There was a stillness to the woods beyond Caerleon. A kind of peace untouched by time. No shouts. No clang of steel. Only the rustle of wind through ancient trees, and the soft stirrings of woodland creatures nestled in the undergrowth. Miles away from the city's noise and stench, far from the prying eyes of the curious and the idle chatter of those who'd never seen war.
Here, there were no screams. No burning timber, no charred stone or blackened flesh. No warm blood splattered across his face. No iron grip wrapped tight around a hilt slick with death.
Berserker—that's what they had called him. A dwarf who felt no fear, only fury. One who saw not men, but targets. Rage was his creed. And in return, he was given what many of his kind sought: drink, coin, women, respect, and fear. Everything a dwarf could want or so he had believed.
But years, like axes, dull with use.
And the deeper he drowned himself in blood and ale, the more the fire in him began to fade. Then came the night, fog-brained and swaying on his feet when he first laid eyes on her.
Lydia.
Strong as any ox, gentle as spring water on stone. She looked at him not as the beast he'd become, but as the man buried beneath the scars. She gave him a choice. The axe or her love. And for the first time in his life, he chose to lay the axe down.
The years that followed were quiet, simple. Filled with laughter, warmth, and longing glances that spoke louder than words. They had hoped for children, but fate, in all its cruelty, never granted them that wish. And in the end, it took her too. Stole her away to the land of their ancestors and left Gunnar behind in a silence deeper than any battlefield.
Time lost its meaning after that. The seasons passed like ghosts. Bark to sawdust, tree to timber, and he carried on because Lydia would've wanted him to. She wouldn't have forgiven him for falling to grief.
Then one spring morning, when the air was damp with earth and new life stirred in the canopy above, he raised his axe and brought it down on a particularly stubborn tree. The wood was hard as dwarven iron, refusing to yield, each strike biting but never breaking. Gunnar exhaled sharply and leaned the axe against the ground, one hand bracing the small of his back. The familiar pop of bone made him grimace.
"By the forge," he muttered, chuckling under his breath, "I think I'm gettin' too old for this."
He looked up through the trees, toward the pale blue sky barely visible through the canopy.
"You hear that, Lydia?" he said softly. "Your big, stubborn dwarf is wearin' thin with time. Spine's goin', knees ain't worth a damn. I pray it won't be long now… till I see you again."
It was then he heard it. A faint rustle in the bushes just off the path. Gunnar's eyes narrowed. His grip tightened around the haft of his axe as he stepped closer, boots crunching over twigs and damp leaves. He pushed aside the bramble with one calloused hand, ready for trouble.
But instead of a beast or bandit, he found a child.
A little girl—couldn't have been more than four—crouched in the underbrush, dressed in filthy rags barely clinging to her small frame. Her cheeks were streaked with tears, her catlike ears pressed flat against her head, and her tail wrapped tight around her shivering body. Most striking of all was the sleek, black collar around her neck, engraved with glowing runes. Blood stained her clothes. Some of it dry. Some of it not.
Gunnar's gaze swept the woods, scanning left and right. No others. No sound. Just her.
He crouched down, setting his axe aside and extending one hand slowly. "There now, sweet lass. It's alright. Ol' Gunnar won't hurt ye," he said gently.
The girl whimpered, shrinking back—but after a pause, her trembling hand reached for his. Her fingers were small and cold against his wide, weathered palm. Carefully, he lifted her into his arms.
"There, there," he murmured, tucking her close to his chest. "Yer safe. I've got ye."
She nestled against him, pressing her head into his chest. Her tail stilled.
But the moment of calm broke with the sound of boots crunching through leaves. Gunnar's ears twitched, and his eyes snapped to the clearing as loud, careless voices carried on the wind. The girl stiffened in his arms. She didn't need to say anything. Her fear said it all.
Gunnar glanced to his wooden log carrier nearby. Without hesitation, he opened the lid, laid her gently inside, and pressed a finger to his lips. She nodded, understanding. He closed the lid.
No sooner had he stood upright than six figures emerged from the trees.
Their black uniforms were unmistakable. Polished badges gleamed on their chests.
Agents of The Authority.
One stepped forward, cocky and loud. "You there. Dwarf."
"Aye?" Gunnar said, crossing his arms. "Bit far from the city, aren't ye?"
The man didn't bite. "We're tracking a runaway. Therian girl. Small, ears, tail. We know she passed through here. Seen anything?"
Gunnar glanced around theatrically, gesturing to the empty woods. "Do I look like I've seen a therian? Ye lads lose your eyes on the way up?"
