There is an unspoken rule within the walls of Crossroad City, one that most of its citizens could live their entire lives without ever hearing, not because it is hidden, but because it is never truly spoken aloud. It moves instead as a quiet murmur, passed between travelers and thrill seekers in hushed exchanges, carried in fragments rather than declarations, as though giving it shape might draw the wrong kind of attention.
Those who know it rarely explain it outright. They simply offer direction, a subtle nod, a lowered voice.
Head down to Carnival Row. Take the stairs. Sharp left.
If you know what you are looking for, you will find the Troll Market.
To Salazar, the name had never quite sat right, though he understood why it endured. It was not a market of trolls alone, nor anything so crude as the legends suggested, but the echo of something older, something rooted in the earliest days of Caerleon, long before the city rose into its current form. Before stone replaced timber, before the land was carved into districts and threaded together by steel rails and floating platforms, before Avalon itself became a network of movement and ambition, this had been little more than a settlement at the edge of nowhere.
In those early days, when so-called polite society was still finding its footing, it had no place for creatures that did not fit its image of refinement. Goblins, trolls, gnomes, and the many branches of the fae were turned away from those clean, orderly communities, left to gather among themselves, where they built something of their own. They traded what others would not touch, dealt in things that carried weight beyond coin, and over time, the place became known not for what it was, but for what people believed it to be.
And belief, Salazar knew, had a way of hardening into truth.
The reputation was not entirely undeserved. The market dealt in objects that drew a certain kind of buyer, items that were strange enough to unsettle and powerful enough to tempt. Artefacts that hummed faintly beneath the skin of reality, trinkets that whispered when handled too long, books bound in materials that no one asked too many questions about. For those who practiced the darker branches of magic, or those who simply strayed too close to them, the Troll Market offered everything they needed to build something dangerous.
Salazar had never been particularly drawn to that side of it. It was not the promise of forbidden rituals that pulled him back here, but the quieter things, the overlooked details tucked between the obvious dangers. Curiosities that did not announce themselves. Grimoires that might otherwise be sealed away behind layers of restriction within the Academy, their contents hidden behind locked doors and watchful eyes. Here, knowledge existed without permission, and that alone was enough to hold his attention.
The market had settled into a subdued rhythm as evening approached. The last of the daylight filtered through the narrow lanes, slipping between patched tarps and uneven structures, casting long shadows that stretched across the ground. Lanterns of crystal and polished glass had begun to glow in response, their soft light pooling over displays of wares, illuminating surfaces that caught and bent the light in subtle, unsettling ways.
Salazar moved through it with ease, his steps unhurried, his presence neither concealed nor announced. Around him, vendors stood behind their stalls, their forms as varied as the goods they sold, some hunched and sharp-eyed, others broad and unmoving, watching the flow of patrons with quiet calculation. Conversations carried in low tones, threaded with negotiation, the steady push and pull of bartering that defined the market's pulse. Prices shifted with each exchange, climbing into the hundreds, the thousands, depending on rarity, on desperation, on how much the buyer wanted to believe in what they were purchasing.
Every now and then, a voice rose above the rest, edged with frustration or accusation, a deal collapsing under its own weight, only to be swallowed again by the steady murmur that followed.
It was not a place for the naive, and the people who moved through it reflected that. Most were older, not just in years, but in presence, carrying themselves with the kind of awareness that came from knowing exactly where they stood. When their attention turned toward Salazar, it came in brief glances, measured, assessing, sometimes curious, sometimes edged with quiet disdain. He felt it, the weight of it, but it slid off him as easily as the shifting light.
He had been here before.
He would be here again.
And whatever they thought of him, whatever quiet judgments followed in his wake as he passed between them, it neither slowed his stride nor pulled his attention away from what had brought him here in the first place.
It was only when he moved past a particular stall that something drew him up short, not with force, but with a quiet insistence that settled somewhere at the edge of his awareness. His steps stilled, his head turning slightly as his gaze narrowed, searching, until it found the source.
There, among an otherwise unremarkable spread of trinkets and dull metalwork, lay something that did not belong. It was metallic, though the surface seemed to resist any simple definition, black as night at first glance, yet shifting beneath the fading light, carrying a deep lavender sheen that moved across it in subtle currents. It did not gleam so much as it breathed with the light, as though the color lived beneath the surface rather than upon it.
Salazar raised a brow, interest settling into something sharper as he turned fully toward the stall, stepping closer, bending just enough to study it without touching.
"Something catch your eye, lad?"
The voice came low and rough, edged with amusement.
Salazar lifted his gaze, meeting the source without hesitation. The vendor stood behind the stall, an elderly goblin draped in layered fabric that clashed between color and texture, a lavender headdress framing her narrow face. Her pale green skin bore the marks of time without restraint, creased and uneven, dotted with warts that no amount of powder could quite conceal. Gold rings lined the length of her pointed ears, catching the lantern light whenever she moved, while her lips curled into a grin that revealed rows of sharp, polished teeth far too bright to be comforting.
