The Caerleon precinct carried on beneath a constant hum of tension as the day dragged forward, every corridor and office weighed down by the strain currently gripping the city. Between the Libertas insurgent incident downtown and the robbery in the Heights that had spiraled violently out of control, both the Tower and the people it governed remained firmly on edge.
For all the public resentment directed toward the Guardians and the institutions they served, many citizens still found themselves relying upon them out of necessity. Some remained loyal to the officers who had stayed true to the Tower rather than bend the knee to Norsefire, while others simply had nowhere else to turn. Even the local broadcasts reflected the growing unrest, with Caerleon's own Nikki Danvers speaking grimly from glowing screens about the city's worsening distrust in authority following the destruction of Dah-Tan.
Confidence in the Tower had plummeted to historic lows, while support for mercenaries, adventurers, private contractors, and even the Congregation had surged dramatically. Across the city, Clans now patrolled districts under lucrative private security contracts, filling the void left behind by a system people no longer trusted.
But not everyone possessed the coin or influence necessary to hire protection.
And with the Guardians hemorrhaging manpower through waves of resignations in the aftermath of Burgess's betrayal, those who remained were stretched dangerously thin. Exhausted. Overworked. Thankless. Day by day, even the loyalists who had once believed wholeheartedly in the Tower's purpose were beginning to lose faith.
Inside the main precinct building, the atmosphere reflected that strain perfectly.
The ground floor bustled with tired urgency beneath warm overhead lights, the long oaken counters worn smooth from decades of use, their surfaces marked with scratches, dents, and faded polish. Conversations murmured endlessly between agents and civilians alike while clerks buried beneath mountains of paperwork struggled to keep pace with the growing tide of reports flooding in from every district. Elsewhere, investigators hurried between offices attempting to contain the surge in gang violence spreading through Caerleon like wildfire in the aftermath of the Siege.
Up on the third floor, tucked toward the edge of the building within the Sheriff's office, a loud cackling laugh suddenly rattled the tinted windows hard enough to draw attention from passing officers.
Inside, Elias sat behind his enormous oaken desk, nearly doubled over with laughter in his leather chair. The office itself was spacious, befitting the head of law enforcement in Caerleon.
Plush leather sofas lined the space between the desk and the entrance while an old coffee table rested atop an expensive rug that looked as though it had survived far better years. Steel filing cabinets stood along the walls behind him, packed tightly with records and reports, while framed newspaper articles and photographs sat preserved beneath golden frames. Hanging prominently behind the desk were the flags of both Caerleon and Camelot, their colors dim beneath the amber office lighting.
Across from him, Bastion sat stiffly in one of the chairs before the desk, his expression dark and utterly unamused, half-lidded eyes fixed squarely on the older man. Beside him sat Raul, visibly less comfortable, his gaze flicking nervously between Bastion and Elias as though uncertain whether he should be laughing or preparing for a fistfight.
Elias finally managed to catch his breath, wiping at one eye before pointing across the desk toward Bastion.
"So lemme get this straight," he said, still struggling not to laugh. "You went out for lunch, sat down halfway through your enchiladas, and then these Colors idiots came crashing through the restaurant looking to rob the place?"
"Yeah," Bastion replied flatly. "We've already established that part."
"Right, right." Elias waved a hand before pointing toward Raul. "And then the kid here pulls out his… his…" He squinted briefly. "What were they called again?"
"CADs," Raul answered quickly. "Cast Assist Devices." He straightened slightly in his seat. "I'm mundane, sir. No magical circuits. I was recruited through one of the Institute's new initiatives."
"Yeah, yeah, right." Elias leaned back again, another grin spreading across his weathered face. "And then he just what? Blew the whole damn gang straight to kingdom come?"
The old sheriff barked out another laugh.
"Oh, Gods, that's priceless."
Bastion stared at him for a long moment, utterly deadpan.
"You know," he said slowly, "I'm having a real difficult time understanding exactly why this is somehow the funniest thing you've heard all week, old man."
Elias drew in a deep breath before finally managing to settle himself, the laughter fading into the occasional lingering chuckle.
"Alright, alright, you're right," he admitted, lifting a hand in surrender. "My bad." He exhaled, shaking his head. "It's just… this whole thing reminded me of something, and by the Gods if it ain't almost the exact same damned story."
His dull grey eyes settled on Bastion.
"Back in Camelot, there's a little district called Little Tian. Refugee quarter, mostly Azian families who came over during the old conflicts." A faint smile tugged at his lips. "Food was cheap, portions were massive, and if you knew where to look, you could eat better there than half the fancy places uptown."