"Don't play dumb with me, duergar," another snapped, stepping forward with a finger jabbing the air. "If you're harboring a runaway, you'll be headed straight for Revel's End."
"Oh, aye?" Gunnar replied, lifting a brow. "You and what army?"
The agent scowled. "I don't need an army to deal with you."
Gunnar gave him a once-over, then grinned. "You're just a lad. Bet you've not even got hair on yer balls yet. And from the look o' things, your prick's two inches short of impressive. Got a lot to prove, I reckon."
One of the others snorted, trying and failing to hide a grin. The red-faced agent clenched his fists.
"I'm just a woodcutter," Gunnar said, turning to the first agent. "No business with strays. Especially not ones with collars." He leaned closer. "So, unless ye plan to chop trees or split logs, I'd suggest you turn around and get back to whatever sewer you crawled out of."
He picked up his axe and turned his back on them.
"Watch your tone, you—" the second agent lunged forward and grabbed his shoulder.
In a blur, Gunnar spun, axe in hand. The blade stopped an inch from the man's throat.
The agent froze. Breath caught in his lungs. A bead of sweat rolled down his cheek.
The others reached for their weapons but halted when the first agent raised a hand.
Gunnar didn't blink. His eyes met the man's with the calm of someone who'd seen more death than all of them combined.
"You're the one in charge, aren't ye?" he said to the first agent. "Then listen well. That word your pup used? We Durin-folk don't take kindly to it." His tone dropped, quiet but ice-cold. "Back in me day, I'd've taken his head clean off. He wouldn't even know it until it hit the dirt. And I know. I made a living doin' just that."
He stepped closer, the axe still steady in his grip.
"The fight's left me bones, lad. So today, I'll grant you mercy. But others out there won't be so kind. Here's some advice. Choose yer words and yer fights with care."
The lead agent cleared his throat. "Understood. My apologies." He grabbed his companion by the collar and yanked him back. "We'll be on our way. Good day to you."
Without another word, the six of them turned and melted back into the woods.
Only when the last of their footsteps faded did Gunnar lower his axe. He let out a long, low breath and turned back toward the carrier.
"Alright, wee one," he murmured. "They're gone. Come on out."
The lid creaked open, and the little girl climbed out. Her bare feet touched the forest floor with a soft thud—bruised, scraped, and streaked with dried blood. She padded over to Gunnar in silence, her wide eyes fixed on him, the black collar still pulsing faintly around her neck.
Gunnar dropped to one knee, his rough hand rising to gently trace the cursed metal. His brows furrowed.
"Goblin-forged," he muttered. "You're lucky yer masters were too bloody cheap to spring for dwarven steel. That would've been a real problem."
He paused, then looked her in the eyes.
"This's gonna hurt, lass," he said quietly. "But I need ye to be brave for me, aye? Just a little longer."
The girl reached out, her tiny hands resting atop his. She gave the faintest nod.
Gunnar exhaled, steadying himself. "Right then... here we go."
He gripped the collar with both hands and began to pull. The metal resisted at first—then came alive with red, crackling arcs of energy that surged through them both. The girl screamed, eyes clamped shut, her body writhing as the current coursed through her frame. Gunnar roared through clenched teeth, his arms trembling with strain as the searing magic burned through his palms and down his spine.
Still, he held on.
With a final, ragged shout, the collar snapped with a burst of force, its metal twisted and steaming in his hands. He hurled the cursed thing into the grass and fell forward to catch her as she collapsed, limp and unconscious, against his chest.
He sat there for a moment, panting hard, then smiled through the sting in his muscles. He brushed her matted hair gently away from her face.
"That's a brave lass," he whispered. "Braver than most I've known."
Carefully, he scooped her up into his arms. With his axe slung over one shoulder and his satchel on the other, Gunnar turned toward the path and began the slow walk back to his cottage. One step at a time, a little girl resting in the crook of his arms, and something new. Something fragile and quiet settling in his heart.
****
The water in the tub was warm, steam rising gently as bubbles floated through the air and popped with soft, musical whispers. The little therian girl sat still, wide-eyed as she watched them drift, her bare shoulders barely above the water's surface. Gunnar knelt beside the tub, his calloused fingers carefully combing through her long black hair, straightening the tangles one knot at a time.
The water had turned grey, thick with dirt, blood, and the filth of the road. Gunnar dipped the sponge again and gently cleaned the grime from her skin. Every bruise, every scar carved into her tiny body made his chest tighten. But the worst were the marks on her back. Long, jagged lashes that told stories he wished he hadn't learned to read. He'd seen those wounds before, in war camps and slave pits. Only monsters left stripes like that on a child.