"As a matter of fact," Salazar replied, a faint smile forming, measured and composed, as his attention drifted back to the object before him. "It has. I am familiar with a fair number of curiosities, yet I cannot say I recognize this one."
He did not reach for it, not yet, content instead to observe, to let his curiosity unfold at its own pace.
The goblin's expression shifted, the beginnings of an answer forming, but before she could speak, another presence drew in beside him, close enough to be felt before it was fully acknowledged.
"Thanatium."
The word settled with weight, the voice behind it deep and steady, carrying a resonance that seemed to press against the air itself.
Salazar turned toward it, tilting his head slightly as his gaze rose to meet the speaker. The man stood a full head, perhaps two, above him, his frame broad to the point of excess, built with a density that suggested strength rather than show. He appeared only a few years older, yet there was something about him that felt older still, something held in the way he carried himself.
Dark hair fell in rough strands, his jaw shadowed, his features set without effort. His eyes, equally dark, held a stillness that did not invite easy reading. A thick leather coat strained against his shoulders and chest, stretched taut across the breadth of him as though it had not been made with someone of his size in mind, the material creasing where it resisted. Beneath it, leather trousers and worn boots completed the look, practical, unadorned.
Yet it was not the man himself that held Salazar's attention for long.
It was the weapon.
Strapped across his back was something that could scarcely be called a sword without stretching the definition, a massive slab of iron shaped into the rough form of a blade, its sheer size alone enough to make its purpose feel excessive. It did not rest lightly, nor did it seem intended to. It was a thing built for force, not finesse, and the quiet weight of it lingered even as Salazar's gaze returned to the man.
"Thanatium," Salazar repeated, the word settling with quiet precision as he tasted it, more curious than impressed. "My apologies, but I cannot say the name finds any place within my knowledge."
"That would be because Thanatium is both extraordinarily toxic," the man replied, his attention shifting toward the goblin, his expression tightening as something colder settled behind it, "and extraordinarily illegal. Possession of even the smallest fragment is enough to see someone buried in Revel's End for the rest of their life."
The change in the goblin was immediate and unmistakable, her complexion paling to a sickly shade, the confidence she had worn moments ago slipping beneath the surface.
"Look, lad, perhaps you're mistaken—"
"I am not," he said, stepping forward just enough to press the weight of his presence into the narrow space between them. "I was raised in the hollows of Krasnozemje. I have seen thanatium before. I have seen what it does." His gaze did not waver. "Displaying it this openly is not just careless. It is reckless."
The goblin swallowed, the movement sharp, her yellow eyes widening as her fingers twitched along the edge of the stall, as though deciding whether to hide it or pretend it had never been there at all.
"As illuminating as this is," Salazar interjected, his arms folding loosely across his chest as his attention shifted between them, composed yet intent, "you have yet to explain why it warrants such a severe sentence. Toxicity alone rarely invites that level of consequence."
The man's gaze returned to him, and for a moment, something in it sharpened, not with hostility, but with the weight of memory.
"Because during the Warring Nations period, they learned how to turn it into a weapon," he said. "Ground into munitions, dispersed through gas, embedded into projectiles. It was not simply used to kill."
He paused, studying Salazar briefly before continuing, as though measuring how much needed to be said. "You are familiar with magical circuits, I assume. The pathways that allow a witch or wizard to channel and sustain arcane energy."
Salazar inclined his head slightly, his expression unchanged, though his attention had narrowed.
"Thanatium does not merely damage them," the man continued. "It severs them. Breaks them down at their root, erodes them until there is nothing left to recover." His words remained steady, but there was no mistaking the gravity beneath it. "Those who died on contact were spared the worst of it."
A quiet stillness settled between them.
"Those who survived lost everything that made them what they were."
Salazar's gaze shifted back to the object on the stall, the faint lavender sheen now carrying a weight it had not held moments before, his interest deepening into something far more measured.
"Thanatium forms in places where dark magic has saturated the land," the man added, his tone easing only slightly as he continued. "Pockets scattered across Avalon, many of them remnants of the Calamity itself. After the war, those sites were located, mined out, and destroyed. Every known trace was meant to have been eradicated."
His eyes settled once more on the metal resting before them, unmoving, certain.
"Or so we were led to believe."
The reaction was immediate.
The goblin snatched the stone from its display with a speed that betrayed far more than irritation, her hands moving with a sharp urgency as she tucked it out of sight behind the stall, as though concealment alone might undo what had already been said.
"If neither of you intends to buy," she snapped, baring jagged teeth as her lips pulled thin, "then piss off! You're crowding my stall, and I have a living to make."
Her attention shifted to the taller man, her expression tightening as she jabbed a crooked finger in his direction.
"And you," she added, her gaze narrowing, "you're new around here. So, take a bit of advice and keep your head down. This is not a place where you go digging for trouble. It tends to find you well enough on its own."
She flicked her hand in a dismissive wave, already turning away from them as if the matter were settled.
"Now git!"
Salazar allowed himself a faint smirk, the corner of his mouth lifting with quiet amusement as he stepped back from the stall. Beside him, the young man exhaled a short, unimpressed breath, though he offered no further argument, and together they drifted back into the flow of the market, their presence swallowed once more by the shifting crowd.