Bastion folded his arms tighter across his chest, fingers drumming impatiently against his sleeves while Elias continued.
"Now your grandpa?" Elias pointed toward him. "Oh, man was hopeless when it came to Azian food. Absolute menace." He laughed under his breath. "I mean, he could put away an entire plate of mapo tofu, half a roast duck, and four bowls of rice in one sitting without even slowing down."
Raul blinked. "Four bowls?"
"Four, sometimes six, dependin' on the day," Elias repeated firmly. "And he still had room for dessert. A real sucker for Tangyuan."
Even Bastion's expression twitched slightly at that.
"Anyways, there was this one place he loved," Elias continued. "Long gone now, but back then, there was this place called the Red Lotus. He'd drag me there two, sometimes three times a week." He shook his head fondly. "Not that I complained. Their fried rice was worth killin' for, and real easy on the pockets for a rookie."
The amusement faded slightly as the memory settled more fully over him.
"My first day as his partner, he took me there after that little screaming match with the Chief. Man was furious, pacin' around like a storm ready to break loose." Elias leaned back further, eyes drifting somewhere distant. "Figured stuffin' himself with noodles and spice might calm him down enough not to punch somebody."
A quiet chuckle escaped him.
"We were sittin' there talkin'. Conversation got personal, and things got heavy…" He spread his hands slightly. "Then suddenly the front doors get kicked clean off the hinges."
Raul straightened.
"New gang in town," Elias said. "Wanted protection money. Thought shaking down immigrant businesses would make them look tough."
Bastion stared at him flatly. "You're kidding."
"Oh, I wish I was." Elias barked out another laugh. "To say your grandfather lost his absolute shit would be undersellin' it by a mile. Man was already one bad sentence away from detonatin' before those idiots walked in."
He rubbed a hand down his face, still half amused by the memory despite himself.
"I ain't exaggeratin' when I say he practically demolished the entire damn block." Elias shook his head slowly. "The restaurant got wrecked, half the street collapsed, and that gang ceased to exist before they even realized what was happenin'."
Raul looked horrified.
"Sure," Elias continued, "technically speaking, he eliminated a threat before it had the chance to spread, but the Chief went ballistic afterward." He snorted. "Tore your grandfather apart so hard I thought the walls were gonna crack. Course, your grandpa wasn't exactly the type to sit there and take it quietly, so they ended up screamin' at each other for near an hour."
He exhaled slowly, the memory settling heavier now.
"And me?" Elias shrugged, glancing toward Raul. "I just sat there the entire time…" A crooked grin tugged at his mouth. "Wearin' pretty much the exact same expression you probably got on your face right now."
"Wait, wait, hold on a second," Bastion said, lifting both hands as his eyes widened in disbelief. "You're telling me that on your very first day as my grandpa's partner, the two of you ended up fighting gangsters in the middle of a restaurant?"
Elias let out another rough chuckle, leaning back deeper into his chair as he shook his head.
"And now you understand why I was laughin' my ass off earlier," he said. "By the Gods, the universe really does have a twisted sense of humor." A grin tugged faintly at his weathered face. "History loops around in the strangest ways imaginable, and honestly? In all my years, I don't think I've ever been happier to still be alive long enough to watch it happen."
The amusement slowly faded from his expression as he straightened again.
"That being said," Elias continued, clasping his hands together atop the desk, "under normal circumstances we'd be having a very serious conversation about excessive force and destruction of property."
His clouded eyes shifted toward Raul, who immediately stiffened. "But considerin' the current state of Caerleon, and how completely untethered the Colors have become lately…" Elias shrugged. "I'd call your actions justified."
He tilted his head slightly, one brow lifting. "And relax, kid. I can hear your heart pounding from a mile away." A faint smirk appeared beneath his moustache. "You're not in trouble, and nobody's taking your badge."
Raul visibly exhaled, only now realizing how tightly wound he had become.
Bastion, meanwhile, folded his arms tighter. "Alright, here's what I don't get," he said. "What exactly are the Colors?" Before Elias could answer, he cut in again. "And before you say anything, nobody's briefed me on any of this. No reports, no files, nothing. When I first came to Caerleon, they weren't even a thing."
"Ain't blaming you for that, kid," Elias replied. "Truth be told, the whole city's been too busy puttin' out fires to bother explaining the smaller ones."
"Long story short, the Colors are made up of six major gangs operatin' throughout the outer ring districts." His expression flattened slightly as he spoke. "Runaways. Orphans. Kids from abusive homes. Folks who slipped through every crack the city had to offer." He sighed quietly. "And like most lost people, they eventually found others just as angry and broken as they were."
