And now here we are."

He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "The almighty Clock Tower. So quick to preach about justice. About order. About doing what's right. But when it suits you, when it benefits you, those same laws become nothing but words on a page. You bend them. You break them. You bury the truth and send an innocent man to the gallows just to keep your precious world from crumbling."

"Godric, that's not—" Rowena tried to interject.

 "Save it!" Godric snapped. His crimson eyes burned with something raw, something dangerously close to satisfaction. "You know what? I hope Asriel burns the whole blasted Tower to the ground. I hope he carves through every last one of you!"

"And if I ever get the chance to meet him?" His lips curled into something caught between a sneer and a smirk. "Blimey, I just might join him."

He turned on his heel and stormed toward the door.

"Godric, wait!" Helga called after him, but he didn't so much as glance back.

Salazar watched him go, then shook his head. Without another word, he followed after him. But at the doorway, he paused, glancing back just long enough to let his gaze settle on Bran.

"I hate to be the one to say it," he murmured, "but he's right."

Then he was gone.

Laxus blinked, staring after them before slowly turning back to Bran. "What the hell was that about?" His brows pulled together. "What did he mean about Raine? What happened?"

Bran didn't answer.

Laxus' expression darkened, his jaw tightening as he shifted his gaze to Rowena and Helga—who looked just as guilt-ridden.

"Bran." His voice was low. Dangerous. "What did you do?"

****

"You did what?!" Laxus roared, rattling the walls with its sheer fury. Both Helga and Rowena flinched, the tension crackling like a live wire between them.

"Laxus, keep your voice down. We're in a hospital," Bran muttered, though the guilt in his lime-green eyes betrayed him. He knew there was no talking his way out of this—not with Laxus.

"I've known you a long time, Bran," Laxus growled, his fist clenched at his side. "And yeah, you've done some pretty whacked things in your day. But this? This is beyond messed up."

"And you've got the gall to wonder why the boy wants your head? Hell, if I were in his shoes, you'd be lucky if your damn spine was still attached to it when I was through with you." He let out a sharp, frustrated breath, his good hand raking through his hair. "Honest to the Gods, Bran, you're such a despicable piece of—" He cut himself off with a harsh groan, shaking his head in exasperation.

"What did you expect me to do?" Bran's patience finally snapped. "I'm an Adjudicator, Laxus. I had a duty—a sworn oath to uphold the laws of the Clock Tower."

"You think I didn't try? That I didn't fight for another way? I did everything I could. Everything." His lime-green eyes burned with something between anger and regret. "But there are laws. Laws that I pushed against. And despite it all, my hands were tied!"

"And you didn't think to come to me?" Laxus spat. "Oh, sure, you had no problem dragging me to Stornoway to get my sorry ass handed to me, but when it came to helping Godric and Raine? That just—what? Slipped your mind?"

"I couldn't risk it!" Bran snapped, his frustration spilling over. "You're already on thin ice with the Slaver's Guild after that stunt you pulled with the children. Do you have any idea what it would have looked like if you had meddled to keep a former slave in Caerleon?"

"That's not your damn decision to make, Bran," Laxus groaned, dragging a hand down his face in frustration. "And that's your problem, isn't it? Always jumping the gun. Always making choices for everyone else, like you've got the right." His eyes burned with barely contained anger as he stepped closer. "Newsflash—you don't. And half the time, you end up making things worse."

"That's your opinion." His eyes flashed as his teeth clenched. "And don't you dare mistake my calm for indifference, Laxus—there isn't a single day that goes by where I don't wish I could have done more."

Laxus let out a sharp scoff, his laughter dry and hollow. "Well, you can keep your damn wishes, because they don't mean shit, do they?" His lip curled as he shook his head. "When I first met Godric, he wasn't like this. He wasn't a shattered, hollowed-out wreck drowning in his own pain. You did this." His glare intensified. "You and that blasted organization you seem to worship like it's the damn Gospel."

He turned, gesturing sharply to Rowena. "Tell me, Bran—what if it was your precious little sister, huh? What if they came for her memories? If they stripped her bare, sent her away to some distant hellhole, never to be seen again? Would the great Bran Ravenclaw finally stand up to the Tower? Would he finally draw his wand and fight like the righteous knight he thinks he is?" he spat. "Or would he roll over like the obedient little mutt he's been trained to be?"