Neither of them noticed the figure watching from the edge of the lane.
He stood half-concealed within the deeper pockets of shadow, the lower half of his face obscured by a red and gold scarf pulled high, the brim of a worn Stetson casting a low shade over his eyes. He did not move, nor did he call attention to himself, his stillness blending easily with the dim light and uneven structures around him.
His interest was not in the two young men as individuals.
It lingered instead on what had passed between them.
****
"Well, that was… enlightening," Salazar remarked as they moved away from the stall, the emerald length of his scarf trailing behind him, stirred by the evening breeze that threaded its way through the narrow lanes of the market. "There is a certain satisfaction in discovering something new with each passing day. Mister…?"
"Morgan," the young man replied without hesitation. "Trevor Morgan. And you would be Salazar Slytherin."
Salazar's brow lifted, though the faint curve of his mouth suggested quiet amusement rather than surprise. "Oh? Then it seems my name has travelled further than I realized." He inclined his head slightly. "I can only hope it has done so on the strength of my better qualities."
"A bit of both, if I'm being honest," Trevor said. "Though I imagine a man with your reputation doesn't shy away from a little controversy."
Salazar let out a soft chuckle, the sound low and unhurried. "You may understand me better than most already." His hand settled at his side as he studied him more closely. "The goblin mentioned you were new. Is that to the market, or to Caerleon itself?"
"Both," Trevor answered. "I studied at Wallace Academy. I'm not sure if that name means anything to you."
Salazar's attention flicked, brief but precise, settling on the short blade at Trevor's side before returning to his face, the connection forming without effort. "It does, in passing." His brow arched again. "Then I take it you will be joining Excalibur."
"When term begins in a fortnight," Trevor said. "Wallace has become a place I'd rather leave behind."
Salazar's expression shifted with interest. "Too unstable? Too extreme?"
"Too dull," Trevor replied, his expression unchanged.
For a moment, Salazar regarded him in silence, something in his gaze tightening ever so slightly, as though reassessing a detail that no longer fit as neatly as before.
"Well," Trevor added after a brief pause, "I should be on my way. It was a pleasure. Perhaps we'll cross paths again, Slytherin."
Salazar's smile returned, easy and assured. "I suspect we will." He lifted a hand in a loose, almost careless salute. "Until then."
Trevor inclined his head before turning away, his broad frame parting the crowd without effort as he moved, the flow of bodies bending around him as though guided by instinct rather than intention.
Salazar watched him go.
At first, there was nothing unusual in it, just another figure disappearing into the restless current of the market. And then, without warning, something shifted beneath that surface observation, a subtle tightening that curled low within him, familiar enough to recognize and yet impossible to ignore.
It was not a thought.
It was an instinct.
It coiled around Trevor's departing form, quiet but insistent, carrying with it a faint impression of something that did not belong, something touched by decay, by absence, by the lingering trace of death that clung where it should not.
A soft hiss stirred at the edge of his awareness.
"I know," Salazar murmured under his breath, his gaze never leaving the retreating figure. "I feel it as well. There is something about him that does not sit right." His expression steadied, the unease settling into something more controlled. "But it is far too early to draw conclusions. For now, we watch. Inform the others. Keep him within sight."
Another hiss followed, sharper this time, cutting through his thoughts with urgency.
Salazar's attention snapped upward. "What is it, my dear?"
The response came again, insistent, pulling at him. His gaze shifted, narrowing as it fixed upon the mouth of a nearby alley, where the light faltered and shadow gathered more thickly than it should. Something in the darkness felt wrong, not empty, but waiting. Without another word, he moved, slipping from the main thoroughfare and into the shade, his figure swallowed by the dimness as he followed where instinct led.
****
Salazar moved at a steady pace through the tightening maze of buildings, the narrow passageways bending and folding into one another as though the district itself resisted being mapped. The last trace of sunlight had long since slipped beneath the horizon, leaving the streets to the dim, uneven glow of crystal lamps encased in steel, their flickering light spilling across blackened stone slick with moisture, each step catching faint reflections that shifted beneath his feet.
He passed shuttered storefronts that looked as though they had not seen care in decades, their glass thick with dust and grime, the interiors swallowed by neglect. Behind some of them, faint movement stirred, silhouettes lingering just beyond thin curtains, shapes that did not quite reveal themselves, though the sense of being watched followed him all the same, carried in the stillness between one breath and the next.
The air hung heavy, thick with the slow decay of the place, a mixture of damp, mold, and long-settled filth that clung to the lungs and dulled the senses. What little foot traffic remained dwindled further the deeper he went, until the occasional passerby became a rarity rather than expectation, their presence fleeting, their attention carefully averted. Sound shifted with it, the distant murmur of tavern music and muted conversation bleeding through closed doors, softened by walls that had long ago learned to keep secrets.
This was the southside of Caerleon.
A place spoken of more in warning than in detail, where professors cautioned their students not simply out of concern for appearances, but for what truly lingered here, far from the order maintained in the city's more polished districts. It was a place where things gathered, where the law reached more slowly, and where those who preferred to exist beyond its reach found room to do so.