Bastion listened intently while Elias continued.
"They're called the Colors because each gang brands itself around one specific color." He began counting them off with his fingers. "The Red Dragons. Silver Snakes. Blue Barracudas. Black Scorpions. Yellow Jackets. White Hawks."
His tone remained calm, though the weight behind it was unmistakable.
"For years they carved up territory across the outer districts, each gang claimin' blocks, streets, and neighborhoods as their own." Elias folded his hands again. "And naturally, when you've got desperate people fighting over scraps, things get bloody fast."
His jaw tightened faintly. "At their worst, the gang wars spilled directly into civilian streets. Innocents got caught in crossfire almost weekly." A pause followed. "Then along came Sheriff George Hartshorne."
A faint smirk tugged at Elias' lips beneath his moustache. "A man I imagine you know rather well."
Though blind, he still turned his head slightly, almost as if surveying the office around them out of habit more than necessity.
"After all," he continued, gesturing loosely through the room, "this used to be his office." A dry note of amusement crept into his words. "And from what I've gathered, the two of you were never exactly what one would call friends."
Bastion's expression immediately soured at the mention of the name.
A short laugh escaped Elias.
"Though, for what it's worth, don't feel too special." His expression flattened slightly. "I couldn't stand the son of a bitch either." Another pause followed. "Neither could your grandpa."
"Call Hartshorne whatever you like," Elias continued, "but if there's one thing the man was good at, it was crushin' dissent." His fingers steepled together beneath his chin. "And that included bringin' the Colors to heel."
The office grew quieter.
"Now officially?" Elias shrugged lightly. "There's never been any concrete evidence tying him to the things people whispered about." His expression darkened slightly. "But unofficially, there were stories."
Raul swallowed.
"Stories ugly enough to make hardened criminals lose sleep." Elias exhaled slowly. "Things so vicious that even some of the worst bastards in this city refused to repeat them out loud." His clouded eyes remained fixed ahead. "But whatever Hartshorne did, it worked. The gangs feared him enough to stay quiet for decades."
A quiet pause settled between the three men before Raul finally lifted his gaze. "If I may speak freely, sir?"
Elias turned his head slightly in Raul's direction, the dullness of his blind eyes doing little to diminish the weight behind his attention. He gave a small nod.
Raul drew in a breath before continuing. "As much as I hated Sheriff Hartshorne. As much as the man was an absolute puta de mierda," he said, his jaw tightening before the anger in his expression softened into something more conflicted, "I gotta admit, you're right."
"The Colors were always a problem in the Heights. Even when I was a kid." His gaze drifted downward briefly, as though seeing old memories playing out behind his eyes. "They were violent, reckless, completely fearless. They didn't care about the Tower, the law, or what happened after."
He shook his head slowly. "They had their own code, their own way of thinkin'. To them, dying violently meant glory. The more blood you spilled, the more people feared your name, the more respect you earned from your amigos."
The office grew quieter as he continued.
"And when Hartshorne took power. When he unleashed his little death squads onto the streets…" Raul exhaled through his nose. "I won't lie. Part of me supported it."
Bastion glanced toward him while Raul kept going.
"Hearing stories about Colors members getting butchered in alleyways, turned into chorizo by the same brand of monsters they used to terrorize people with." His lips tightened faintly. "Back then, it sounded like justice. To me. To everyone in the Heights who'd buried somebody because of those gangs."
His eyes lowered fully now.
"My parents were killed by the Red Dragons," he admitted quietly. "So, when Hartshorne started hunting them down, part of me wanted to believe he was saving the city." A heavy silence followed. "But then reality caught up."
Elias' expression hardened slightly while Bastion remained still, listening carefully.
"When I got into the Academy, when I started learning how the Tower actually operated, I realized something." Raul's words dropped lower. "Hartshorne wasn't protecting anyone. He wasn't enforcing the law." His jaw clenched. "He just enjoyed violence."
The bitterness in his tone became unmistakable now.
"Same as during the Insurrection." He shook his head slowly. "To him, people from places like the Heights, the Projects. People like us." Raul gestured lightly toward himself. "We were all the same. Trash. Undesirables."
His gaze darkened.
"The only reason he finally went after the Colors so hard was because they stopped killing each other in the outer ring and started bleeding into richer districts." Raul scoffed bitterly. "If they'd stayed in the slums, he probably would've left them there to rot."