And in that moment, he wanted nothing more than to take his axe and find the ones responsible—to carve their sins into stone with blood.
Still, he kept his voice calm.
"So... ye got a name, lass?" he asked gently, rinsing the sponge in silence.
The girl looked up at him, her wide emerald eyes dulled by a sorrow far too old for someone so young. "Seven One Two," she whispered.
Gunnar paused. "Seven One—?" His brows drew together. "By the bloody forge, that's no name."
"It's all I have," she murmured, her gaze drifting to the surface of the water where her reflection shimmered among the ripples.
He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, she went on.
"My mommy and I... we escaped the caravans. There was an accident. We were running, and... and there was a big flash. Mommy fell. I tried to wake her, but she wouldn't—" Her voice cracked. Tears welled up again and dropped into the water with tiny splashes.
Gunnar was quiet for a long moment. Then he reached over and gently patted her head.
"I'm sorry, lass. I truly am. No child should have to go through that." His words, though low, carried the weight of old grief and quiet rage. "But you're safe now. That's what matters."
She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, sniffling.
"Abigail."
She blinked and looked at him. "What?"
"Abigail," he repeated, offering a small, warm smile. "That's the name Lydia and I were gonna give our wee one. If we'd ever had a daughter."
The girl stared at him, stunned.
"That's your name now, if you'll have it," he said. "Abigail. Do ye like it?"
Her lips trembled. And then, without a word, she lunged forward, wrapping her arms around him and burying her tear-streaked face into his thick beard. He caught her gently, holding her close, his arms around her fragile frame as though to shield her from the whole of the world.
He rested his chin atop her head.
"My sweet Abigail," he whispered.
****
Tale after tale, Gunnar spoke to Helga, to Elio, and to the quiet room that seemed to absorb every word. He began with stories of wonder, of laughter, of Lydia and Abigail. Helga chuckled, and even Elio smiled once or twice. But as the tales turned darker, the joy drained from her face. When Gunnar reached the part about Callahan, Helga sat in silence, cheeks wet with tears that had begun to fall without her noticing.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, wiping her face. "For everything. For what happened."
Gunnar shook his head. "It's not your place to forgive, lass. But I appreciate the thought."
"Is it true?" she asked. "What Professor Lotho said about the Sword of Damocles? That it comes with a price? That you'll never see your loved ones again?"
The old dwarf gave a weary shrug, then nodded. "Aye. That's the cost. One we all accepted—Asriel, Isha, Orgrim, and me. We gave up peace for punishment. There's no afterlife waiting for us. No warm hearth or familiar face. Just the dark. Just the weight of what we've done."
His hands curled into fists. "It wasn't just a sacrifice for justice. It was vengeance. We wanted the ones who destroyed our lives to suffer—not just die, but suffer in ways words can't reach."
Helga lowered her gaze. "I wish things could have been different. For Abigail, for you... for everyone."
"Aye. Me too," Gunnar said softly. "But what's done is done. I've made peace with it. I'm no saint, Helga. I've done things that would make yer stomach turn. And there are folk out there who'd take up the sword just to strike me down. They wouldn't be wrong. This path I walk now—it's not only a sacrifice. It's me penance."
The bedroom door creaked open. Edda stepped inside, and Elio brightened at the sight of her. He ran to her, and she caught him in her arms, holding him close.
Gunnar and Helga rose to their feet.
"Are you alright?" Helga asked. "Did they try anything?"
"No, we're fine," Edda said, though her. She held Elio tighter. "But Helga, you should leave. Curfew's close, and Excalibur's walls are safer than this place."
"You don't sound fine," Gunnar said, folding his arms. "And you look like you've seen a ghost."
Edda hesitated. "It was Astrea," she said finally.
"Astrea?" Helga's eyes widened. "Astrea Vikander?"
"She's been made Captain of Norsefire," Edda replied. "Even Pablo didn't know."
Gunnar looked toward her. "You know the lass?"
"Yes... and no. We spoke once or twice. She seemed intense. But she's leading Norsefire now?"
"I'm afraid so," Edda said. "And it's worse than I thought. There are rumors of a Norsefire officer wielding a mechanical sword, cutting people down without hesitation—sometimes without cause. I didn't want to believe it was her. But I saw the weapon. I always felt something was off about her, but I never imagined she was mad."