None of it troubled him.
If anything, the deeper he went, the more certain he felt, as though whatever had stirred his instincts earlier had led him exactly where he was meant to be.
Then he heard it.
Not the distant noise of the taverns, nor the quiet footfalls of those who passed by, but something sharper beneath it all, something that did not belong to the rhythm of the street. Voices, low and uneven. The dull clink of iron striking against iron. Chains shifting with restrained movement. And beneath it, quieter, but unmistakable.
Sobbing.
The sound carried just enough to be heard, thin and strained, accompanied by the broken edges of suppressed cries that had long since learned not to draw attention. Salazar slowed, his steps softening as he drew closer, keeping to the deeper shadows where the lamplight failed to reach. He did not need to see it to understand what lay ahead. He had encountered it before, on assignments by the Congregation.
Slave Runners.
Ones without sanction by the Guild. Illegal, ruthless, and far more common in places where oversight thinned to nothing. What gave him pause was not their presence, but their audacity. Operating this close to the heart of the city was not merely bold, it was careless, or desperate, or backed by something that allowed them to believe they would not be challenged.
Salazar stilled at the edge of the alley's bend, the sounds growing clearer as he listened, his focus sharpening, every detail settling into place. He had not come looking for this. But now that he had found it, there was no question of walking away.
A hiss slipped through Salazar's teeth, less a sound than a language understood only by blood, and in response the obsidian spears rose from the holsters along his back, lifting as though drawn by an unseen current before settling into his grasp. Their blackened steel carried a faint emerald sheen that caught the glow of the crystal lamps, the surface shifting with restrained power as he steadied them in his hands.
He lowered himself into a crouch as he edged closer to the opening ahead. The alley gave way to a small clearing, a neglected park hemmed in by aging stone, its boundaries worn and uneven as though the city had forgotten it entirely. Overgrown grass pushed through cracks in the ground, bushes left untended spilling into the narrow paths, and small trees leaned inward, their branches casting uneven shadows across the space.
At the center stood a fountain, its structure large enough to suggest it had once been a focal point, though time had reduced it to something hollow. The statue of an elf cradling a vase was nearly swallowed by moss, the stone beneath dulled and fractured, the water that should have flowed long since reduced to a stagnant trickle.
Four entrances opened into the clearing, each aligned to a cardinal direction. Salazar remained within the deeper shadow of the southern approach, while the eastern entrance lay exposed, leading back toward the main street.
That was where the carriage stood.
Iron bars reinforced its frame beneath a heavy tarp, its purpose unmistakable even from a distance. Around the park lingered six men, human, varying in age, their presence uneven but unified in intent. Their armor was a mismatched collection of worn leather, pieces that had seen years of use and neglect, hanging loosely or stretched too tight in places, the kind of equipment bought cheap and replaced only when it failed entirely.
Salazar's gaze shifted past them, drawn to the movement at the western entrance. A line of captives emerged from the shadows.
Chains linked them together, wrists bound in iron that bit into skin already marked by strain. Humans, elves, and therians alike, though it was the therians who made up the majority, their forms tense, their ears flattened, tails drawn tight as instinct warred with fear. Some were little more than children, ten at most, others stood on the edge of adulthood, though none carried themselves as anything but victims in that moment.
Their clothing spoke of lives interrupted rather than abandoned, garments worn thin but not yet reduced to rags, remnants of something ordinary that had been taken from them. Tear-streaked faces caught what little light reached them, expressions caught between exhaustion and quiet terror, the kind that no longer needed to be voiced.
Salazar did not need to ask who they were.
These were the ones the city overlooked. The ones pushed to its edges, where disappearance did not echo as loudly, where absence could be folded into the background without consequence. The kind of lives that vanished without stirring more than a passing concern.
His grip tightened around the shafts of his spears, the faint hum of magic building beneath his palms, steady and controlled, waiting only for his will to give it form. His gaze lifted, settling on the men who oversaw it all. The expressions were familiar.
The way their eyes lingered, calculating, the quiet satisfaction that curled at the edges of their mouths, the anticipation of coin already spent in their minds. There was no hesitation in them, no uncertainty, only the certainty of men who believed themselves beyond consequence.
Salazar held their image for a moment longer than necessary. And in that stillness, something darker stirred beneath his composure, a quiet, contained fury that did not need to be shown to exist. Men like these rarely understood mercy. He had long since accepted that they did not deserve it either.
One of the girls stumbled.
The chain jerked with her fall, iron rattling sharply against stone the young cat therian hit the ground, her small frame folding in on itself, breath knocked loose in a quiet, broken sound.
"Hey. On your feet!"
One of the men stepped forward, irritation already turning into something harsher as he closed the distance. The girl didn't move fast enough. Panic overtook her, and she began to cry, her shoulders trembling as she tried to push herself up.
Before she could manage it, another girl moved to her side, older, another cat therian, pulling her close and wrapping her arms around her in a desperate attempt to steady her.
"It's alright," she murmured, holding her tight. "It's alright, I've got you."