"And everything he did afterward?" Raul's expression twisted. "That wasn't justice. It wasn't discipline." He shook his head. "It was pure sadism."
Bastion scoffed quietly from beside him.
"Hate to tell you this, but the guy's always been nicked in the head," he muttered. "Takes after Burgess." His eyes narrowed coldly. "Two psychopaths in the same damned pod. Cutting people apart like serial killers on vacation, except everybody applauded them because the victims happened to be people society stopped caring about."
Elias let out a low grunt of agreement, his fingers interlocking slowly atop the desk.
"Took the words right outta my mouth, kid."
The amusement from earlier had long faded from his face now, replaced by the tired heaviness of a man who had spent too many years watching the same cycle repeat itself.
"Look," he continued, leaning back slightly in his chair, "I ain't gotta spell it out for either of you. Caerleon's in bad shape." He exhaled sharply. "The bleeding's stopped, sure, but the wounds're still fresh, and half the city's barely holdin' together beneath the surface."
His blind eyes remained fixed ahead, clouded yet somehow still carrying weight.
"People hate our guts, and honestly?" Elias shrugged faintly. "Can't even blame 'em for it. Burgess left this place worse off than it was after Dah-Tan, and we ain't got your grandfather around anymore to drag us outta the pile of shit we've been drowning in."
"Meanwhile the streets are crawling with contractors, mercs, adventurers, bounty hunters, whatever the Hell they're callin' themselves this week." A bitter note crept into his words. "Private outfits doin' our jobs for triple the pay and without the stain attached to the Tower's name."
He gestured loosely with his clasped hands.
"That's one of the biggest reasons we're hemorrhaging Guardians, Aurors, Adjudicators, damn near everybody. Folks are quittin' left and right because they're sick of gettin' spit on while some hired sword gets treated like a hero for doin' the exact same thing."
A pause followed before his tone steadied again.
"But the truth is, not everybody can afford private security." Elias leaned forward slightly now. "Most people ain't got the kind of coin needed to hire mercs every time some bastard with a wand decides to rob 'em blind."
His jaw tightened.
"So, whether they like us or not." He tapped the desk lightly. "They still need us."
"Yeah, well," Bastion muttered bitterly, folding his arms tighter, "they've got a real funny way of showing it."
Elias' expression soured immediately. "Kid, if you signed up expectin' pats on the back and sweet little thank-yous, then you picked the wrong damned line of work."
The words came hard, though not cruel.
"This job's ugly. Always has been," he said. "You pin that badge on your chest, then you go out there and do what's gotta be done, and sooner or later you learn that most folks ain't ever gonna thank you for savin' their lives."
Elias let the silence settle over the office for a moment, heavy and reflective, the muffled noise of the precinct beyond the walls filling the quiet spaces between them before he finally spoke again.
"But you still do it anyways," he said, leaning back slowly in his chair as his clasped hands rested beneath his chin. "Because if you don't, then nobody else will."
His blind eyes remained fixed ahead, distant, as though staring through years long buried beneath memory.
"Your grandpa understood that better than anyone I've ever met," Elias continued. "Frank understood it too, and somewhere along the way, so did I. You stop chasing gratitude in this line of work real damn fast, because the moment you start needing people to love you for what you do, this job'll chew you up and spit you back out hollow."
Bastion's mismatched eyes widened faintly before he looked away with a quiet scoff under his breath, though deep down he already knew Elias would have caught every bit of it. The old Sheriff said nothing about it, however.
"That being said," Elias continued, folding his arms slowly across his chest, "the game's changed."
His expression hardened.
"I've been diggin' around myself, and the more reports I look through, the uglier it starts gettin'. The Colours ain't movin' like regular gangs anymore." He tilted his head slightly as if organizing the pieces in his mind. "They're coordinated now. Precise. Different crews operating across completely separate districts somehow hitting targets at almost the exact same times." His jaw tightened faintly. "Specific people. Specific locations. Specific outcomes."
"This ain't random street violence anymore," Elias said. "It's methodical."
Raul frowned immediately, confusion crossing his face.
"Wait a second," he said. "You seriously think somebody's coordinating all six gangs?" A short laugh escaped him. "No offense, Sheriff, but have you actually met the kind of idiotas running those crews? Half of them can barely organize a card game, let alone some grand operation." He shook his head. "And besides, the Colors don't take orders from outsiders. They barely listen to each other."
"You're absolutely right," Elias replied calmly. "Which tells me that somewhere along the line, somebody stepped in and took control of the whole damn outfit."
Raul's expression shifted.