Laxus stepped back. "You make me sick, Bran. I expected my brother to sink to this level, but not you." He let out a bitter chuckle. "And frankly, aside from Volg, it's been a long time since I've been this disgusted with someone."

"Laxus, that's enough," Rowena interjected, her tone firm yet measured. "You've made your point." She turned to Bran, her sapphire eyes filled with conflict. "And it's hardly fair to place all the blame on him. You know as well as I do that the Clock Tower isn't some machine that bends to the will of a single Adjudicator. This isn't helping anyone—"

But Bran cut her off before she could finish. "Oh, that's delightfully rich—coming from you," he snapped. "Have you conveniently forgotten what your own family does for a living? Or perhaps, beneath all that self-righteous sanctimony, you actually enjoy it." He leaned forward, his expression hard. "Once a Dryfus, always a Dryfus."

The moment the words left Bran's mouth, Laxus moved. His good hand shot forward, seizing Bran's hospital gown by the collar and yanking him forward with enough force to make the bed creak beneath him. Their faces were mere inches apart, Laxus' electric-blue eyes ablaze with fury barely held in check.

"Laxus, stop!" Rowena cried out, panic lacing her voice, while Helga's eyes went wide.

"One more word," Laxus growled, "just one, and I'll make you wish Asriel had finished the job." His grip tightened, the fabric of Bran's gown bunching in his fist. "You've been asking for a beatdown, and if you weren't already lying in this bed, so help me Gods, I'd be the one putting you in it."

Bran didn't flinch. His gaze burned with equal fervor, unwavering, unyielding.

Laxus' grip tightened. "And you listen to me, Bran," he snarled. "The Ravenclaws might be the blue-eyed darlings of the Clock Tower, but hear me now—if I find out that you or your precious family had even the slightest hand in what happened to Asriel, forget the hospital." His next words came slow and deliberate. "I will put you, and every last one of you blasted crows in the damned ground. That's not a threat, Bran. That's a promise, and a Dryfus always collects."

Then, with a sharp shove, he released him. The force sent Bran back against the pillows, his breath uneven, his body tensing from the impact. Laxus didn't spare him another glance. He turned on his heel and stormed toward the door, his boots striking the floor with measured force.

"Laxus!" Rowena called after him, but he wasn't listening. He ripped the door open, marching forward—only to nearly collide with someone standing on the other side.

****

Frank's widened eyes followed Laxus as the larger man stormed past him, his heavy boots thudding against the polished floor. He barely had time to react before turning his attention back to the room, his hands still clutching two cups of coffee.

"Uh… is this a bad time?" Frank asked. "I can come back if—"

Bran exhaled deeply, rubbing the bridge of his nose before shaking his head. "No, come on in."

Frank stepped inside, his sharp eyes scanning the room before landing on Rowena. His face lit up with recognition, a smile creeping onto his lips. "By the Gods, is that you, Rowena?" His gaze softened as he took her in. "Look at you. I remember when you were—" He gestured to his knee. "Yay high. And now, well… aren't you easy on the eyes."

Rowena flushed, clearing her throat. "It's been a while, Lieutenant Raegen," she said before turning to Helga. "And this is my friend, Helga Hufflepuff."

"Heya, Mister Frank," Helga said, beaming. "Nice to meet'cha."

Frank chuckled, tipping an imaginary hat. "Pleasure's all mine, miss." He set the coffee down on the bedside table, nudging one toward Bran. "Black, two sugars, just the way you like it."

Bran took the cup and nodded, taking a slow sip. "I appreciate it."

Frank turned to the girls, jerking his thumb toward Bran. "Y'know, don't let him downplay it, but your brother here? Damn hero," he said with a grin. "Drew that monster away from me and my men so we could make it out alive. Thinking back on it… I probably wouldn't be standing here if it weren't for him and Laxus."

"Don't sell yourself short, Frank," Bran said, his gaze steady. "You held your own—and put up one hell of a fight."

Frank shrugged, taking a sip of his own coffee. "Kind of you to say."

Bran's expression grew more serious. "Did you manage to change their minds?"

Frank let out a slow sigh, shaking his head. "I filed the report, made my case, but brass wouldn't have it." He massaged his temple. "They're convinced Caerleon is a whole lot safer than the Crown City. Something about contingencies, protocol, the usual bureaucratic nonsense."