"Didn't you hear me?"
The man's hand dropped to his waist. He pulled free something dark, and with a flick of his wrist it unfurled into a whip. The crack split through the air, sharp and violent, and every chained figure flinched in unison, bodies tightening, breath caught mid-sob.
"I said get up."
His expression twisted, the restraint slipping away to reveal something uglier beneath, and as Salazar watched, he saw it reflected in the others as well, the same sneers, the same thin enjoyment in the fear they held in place.
"I won't ask again."
"Please," the older girl said, tightening her hold around the child. "She's tired. She's just a child. Can't you see that?"
"Sis…" the little therian choked out as tears spilled freely. "I want to go home to mommy. I want to go home."
The words fractured something in the line. Voices rose, one after another, small and desperate, pleading, calling out for parents, for homes they still believed they might return to, for lives that were already slipping beyond their reach. The sound grew, uneven and raw, filling the clearing with a fragile, chaotic hope.
"Quiet!"
The whip cracked again, louder this time, cutting through the noise with brutal precision. The effect was immediate. The voices died, swallowed by fear as silence rushed back in to take their place. The man stepped closer, lifting the hilt of the whip as he pointed it toward them, his mouth curling with a satisfaction that made no effort to hide itself.
"You don't understand, do you?" he said. "You belong to us now. Every last one of you. You don't have names anymore. You don't have a family, or a life. That's gone."
His gaze moved over them, slow, appraising.
"And where you end up? That's not our concern. Once you hit the markets, you're someone else's problem." His smile widened. "We'll be long gone by then. With the coin."
His attention settled once more on the two girls.
"Now get up."
The older one tightened her hold, shielding the child as best she could, though there was nowhere left to retreat.
"Mommy… daddy…" the little girl cried, thin and breaking as she clung to her.
From the shadows, something shifted. Salazar's gaze darkened, the emerald within it giving way to something colder, something edged and serpentine, his now amber pupils narrowing as the world around him seemed to sharpen into unbearable clarity. His jaw tightened, teeth set as the spears in his hands hummed with restrained power, the magic within them pressing forward, eager, waiting.
It would take a word.
Just one.
And he could take control of every man present. Watch as they turn on their own. Rip each other apart with their bare hands. Confused, afraid, screaming as flesh is torn from bone until nothing remained of those twisted smiles but silence. It was no more than they deserved.
"Get up!" the man snapped again, raising the whip high. "Now!"
The older girl closed her eyes, pulling the child closer, bracing herself, her body tightening as she prepared to take the blow in her place.
The whip came down.
But it never struck.
Something screamed through the square in a flash of neon blue, moving faster than the eye could track, leaving a jagged trail of light in its wake. It struck the man's hand with a thunderous crack, obliterating the whip into shreds of leather and tearing three fingers clean away. Blood sprayed across the stones as the man collapsed with a shriek, clutching the ruin of his hand, bone and sinew visible beneath the gore.
"Argh!" the man screamed. "What the hell?! What the—!"
Heavy boots struck against the stone, each step carrying a weight that cut clean through the tension hanging over the square.
Salazar's shoulders eased almost at once, the shift instinctive, his attention snapping toward the source of the sound as his gaze sharpened. A figure stepped out from the shadows at the edge of the clearing, emerging with a calm that did not belong in a place like this.
He looked young, no older than a student, though there was little about him that suggested inexperience. A long, weathered duster hung from his frame, the fabric worn from use rather than neglect, thrown over a black shirt and dark denim that carried the same quiet resilience. A wide-brimmed Stetson sat low across his brow, its edges dusted and creased, while a red and gold scarf covered the lower half of his face, leaving only his pale blue eyes visible.
They were sharp, steady, taking everything in without hurry.
A bandolier crossed his chest, lined with polished brass rounds that caught the glow of the crystal lamps, each one gleaming in brief flashes as he moved. In his hand rested a firearm, not unlike the one Professor Ashford carried, its presence unmistakable, the faint line of smoke curling from the barrel as it drifted into the night air.
He came to a stop as though he had all the time in the world.
"Howdy, partners."
Then came a sound like chiming steel and fluttering wings.
A tiny figure hovered beside him, humanoid and radiant, four delicate wings beating softly as she floated in place. She looked like a miniature girl sculpted from petals and light, pink hair framing a small face, a dress shaped like layered blossoms. Rose-colored eyes regarded the scene with quiet intensity as her body glowed faintly.
Salazar stared.
"Bloody hell," he breathed.
****
The men reacted at once, wands snapping up and levelling on him in a jagged line, though the faint tremor in their grips betrayed how fragile their bravado truly was. Salazar eased back into the deeper shadows behind a warped support beam, his spears lowered but ready, his posture controlled, every instinct sharpened toward the moment teetering on the edge of violence.
"I don't know who the hell you think you are," one of them barked, the tip of his wand flaring with harsh, uneven light, "but you just signed your own death warrant."
The boy did not answer.