"It ain't public," Elias continued, "and whoever's behind it's smart enough to stay buried, but I'd wager every one of those gangs is operating under the same management now." His blind eyes remained fixed ahead. "And whoever's pullin' the strings is doing it from the shadows."
Bastion stared at him for a moment before letting out a disbelieving breath.
"Oh, come on, seriously?" He rolled his eyes, throwing his hands outward. "I know you used to run Black Ops stuff back in the day, but this is starting to sound like conspiracy theory bullshit." He gestured sharply. "And besides, what the hell would anybody even gain from stirring up—"
"The election."
Raul cut through the office suddenly. Both Bastion and Elias turned toward him as realization settled across the younger man's face.
"You think whoever's behind this is trying to rig the whole damned thing," Raul continued slowly, piecing it together aloud. "Make the city desperate enough to rally behind whoever promises security."
A grin tugged faintly at Elias' lips.
"Smart kid." He exhaled softly. "Course, right now it's still speculation. We can't tie any of this directly to the three candidates running for office." His expression darkened. "But that doesn't change the fact that the Colors are more dangerous now than they've ever been."
His attention shifted between both men.
"For now, I want the two of you focused entirely on the Heights. Leave the inner districts to the contractors." He clasped his hands together atop the desk again. "Keep pressure on the Dragons. I want them squeezed so damn hard they can't breathe without us hearing about it."
Raul nodded immediately while Bastion's expression sharpened.
"I'll handle coordinating what little manpower we've still got across the other districts," Elias continued. "And sooner or later, whoever's behind all this is gonna start running into problems. Plans this big always crack eventually."
A faint grimness settled into his expression.
"And when the failures pile up high enough that excuses stop workin'," Elias said. "That's when the mask slips, and the bastards hiding behind it finally step out into the light."
Raul nodded quickly. "On it, boss," he said instinctively before his eyes widened in panic. "I mean, sir. Sorry, sir."
He shot upright so fast his chair scraped loudly across the floor before snapping into a rigid salute that looked more panicked than professional. Bastion rolled his eyes immediately, already pushing himself up from his chair as he muttered beneath his breath. But just as he turned toward the door, Elias' stopped him.
"Hold up, kid. Need you to stick around for a minute," the old Sheriff said before tilting his head slightly toward Raul. "And if I were you, I'd get a real early start on that paperwork."
Raul immediately looked as though every ounce of life had been drained straight out of him.
Elias smirked faintly.
"Word of advice," he continued, "this right here is exactly why we try not to go completely apeshit every time things hit the fan." He gestured loosely with one hand. "Ten minutes of chaos out in the field usually turns into ten days of reports, interviews, disciplinary reviews, evaluations, witness statements, and enough paperwork to make you pray for death."
Bastion snorted quietly while Raul visibly wilted further.
"And besides," Elias went on, "you're a long damn way from earnin' the Tower's highly prestigious 'Overdeath Pass.'"
Raul blinked. "The what?"
"The point where you've saved the city enough times that the brass stops questionin' your methods and just lets you do whatever the hell you want," Elias replied dryly. "You stroll into a meeting covered in blood, half the district on fire behind you, and instead of suspension they hand you a commendation and tell everybody else to kiss your ass."
A crooked grin tugged at his face.
"But you ain't Wilhelm Reinhardt." He pointed vaguely in Raul's direction. "Not yet, kid."
Raul visibly flinched as though he'd just been sentenced to death.
"Oh… right."
The enthusiasm drained from his face almost instantly. He shot Bastion one last sympathetic look before turning toward the exit. A second later the office door swung open, then shut firmly behind him, leaving the room noticeably quieter.
Bastion turned back toward Elias slowly, suspicion already creeping across his face. The old Sheriff rested his clasped hands beneath his chin for a moment before speaking again.
"Before we get into it," Elias said casually, "there's somethin' I gotta ask you."
"Yeah?" Bastion replied cautiously, his shoulders stiffening.
Elias' expression remained perfectly straight.
"You like ice cream?"
A long silence followed.
Bastion stared at him.
"…Eh?"
****
It felt almost unreal to look upon the town square now and remember what it had once been in the aftermath of the Siege.
Not long ago, the entire district had been reduced to a monstrous crater of shattered stone and collapsed structures, the ground buried beneath twisted rebar, splintered beams, and mountains of debris. The grand fountain at the center of the square had been obliterated entirely, reduced to broken rubble and leaking pipes that bled streams of water through gaps in the ruined masonry. Trees had been torn apart down to their roots, bushes flattened into the dirt, branches snapped and scattered across the streets like kindling after a wildfire. Entire buildings had collapsed inward upon themselves, leaving behind nothing but mangled wood, shattered glass, and scorched foundations.