Helga tilted her head, curiosity piqued. "Wait—what does Caerleon have to do with any of this?"

Rowena's expression darkened. "When the Clock Tower comes under significant threat, standard protocol dictates that top command relocates to the headquarters in Caerleon." She crossed her arms. "It's a contingency that's been in place for hundreds of years. According to my grandfather, there are secure safe rooms built deep underground, designed to withstand any kind of attack."

Frank scoffed, shaking his head. "Well, from what I've seen, missy, I doubt those rooms are gonna do 'em much good." His expression turned grim as he reached into his jacket, pulling out a well-worn notebook. He flipped through the pages, his brows furrowing. "That Wilkins guy? The one who survived?" He tapped the open page. "He remembered something else. A name. Said it's what they call themselves."

Bran sat up slightly. "What name?"

Frank hesitated for just a moment before speaking. "Nemesis."

A cold silence settled over the room.

"Nemesis?" Rowena echoed. "That's the name of the Old God of Vengeance… the one who resurrected Damocles, according to legend."

"Fitting, if you think about it," Helga muttered, crossing her arms. "If they're really out for revenge, they sure picked the right name."

Frank leaned back slightly, rubbing his chin in thought. "What I don't get is—why Hoffman?" His sharp blue eyes flicked between Bran and the others. "The guy was just a grunt back in the day, nowhere near the Valerian case. And besides, everyone they've taken out so far—none of them were directly involved."

"I don't know," he admitted. "But something about what Asriel said… what Godric said—it doesn't sit right with me." Bran's fingers tightened around the warm porcelain of his coffee cup "The Sword of Damocles… it can only be wielded in true vengeance. If the sword truly chose Asriel…" His words trailed off, the weight of the implication settling heavily between them.

Frank held his gaze for a moment, then nodded. "My partner and I are shipping out to Caerleon in a few days. In the meantime, I'll see what I can dig up in the archives." He took a sip of his coffee, then set it down with a quiet clink. "You just focus on getting better, alright?" With that, he turned and walked toward the door, disappearing into the hallway.

The room settled into silence.

Rowena shifted uncomfortably, arms folding across her chest as her sapphire eyes cast downward. Bran reached out, fingers barely brushing the fabric of her sleeve before she stepped back—an instinctive, unconscious movement, but one that made him falter. A flicker of pain crossed his face, barely masked beneath his composure.

"Rowena…" His voice was quiet, uncertain.

She exhaled, still avoiding his gaze. "Despite everything, I came because I was worried. I needed to see if you were alright, but…" Her voice wavered as she forced herself to meet his eyes. "I'm not ready. There's too much to process—too much that I don't know how to forgive."

Bran swallowed hard. "Row, please," he said. "I tried. You know that. If there had been another way—"

"It's not about that, Bran!" Her tone sharpened. "It's about what you did. Not only did you take her memories—you took a part of her. A part she will never get back." Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. "And Godric…" She hesitated, her throat tightening. "Laxus was right. Salazar was right. What if it had been me, Bran?"

Bran's expression turned rigid.

"And before you try to deny it—don't." She wiped at the tears that threatened to fall, though her glare remained sharp, unwavering. "I know. I've always known. The family thinks it's some well-guarded secret, but I'm not stupid."

"So, answer me this," she pressed, forcing him to face the weight of her words. "If the Tower had given you the same ultimatum—but instead of Raine, it was me—would you, father, and grandfather have refused?" She stepped closer. "Or would you have done to me what you did to her?"

"Rowena, you know that's not how it is—" Bran started, but she cut him off.

"I need space, Bran. I need to figure things out… about myself." She hesitated for the briefest moment before looking at him again, her eyes filled with something unreadable. "About us."

Bran inhaled sharply. "W-what're you?"

She didn't wait for him to finish. Without another word, she turned and walked out of the room, her silhouette disappearing through the doorway.

Helga lingered for a second longer, her usual warmth dimmed by sadness. She gave Bran a small, apologetic smile before following Rowena into the hall, leaving him alone in the sterile silence of his hospital room.

Bran let out a slow, unsteady breath. He ran a hand over his face, his fingers pressing against his temples as he leaned back against the pillows. The weight in his chest was suffocating, heavier than any wound he had suffered in battle.