His gaze remained distant, almost bored, as he slipped a finger beneath the scarf covering the lower half of his face and drew it down with unhurried care. A faint scar traced the right side of his lip, the skin there pale and uneven against his sun-kissed tan, dry and faintly cracked, marked by long days beneath a relentless desert sun, somewhere harsh and arid where mercy was scarce.
For a moment, his gaze dropped to the cobblestones at their feet, dark with damp as thin streams of water traced their way down from the rafters above, catching the faint light before disappearing into the cracks below. It lingered there only briefly before lifting again, drawn to the line of chained figures gathered at the center of the square.
Nearly a dozen of them, forced to their knees, hands clenched around cold iron as if it were the only thing keeping them upright. Their eyes followed him the moment he stepped into view, wide with fear, uncertainty settling over them in a way that spoke of too many unknowns, too many faces that had already failed them. There was no relief in their expressions, only the quiet, fragile dread that perhaps he was not the one to save them, but simply another figure come to decide what remained of their fate.
His attention moved along the line until it found her.
The older cat therian still held the smaller girl close, her arms wrapped around her with a firmness that had not faltered, even now. The child clung to her, trembling, her face buried against her shoulder, while the older girl faced forward, meeting his gaze without hesitation.
There was no fear in her eyes.
Only defiance.
It burned there, a refusal to bend even in the face of what stood before her. And beneath it, quieter but no less present, something else lingered, something not spoken, but understood all the same. A silent plea, not for herself, but for the life she held within her grasp.
Something in him shifted.
The easy detachment that had carried him into the square began to drain away, replaced by something colder, more defined, settling into the lines of his expression as his focus narrowed. Whatever this was about to become, it was no longer distant.
"Hey." The man snapped his fingers, sharp and impatient. "Didn't you hear me, I said—"
"Deschain," the boy cut in.
His name carried a rough edge, coarse and abraded, as though shaped by wind and grit, a sound that sat at odds with its youth, worn down by places far harsher than his age suggested. The name fell into the square and went unanswered, earning nothing but blank stares from the men before him, their confusion open and unguarded, as though they had no idea what they had just been standing in front of.
The boy snapped the pistol open with a sharp, practiced motion, the mechanism answering him like an old companion. A single brass shell spat free from the chamber, striking the stone with a dry, ringing clink, a thin curl of smoke still breathing from its mouth as it rolled to a stop. Another round slid home between his fingers, seated with deliberate care before he closed the action, the metallic click, echoing through the square like the sound of a verdict being passed.
"Logan Deschain," he replied. "You best write that name down proper, 'cause it'll be the name they'll carve into your headstones as the man who signed yours."
The men exchanged glances, brows lifting, mouths twisting into uncertain grimaces, jaws angling as they searched one another for meaning that never came. Whatever weight the name was meant to carry passed cleanly over them, dull and unregistered, a sound without substance, as fleeting as a shift in the wind.
Salazar felt the same uncertainty ripple through him, though he did not show it. Even so, he understood enough to recognize the weight carried by a name spoken that way, quiet yet certain, as though it needed no explanation. Names like that were never incidental. They carried history, consequence, and a presence that had already begun to shape the moment long before it was understood, and whatever stood behind it was likely far greater than any of them had yet grasped.
Then, one of the men's attention snapped sideways, his gaze locking onto the small, hovering figure beside Logan, disbelief stretching his features as his eyes widened. "Is that… is that a faerie?"
Another voice followed, brittle with uncertainty, the wand in his hand dipping despite himself. "Can't be. True Fae don't wander this far. Not beyond the Eryn Lasgalen."
Immediately, a low murmur rippled through the group, unease threading its way between them as their confidence began to splinter. Eyes darted from the glowing figure to the boy standing at its heart, unmoved and unbothered, as though neither myth nor fear carried any meaning where he was concerned.
From what little Salazar knew of faeries, they were elusive beings, creatures of caprice and consequence, capable of bestowing great fortune or profound misfortune upon any mortal unlucky or blessed enough to cross their path. To encounter one was rare enough. To see a human travelling alongside a fae, not as a captive or a supplicant but as an equal, was enough to plant doubt even in the bravest of warriors, to unsettle the most learned of scholars, and to make everyone else quietly reconsider just how badly they wished to be standing there at all.
"Bugger that, kill the bastard!" the man with the mangled hand shrieked as he clutched the ruined palm. Blood poured freely between his fingers, spattering dark and wet across the stone at his feet. "What are you spineless cretins waiting for?"
He thrust the injured hand forward, bone splintering through torn flesh, as though the sight alone should be enough to drive them into motion. "Look at what he did!"
Yet for all his screaming, none of them moved.
Wands remained raised, their tips glowing faintly, arms quivering beneath the weight of indecision, but no spell was loosed. The air between them and the young man felt charged, drawn tight around an unseen centre, heavy with something far more dangerous than magic alone. An understanding was settling over them now, slow and inescapable, the creeping realization that whatever stood before them was not bluffing, not posturing, not playing at menace. It was waiting.
And none of them wanted to be the first to find out what happened next.
Then one of the older men cleared his throat and spat onto the stones, the sound sharp in the tense quiet. His grip tightened around his wand as bitterness carved deep lines into his face, his mouth twisting with open contempt.