Even now, months later, people still spoke in hushed disbelief about the battle that had taken place there. About Barton Geddes, the Iron Hands, a hulking brute of a man built like a siege engine given flesh, and the girl who had stood against him despite barely being half his size.
They spoke of punches that carried the force of dragons. Of shockwaves strong enough to flatten entire streets and crack fortress walls apart. And above all else, they spoke of the impossible truth that had followed.
Helga Hufflepuff, the girl they now called The Unbreakable, had won.
Bastion walked through the restored square beneath the sounds of children laughing somewhere nearby, their voices carrying through the warm afternoon air as they chased one another between the pathways and benches. Much of the damage had been repaired, though the scars still lingered everywhere one cared to look.
The fountain had been rebuilt structurally, but it remained unfinished, its stone still dull and unpainted beneath the steel supports surrounding it while workers continued restoration efforts. The statue that once stood proudly at its center had yet to be replaced. Freshly planted trees and bushes lined portions of the square, many still wrapped at the roots in burlap sacks from being planted only days earlier. Elsewhere, stretches of exposed grey cement remained where decorative tiles had yet to be laid, while nearby buildings still stood skeletal beneath steel beams and scaffolding as laborers hauled bricks and fitted fresh panes of glass into empty windows.
In Bastion's hands rested two waffle cones, one a simple chocolate scoop while the other looked like some horrifying sugar-loaded monstrosity drenched beneath whipped cream, rainbow sprinkles, syrup, and a marshmallow shaped like a unicorn perched obnoxiously on top. Bastion stared at it with open disgust, already knowing Elias had forced him to order the damned thing purely out of spite.
Even so, the heavier burden resting on his shoulders had little to do with the greatsword strapped across his back and far more to do with the people around him, with the stares that lingered too long, the whispers that followed him from one side of the square to the other, and the quiet resentment that seemed to cling to the Tower's uniform no matter who wore it. Women passing by during their afternoon strolls spoke just loudly enough for him to overhear, their words sharp and unforgiving, making no effort whatsoever to hide the contempt in their words whenever their eyes settled upon the badge attached to his coat.
Bastion ignored them, or at least pretended to. By now he had grown used to being cast as the villain in someone else's story, used to carrying the hatred aimed at the Tower regardless of whether he personally deserved it or not, and more than once he had felt that familiar anger swell inside him, hot and immediate, tempting him to snap back and remind them that he and the few Guardians who had remained loyal during the Siege had nearly died trying to save this city while others ran or betrayed it outright.
But what would it accomplish? People rarely remembered years of sacrifice once they found a reason to hate you in the present. A man's good deeds faded quickly the moment he stopped fitting the image others wanted him to be.
Bastion's gaze eventually settled upon Elias sitting alone on a wooden bench near the edge of the square.
The old Sheriff sat calmly with his cane resting loosely in one hand, dark shades covering his blind eyes as he faced forward toward the sounds of the city. One finger tapped idly against the hilt of the cane in rhythm with the distant noise around them while his body swayed ever so slightly, listening to the world rather than seeing it.
The afternoon heat hung heavy across Caerleon, dry despite the faintly sweet smell of fumes drifting from the endless stream of automobiles moving through the streets nearby. Above the city floated dozens upon dozens of airships suspended against the sky, some carrying passengers, others cargo, their massive silhouettes casting slow-moving shadows over the districts below.
A constant reminder of why Caerleon had earned its name as the Crossroads City.
Bastion stopped in front of Elias and handed one of the cones over. "Here," he said dryly. "Your future organ failure. Another notch on your long list of bad decisions."
Elias chuckled as he accepted it from him. "Much obliged, kid."
He took a slow lick from the towering mess of vanilla, whipped cream, syrup, and rainbow sprinkles before smacking his lips thoughtfully. His head tilted slightly from side to side as though weighing the taste against memory itself.
"Eh," he muttered. "I've had better. Guy's losin' his touch." He gestured vaguely with the cone. "Used to be this place had the best scoops in all of Caerleon."
Bastion slipped the greatsword from his back and rested it carefully against the bench before lowering himself beside the old Sheriff. He glanced down at his own cone, took a brief lick, then leaned back into the wood with a quiet sigh.
"So," he said, turning his head toward Elias, "you planning on telling me why you dragged me halfway across the city for ice cream?" A faint smirk tugged at his lips. "And before you start acting sentimental, just know Grandpa used to drag me out for these runs all the time growing up."