Gunnar let out a low breath. "The thing about madfolk is—they're often the best at hidin' it. Smilin' while sharpenin' the knife." He gave a faint, rueful grin. "You can take it from me."
"She left without a scene," Edda said quietly, her arms folded, fingers tightening around her sleeves. "But there's a part of me... a small part, that believes she suspects something. Me. Pablo. The blood on the floor. We made an excuse, but..." Her eyes lowered. "I fear it wasn't strong enough. I pray it's just a feeling, not the truth."
"It's gettin' too dangerous, Edda," Gunnar said. "I've got to go. I should've gone the moment I could stand. If that mad wench comes back, and I've no doubt she will, she won't be alone next time."
"No, Gunnar. Not like this. Not while you're still healing," Edda replied, stepping closer with a raised hand. "Pablo insists, and I agree. Stay. Just for a few more days. Please."
Gunnar opened his mouth to argue, but before he could, Helga stepped in.
"Edda's right. One wrong move and you'll fall flat on your face," she said with a faint smile. Then she turned to Edda. "And I'd best be going. It's almost curfew." Pulling her hood over her head, she added, "I'll come back soon to check on you. Until then... stay safe."
"Bless you, mio tesoro," Edda said with a soft smile. "Don't worry about us. We'll manage."
Helga nodded and turned toward the door, but paused when she heard Gunnar call her name.
"You're a good lass, Helga Hufflepuff," he said with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I reckon... my Abigail would've liked you. A lot."
Helga glanced over her shoulder, the flicker of a smile tugging at her lips. "And I would've liked her." She gave a gentle nod before stepping out and descending the stairs.
Gunnar remained still for a moment, his eyes falling to the worn floorboards beneath his feet. He let out a breath as thoughts began to gather like storm clouds behind his eyes.
He knew Astrea would be back.
He'd seen her kind before—bloodhounds in uniform. The type who followed instinct long before reason. She wouldn't let go of a scent once she caught it.
His gaze drifted to Edda, now cradling Elio in her arms. The boy rested his head on her shoulder, unaware of the weight pressing into the room.
Gunnar felt it settle in his chest. A tightening dread. He had to leave. Not just to protect himself but because if anything happened to them because of him, he wouldn't be able to carry the weight.
Not again.
****
Night fell heavy over the ruins of Caerleon. Thunder cracked across the sky, lightning flashing like war drums in the clouds. Rain poured in sheets, hammering against the remains of shattered rooftops and broken stone. The scent of wet cobblestone and scorched asphalt hung thick in the air. In each flash of lightning, Norsefire troops could be seen posted at every corner, swords slung and wands ready, their silhouettes like sentinels watching a city teetering on the edge.
Across the city, the sounds of conflict echoed through the night. Explosions rocked the streets. Spells shimmered through the downpour in bursts of color and light. Screams and the defiant war cries of Caerleon's resistance filled the dark like a chorus of rage and desperation.
At the side of a bombed-out boulevard, a Norsefire tent had been pitched—one of many makeshift command outposts. Inside, a single young agent sat at a steel table surrounded by monitors and scanners. The hum of machinery and the soft blip of tracking pulses filled the air. Empty bottles of soda and torn-open snack bags littered the tabletop. He leaned back, taking a swig from a glass bottle of sarsaparilla, smacking his lips as he swallowed.
Then the tent flap rustled.
The guard jolted upright as a figure stepped inside, cloaked from head to toe in black. Rain ran off the drenched fabric in rivulets, pooling at her feet. Her hood was drawn low, obscuring her face. The air in the room seemed to shift with her arrival.
"Hey!" the guard barked, setting the bottle down. "This is a restricted zone. You're not supposed to be here, and you're in violation of—"
The figure reached up and slowly pulled back her hood. A cascade of black hair fell to her waist, soaked and clinging to her cloak. Her sharp sapphire eyes glinted beneath the glow of the monitors, locked onto him with quiet intensity.
The guard froze. His face went pale.
"Judging by your expression," she said coolly, "you know who I am."
He opened his mouth but no words came.
"If not," she continued, stepping closer, "allow me to introduce myself. I'm Rowena Ravenclaw. And I'd very much like to speak with my uncle."
The agent stood rigid. "M-Miss Ravenclaw, I-I'm not authorized—"
"I'll make this simple." Rowena's tone never rose. It didn't need to. "You can put me through to Director Burgess now... or you can explain to him why his goddaughter was denied access." She tilted her head ever so slightly. "My uncle is a patient man, but even he has his limits."
The guard swallowed hard. "Yes, of course. One moment, please."