"Seriously," he muttered, the words edged with contempt as his gaze dragged across Logan, "do you lot ever learn to stay out of what doesn't concern you?"
A faint curl touched his lips, though there was nothing amused in it. "You Congregation brats push Norsefire back once, just once, and suddenly every one of you starts thinking you're the next Hero of Caerleon."
The expression hardened, settling into something far less restrained.
"I've lost track of how many of you whippersnappers I've put down already," he went on, his tone steady, as if recounting something routine. "All of you come in the same way, thinking you've got what it takes, wands in hand, blades drawn, acting like you matter. Most of you don't last long enough to realize you never did."
His gaze lingered, measuring, dismissive.
"But I suppose there's always room for one more."
The tiny winged figure fluttered up beside the boy, her four wings chiming softly as they beat the air, the sound rising and falling in delicate, uneven tones. Her rose-colored eyes narrowed as she fixed on the men, and the faint glow radiating from her small frame brightened by a subtle degree, the tinkling growing sharper, almost patterned, almost like words straining to form.
Logan didn't look at her, but he felt it all the same.
"Easy now, Nariko," he said, the edge softening just enough to rein her in. "Ain't worth spillin' your dust over the likes of them."
The chimes softened, though her glare never left the men.
"And believe me," the old man continued, his attention never leaving him, "when we're done, whatever's left of you goes with the rest."
His gaze drifted to the chained girls, settling over them with a cold indifference that reduced them to nothing more than cargo awaiting delivery.
"I might even keep your head," he added, almost idly. "String it up nice and high so they can watch it sway on the way to the markets. A reminder."
His eyes lifted again, fixing back onto him.
"That's what happens to boys who think they're heroes." A faint, humorless smile touched his mouth. "You're not the first to come sniffing around, thinking you'll free them. And you won't be the last."
Logan drew in a sharp breath and let it out slowly, his gaze never leaving the man before him.
"Is that what you figure this is, old timer," he said, the words rolling out in that grounded, rough-edged drawl, calm on the surface but carrying something heavier beneath, "that I'm just standin' here playin' at bein' some kind of hero?"
He tilted his head slightly, studying him with a quiet, measured curiosity before shifting his chin to the side in a small, almost dismissive motion.
"Well, guess what?" he continued, his grip settling more firmly around the weapon in his hand, his stance easing into something far more certain, far more rooted. "I ain't here for them. They just happened to be caught in the wrong place at the wrong time."
His eyes narrowed just a fraction, the focus sharpening.
"Thing is, I'm here for you."
He slipped a hand into his coat and produced a card, obsidian black and threaded with ruby-red lines that ran across its surface like living circuits. The moment it caught the light, the sneer drained from the old man's face.
"And speakin' of Norsefire," Logan said, flicking the card up into the air.
It hung there, suspended, emitting a soft mechanical whir as it unfolded, its panels shifting before blooming into a screen of bright red neon. Wanted posters flared to life across its surface, each face unmistakable, each name present and accounted for. One by one, the men began to shake.
Logan watched them.
"You know," he continued, "I've met my fair share of stupid in the short amount of time I've been breathin'. But I ain't never seen a whole pack of folks convince themselves that the closer they get to danger, the farther they are from harm."
The old man's breathing turned quick and uneven as he gestured with his wand, the tip wavering now. "You… you're a Contractor?"
"Bounty Hunter," Logan corrected. "There's a line of difference."
Loose gravel rasped beneath his boot as he took a single step forward. "And I gotta say, I can't for the life of me imagine the nerve it takes for a man to hole up in the very city he terrorized for months. Burned it, bled it dry, put good folk in the ground just for sport."
He lifted his chin slightly, eyes never leaving them. "The Tower's Inquisition's been puttin' a king's ransom on your heads, and I've been collectin' from the coast, to the mountains, to the cities in between. Word to the wise," he added, his drawl flattening, "they ain't lookin' to take you lot in alive."
Their gazes drifted back to the hovering display, to the faces staring out at them, to the words stamped across every frame in bold, unforgiving red.
Wanted Dead.
"I know," Logan said, his drawl flattening as his expression set into something harder. "I know exactly what you boys did. To the men, the women, and the children of this city, and believe me, they were real thorough when they told it."
He held their gaze. "After the siege failed. After they made varmints outta you boys, you figured you could just bugger on back home. Slip into a clean uniform, waltz back into your lives like nothin' ever happened. That worked right up until the Grand Inquisitor slapped your damned names on a list, and like the lily-livered cowards you are, you ran."
Meanwhile, Salazar's gaze narrowed from the shadows, settling on the men with a quiet, unwavering focus as the tension began to show in them, their wands trembling ever so slightly in their grip, the small, uncontrolled movements betraying what they tried to hide. He watched their throats shift as they swallowed, the flicker of uncertainty giving way to something closer to fear, their eyes beginning to dart, searching the edges of the square as though some unseen path might offer them escape.
There was none.