"Oh, I don't doubt that for a second," Elias replied. "Man's got a dangerous weakness for ice cream." A grin spread slowly across his face. "Same way he's got one for Azian food."
He shook his head, laughing quietly to himself.
"Your grandpa used to swear the rest of us had no taste whatsoever. Said boiled potatoes with salt oughta be classified as a crime against humanity." Another chuckle escaped him. "Man loved his spices. Kept saying he'd marry the first woman who knew how to make a proper chutney." Elias shrugged loosely. "Hell if I knew what that even was back then."
His expression softened slightly afterward.
"Turns out he did."
Bastion blinked.
"Amarila," Elias said quietly. "Good woman." He stared ahead beneath the shade of his dark glasses while the sounds of the square drifted around them. "Didn't get nearly enough time with your grandfather, but she was good for him while she was here."
Bastion's brows lifted immediately. "Wait." He turned fully toward him now. "You knew Grandma?"
Elias shook his head slowly.
"Unfortunately, no." The faint smile faded from Elias' face. "Spent too many years out on the road, kid. Neck-deep in cases so dark and twisted the suits in the Tower didn't even wanna acknowledge they existed." A dry scoff escaped him. "Spent most of my life huntin' monsters the law either couldn't reach or didn't have the stomach to deal with."
"Doesn't exactly leave a whole lotta room for keeping up with old friends." There was regret in his words, buried beneath the roughness. "Truth be told, it's one of the things I regret most."
The ice cream in his hand had already begun melting beneath the summer heat, thin rivulets slipping down the cone as Elias sat there listening to the city around him.
"Part of me still wishes Wilhelm and I hadn't drifted apart the way we did," he admitted. "But we were adults by then. We had responsibilities, obligations, different roads to walk." A bitter chuckle escaped him. "Your grandfather held onto his beliefs harder than anybody I ever met. Honor. Truth. Justice. Man clung to those things like they were sacred scripture."
His expression darkened slightly.
"Meanwhile I kept sinkin' further into the dark." He leaned back against the bench. "Turned into a bitter old cynic long before I ever realized it."
A scoff escaped him then.
"I lost faith in the Tower years before Wilhelm did." His jaw tightened faintly. "Long before Burgess ever planted his ass in that damned chair."
A quiet pause settled between them as the sounds of the square carried on around the bench, children laughing somewhere near the fountain while the distant groan of engines and airships drifted through the summer air overhead. Bastion stared out across the plaza for a moment, thoughtfully dragging a finger once along the side of his cone before finally turning his attention back toward Elias.
"You mentioned handling dark cases back when you were with the Tower," he said slowly. "Those wouldn't happen to be Black Cases, would they?"
A grin spread immediately across Elias' face.
"Well, I'll be damned," he muttered. "Seems you ain't a complete Reinhardt meathead after all."
Bastion scowled instantly at that, though Elias merely chuckled and continued.
"But yeah," the old Sheriff said, settling deeper against the bench. "While your grandpa was off playing hero on battlefields and saving kingdoms, I was busy digging through some of the sickest cases Avalon's ever produced." His expression darkened faintly beneath the humor. "The kind that never make the papers. Not because the Tower wanted to save face, but because the truth would've sent whole cities into panic."
Bastion tilted his head slightly. "Because they were too traumatic?"
"That was part of it," Elias replied, taking another slow lick from the melting disaster masquerading as ice cream in his hand. "The other part's that nine times outta ten, the bastard behind it all happened to be an Entitled, a noble, or somebody sitting so high up the ladder the law practically broke its back trying not to look at 'em too hard."
The amusement drained steadily from Bastion's expression.
"Trust me, kid," Elias continued, "the ones who grow up thinkin' daddy dearest can buy 'em outta any consequence are almost always the worst of the bunch." He scoffed quietly beneath his breath. "Absolute monsters." His head tilted slightly. "And funny enough, once the bodies start piling up high enough, not even daddy's willing to die for their precious little crotch goblins."
He paused briefly before grimacing.
"Actually, that's unfair." Another lick of ice cream disappeared beneath his tongue. "Shouldn't insult goblins like that."
"Shit," Bastion muttered, half horrified despite himself. After another moment, curiosity won out. "You got one case that stuck with you more than the others?"
Elias barked out a laugh.
"One?" He shook his head. "Kid, I could sit here till sunset and still not run outta stories." His tone shifting again as old memory crept into it. "But if I had to pick one, it'd probably be a case you've already heard about."
Bastion frowned.