The guard turned back to the console, nearly fumbling the keys as he typed in the command sequence. His fingers trembled while the signal connected. A soft hum filled the tent as the Norsefire seal blinked to life, suspended in mid-air. After a moment, the screen resolved into the image of a dimly lit office. Polished wood panels, old books, and the looming figure of Director Lamar Burgess seated at his desk, scowl firmly in place.
"I was wondering which half-witted fool had the gall to contact me at this hour," Lamar snapped, irritation etched deep into his brow. "So, unless this is something of critical importance, I suggest you—"
Rowena cut across his view. The guard immediately vacated the chair, retreating to the edge of the tent like a scolded child.
"Uncle Lamar," Rowena said calmly, though there was no warmth in her tone.
At once, Lamar's expression changed. The harshness faded from his face, replaced by a charming smile.
"Rowena, my dear. What an unexpected surprise. Why on earth are you using this channel? You know perfectly well you could've contacted me directly."
"I tried," she said, cutting him off. "Repeatedly. But the communication blackout made that rather difficult, wouldn't you agree?"
"Ah," Lamar chuckled. "Yes, of course. My apologies, dearest. Things have been rather chaotic these past few days, but I assure you—everything is under control."
"Control?" Rowena's eyes sharpened. "I watched your Norsefire soldiers beat students in the street. I saw them drag my friend away in chains, bruised and bleeding." Her jaw tightened. "That isn't control, Uncle. That's tyranny. And it's a tyranny you sanctioned."
"Now, now, let's not get theatrical," Lamar said with a wave of his hand. "You, of all people, understand the necessity of hard decisions in uncertain times. I'm sure if you spoke to Winston—"
"Don't," Rowena interrupted sharply, raising a hand. "Don't you dare invoke Grandfather. He may have been cold, but he wasn't cruel. He wasn't a monster."
Lamar's smile faded, the corners of his mouth tightening.
"I stood by you when others called you dangerous. I defended you because I believed you had the people's welfare at heart." She trembled. "But this… this isn't protection. This is oppression. You've crossed a line."
She stepped closer to the screen, her eyes wet with unshed tears.
"So, I'm asking you now, as your goddaughter. As someone who still hopes there's a part of the man I admired left inside you." She wavered slightly. "End the lockdown. Lift the blockade. Release those you've imprisoned. Show me you haven't lost yourself completely."
The tears finally spilled down her cheeks as she whispered, "Please, Uncle Lamar."
There was a pause. Stillness gripped the tent as the only sound came from the steady drum of rain against vinyl.
Then came a low chuckle.
It grew, building into something deeper, harsher. Until it cracked into a laugh. Not warm. Not amused. But sharp, jagged, and mean. Suddenly, Lamar slammed his fist against the desk, sending a tremor through the screen. He covered his mouth with a hand, but when he lowered it, the façade of calm had vanished. In its place was something twisted—a grin stretched taut between manic amusement and simmering rage.
"My dear, sweet child," he hissed, "who the hell do you think you are to demand anything of me?"
His tone, though quiet, was coiled tight with fury.
"I truly thought you'd understand. That, in the end, you'd come to see reason. But no—you're a Ravenclaw through and through. Stubborn to the last. Just like your grandfather. Just like Winston."
Rowena's breath caught. "Uncle Lamar...?"
The disbelief cracked through the static.
"You think I sit in this chair because I allowed sentiment and mercy to steer my hand?" He struck the desk again. "No! I sit here because I knew exactly what had to be done. I see even a flicker of rebellion, and I snuff it out. I hear whispers of defiance, and I crush them before they form into shouts!"
His eyes glinted now, wild with conviction.
"Twenty years I've held this seat. Twenty years I've preserved this institution. Not through goodwill. Through strength." He leaned in closer to the camera, his expression tightening. "Your grandfather, for all his reputation—was weak. Ruthless, yes, when it suited him. But he still clung to things like principle. Heart. He never had the stomach to go all the way."
Then, his voice dropped low. Cold.
"And you," he said, pointing at the screen. "You and your brother—I should've known. Every time I looked at you. Every forced smile. Every tiresome dinner where I had to pretend you mattered." His lip curled. "It turned my stomach."
His eyes narrowed, seething.
"I tried. Gods help me, I tried to shape you into something useful. Something that might bear my name, my legacy. I thought, perhaps, I could carve you into the granddaughter I never had. One who could stand beside me—as my blade, as my heir."
He shook his head slowly.
"What a waste. What a bloody, bleeding waste."