Salazar did not move, yet his unseen presence alone seemed to close the space around them, the exits no longer opportunities, but illusions that would not hold for long. Whatever thoughts of retreat had begun to take shape in their minds were already too late.
No matter how this unfolded, no matter what choices they made in the moments to come, one thing had already settled into certainty.
They would not be leaving this place alive.
"But you can't outrun fate any more than you can outrun the stink clingin' to your rotten hides," Logan continued. His eyes swept across the square, taking in every face, every twitch of fear. "That's why you're holed up here. Tower's stretched thin, and folks ain't takin' kindly to 'em after what went down, so you figured there wouldn't be a soul in uniform dumb enough to come lookin' for you in a place like this."
The corner of his mouth shifted, subtle enough that it never quite formed a smile, though there was a quiet, knowing edge to it all the same. He lifted his hand as the screen dissolved, folding in on itself before retracting smoothly back into the card, which spun once between his fingers before settling into his grasp. Without a second thought, Logan slipped it back into his pocket.
"Truth is," Logan said, "you might've gotten away with it. If you'd kept your heads down and your mouths shut, you could've gone on for years without anyone catchin' so much as a whiff of what you boys been doin' out here."
His gaze settled back on the old man.
"But that ain't how it went, is it?" he continued. "Soon as the gold started dryin' up from pawning off whatever scraps you could get your hands on, you got tired of livin' lean, tired of scrapin' by on stale bread and whatever stew you could piece together, so you went lookin' for somethin' easier."
A brief pause, the grip on his gun tightening just slightly.
"You started Shanghaiin' kids."
"Shang… what?" one of the men muttered, throwing a confused glance at the one beside him, who only lifted his shoulders in a helpless shrug.
"After all, trash's gotta be trash." Logan paused, letting the weight of his words settle over them. "No matter where they end up."
"Now, now, let's not be too hasty," the older man said, the last of his bravado slipping away as his composure began to fray. He lifted his free hand slightly, palm open in a gesture that tried and failed to appear calm, a strained chuckle following as he motioned toward the chained figures behind him.
"Surely we can come to some sort of arrangement," he went on, the words coming faster now, urgency creeping in. "T-there's no need for this to turn ugly. We can make it worth your while."
His gaze flickered, calculating, desperate.
"A cut," he added, leaning into the offer as if it might steady the situation. "Half, if that's what it takes. No, eighty, ninety, whatever you want. We've got a man on the inside of the Authority, handles the paperwork, keeps everything clean. Nothing traces back. No trouble, no loose ends."
Logan paused, his attention shifting slightly to the side, and Nariko mirrored him without a word. For a brief moment, he seemed to hold something back, a breath caught somewhere between restraint and amusement, before she gave in entirely, laughter spilling out of her as she covered her eyes, her shoulders rising and falling in quick succession. The sound that escaped her, however, was not quite laughter, but something lighter, brighter, like the soft chime of glass stirred by a passing breeze.
"There it is," Logan said, the corner of his mouth lifting just enough to carry the weight of recognition. "Always the same with you sons of bitches, ain't it? Every time you find yourselves backed into a corner, you start reachin' for coin, thinkin' you can buy your way clean out of whatever mess you've made."
His gaze drifted back to them, steady, unhurried.
"Or you drop to your knees," he continued, his tone flattening as the thought settled into something more familiar, more tired, "start talkin' about how you've seen the light, how you're sorry, how you didn't mean for any of it to go this far."
His jaw tightened slightly.
"And sure, there's always someone out there willin' to listen," he went on. "Some greedy bastard lookin' to make a profit off your fear, or some soft-hearted fool willin' to believe you deserve another shot, willin' to give you a chance at makin' things right."
The warmth drained from his expression entirely.
"But that man ain't me."
He let the words settle before continuing, his gaze locking onto them with quiet certainty.
"I ain't the kind of bastard who's lookin' to make a buck off the backs of kids," he said. "And more than that, I know exactly what you boys are, and I know you're full of it."
His gaze lowered then, drawn not to the men before him, but to those in chains. Humans, elves, therians alike, all pressed inward by fear, their bodies held tight, their eyes fixed on him with a fragile, uncertain hope that did not quite dare to take shape. It lingered most in the therian girls, in the way the older one held the younger close, her arms firm despite the tremor running through them, refusing to let go even as the world around them threatened to tear them apart.
When he looked up again, whatever doubt might have existed was gone.
"The moment you dragged them from their homes and started sellin' them like cattle," Logan said, "you said all that needs sayin'."
He let out a slow breath, the weight of it settling into the space between them.
"So, I ain't here to offer mercy, or penance, or some second chance you ain't earned," he went on, his eyes never leaving them. "I ain't no priest, and I sure as hell ain't a saint."
His thumb drew back the hammer, the metallic click cutting clean through the square, a sound that carried more weight than the weapon itself ever could. The air tightened around it, every breath suddenly measured, every man acutely aware that whatever came next could not be taken back.
"And now," Logan said, his gaze locked on them, cold and certain, "I reckon it's plum time you boys said your prayers and your goodbyes, 'cause I'm puttin' ya'll on a one way ticket to hell."