Lamar drew a breath, his fingers slicking the silver strands of his hair neatly back. "But perhaps I should thank you, my dear," he said, eyes returning to the screen with unnerving calm. "At least now, I can stop pretending. And let me tell you—it's liberating. Really, it is."
Rowena's gaze, once stunned, hardened to steel. "The feeling's mutual. Mister Burgess," she said coldly. "Now I see you for what you truly are—a cruel, conniving, spineless cur. A coward dressed in gold."
"Oh, feisty. That was always one of your finer qualities, Rowena," Lamar replied with a smirk. "You had grit. A sharp tongue. Something your grandfather, your father, and certainly your brother never possessed. Always so strait-laced, the lot of them. Like the arrows you fire, always flying true. But you? You had potential. You were... different."
He leaned back, sighing. "Like I said, a bloody, bleeding waste."
"If I could take back every moment I wasted believing you had a heart, I would," Rowena said, leaning forward, her palms braced on the table. "I'm ashamed I ever called you my uncle. Ashamed I once loved you. You're not just a tyrant; you're a wretched excuse for a man. I swear, on the Ravenclaw name, you'll answer for what you've done. For every life you've destroyed."
Lamar chuckled, low and dismissive. "Sticks and stones, my dear," he said. "If I had a Plata for every time someone made that promise…" His smile twisted. "I'd keep it in a jar. Alongside the heads of those who tried to make good on it."
His eyes shifted—not to her, but slightly to the side. A movement too subtle for Rowena to notice. But the guard behind her did. The guard's hand slid quietly to his belt, fingers curling around the baton. He slipped it from its holster, stepping forward, silent as a shadow.
Lamar continued. "As I told your Headmaster, your friends are in my custody. And if I have my way, they'll never breathe another sliver of free air as long as they live."
He leaned forward, hands steepled.
"And soon... neither will you."
The baton clicked. Extending with a snap, and the guard raised it high.
But before the blow could land, an arm wrapped around his throat, yanking him backwards into a chokehold. The baton clattered to the floor with a sharp clang. Helga stood behind him, her arms tight around his neck. Her face was a mask of fury, amber eyes burning with purpose. The guard gasped, clawing at her arm. Until he went limp. She let his body drop with a thud.
Rowena met Helga's eyes. The two nodded once, wordlessly.
Then Rowena reached inside her robe and drew her wand. She turned back to the screen where Lamar stared, taken aback by the turn of events, and raised it.
"I'm coming for you."
A blast of raw magic erupted from her wand, striking the equipment with a thunderous crack. Sparks and steel flew across the tent as the screen fizzled into oblivion, the image of Lamar Burgess vanishing in a blink. Rowena stood there, breathing hard, wand still raised. Her eyes burned not with grief, but with fire—the kind that razes kingdoms.
A warning.
And a promise.
****
The emerald light of the screen dissolved into static, then vanished. The communication orb drifted silently back onto the table like a judge's gavel finding rest. Lamar sat in stillness; his jaw clenched so tightly it sent pain radiating up through his temples. His eyes twitched. A breath escaped his lips. Followed by a chuckle. It was soft at first. Then grew. Twisting. Warped. Until it erupted into full-blown laughter.
He threw his head back, arms outstretched, the sound of his mirth echoing through the vast emptiness of his office. His voice cracked between fits of laughter, wild and unrestrained. The unraveling of a man who had long since danced at the edge of reason.
"Annoyances…" he hissed through his teeth. "Cockroaches—all of them. Scurrying out from the cracks like vermin. Whispering defiance in the dark. Children, playing rebellion."
He dragged a hand down his face, manic eyes peeking between trembling fingers.
"That's it," he murmured. Then louder: "That's it. I've had enough. No more playing the diplomat. No more dancing around their pitiful little feelings."
He struck the orb beside him.
A screen blinked to life, pulsing with green light as it connected to every active Norsefire channel across the city.
"This is Director Burgess," he began, his words clipped and cold, yet crackling with barely restrained delight. "Effective immediately, Phase Two is in motion. All Accords, Agreements, Treaties, and Decrees—suspended. Indefinitely."
His lips curled into a smile that never touched his eyes.
"I want every insurgent, every rabble-rouser, every upstart schoolboy and baker's brat hauled in. Rebels, resisters, students, masons, children. I do not care!"
He slammed his fist on the desk with a sharp crack.
"Anyone who so much as blinks in defiance is to be detained. No exceptions. No hesitation!"
Then, with chilling finality, he whispered:
"No mercy. No quarter."