"It was everywhere for a while," Elias continued. "Newspapers. Tabloids. Gossip columns. Folks called it unsolved." His lips curled faintly. "Truth is, the Tower buried the actual conclusion."
The city noise seemed quieter around them now as Elias spoke.
"Happened years ago, in Camelot, down in the poorer wards near the industrial river districts." He gestured vaguely with the cone in hand. "Factory smoke, rundown apartments, streets that smelled like piss and ash twenty-four seven." His expression flattened. "Not far from there sat one of the larger red-light districts. Cheap brothels. Cheap liquor. Workers blowing off steam after twelve-hour shifts."
Bastion's brow slowly furrowed, a sinking feeling already beginning to form.
"Then the murders started."
Elias' words remained calm, almost detached now.
"At first it was only a few bodies. Prostitutes mostly. Men, women, elves, therians, didn't matter." He tilted his head slightly. "Then the Guardians started turnin' up dead too, which was when the Tower finally realized they weren't dealin' with some drunk lunatic with a knife."
Bastion's expression darkened.
"The bodies…" Elias exhaled slowly. "Gods."
For the first time since Bastion had known him, there was genuine weariness in his voice.
"They were butchered." He paused. "Not stabbed. Not killed. Butchered." His jaw tightened faintly. "Limbs carved apart. Flesh stripped clean in places. Organs missin'." He lowered the cone slightly. "Heart. Liver. Meat from the thighs. Cheeks."
A grim understanding settled across Bastion's face.
"And then it clicked," Elias said quietly. "Those weren't random cuts." His expression twisted faintly with disgust even now. "Those were specific pieces. Prime cuts. The same parts used in high-end cuisine."
Bastion visibly recoiled.
"Took me about a week after that to finally track the son of a bitch down," Elias continued. "Caught him halfway through another hunt." A faint grin tugged at his face despite the subject matter. "And then we fought."
"Across rooftops. Through abandoned apartments. Into the streets. Bastard moved like an animal." He chuckled dryly. "Gave me one hell of a fight too." His expression settled afterward. "Eventually cornered him on one of the old bridges crossin' the river."
The grin disappeared. "That's where I landed the final blow."
A quiet pause followed.
"He went over the railing and dropped straight into the water below." Elias shrugged slightly. "Body was never recovered." He tilted his head toward Bastion. "But funny thing is, the killings stopped that same night."
Slowly, realization dawned across Bastion's face.
"Wait…" His eyes widened. "Y-you're saying you were the one who killed Jack the Ripper? The Jack the Ripper?"
Elias smirked faintly.
"Well, not officially."
Bastion stared at him in disbelief.
"A man in my line of work doesn't exactly get public recognition," Elias said casually. "Kinda comes with being an Unspeakable."
Bastion blinked. "A… what?"
Elias laughed quietly.
"The fact you don't know a damn thing about it means the Tower did its job properly." He shifted slightly on the bench. "But alright, I'll humor you." He pointed vaguely toward Bastion. "You know what Executioners are, right?"
"Yeah," Bastion answered immediately. "Masked Tower psychos who get sent after people the law can't touch." He shrugged. "They point at somebody, then that somebody mysteriously stops breathing."
"More or less." Elias nodded. "Now imagine a division even more secretive than that. Buried deep inside the Tower is a place called the Department of Mysteries. Most people think it's a myth. Truth is, the Department exists specifically because some things are too ugly for regular Aurors to deal with."
He folded his arms slowly. "What we handled weren't normal investigations. These were cases so dark, so twisted, that even hardened veterans broke under 'em."
"And in exchange for complete secrecy," Elias continued, "the Tower gave us unrestricted authority to do whatever it took to solve them."
"Wait, hold on a second," Bastion said, lifting both hands as he turned toward Elias with open disbelief written across his face. "You're seriously telling me there are still people like you operating inside the Tower right now?" He paused. "These… Unspeakables?"
Elias nodded easily, taking another slow bite from the rapidly melting monstrosity in his hand.
"Course there are," he replied. "Cases don't magically stop happening just because Burgess completely shit the bed." He tapped a finger idly against the handle of his cane as the sounds of the square drifted around them. "World's still full of monsters. Difference is, now everybody's finally realizin' just how many of 'em were wearin' suits and titles."
Bastion's expression darkened slightly at that.
"Last I heard," Elias continued, "about half the Department got folded into a new Internal Affairs division after the Siege and recently became its own thing." A faint grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "They're calling it the Inquisition."
At the mention of the name, Bastion immediately groaned. "Oh, Gods, don't tell me—"
"Yeah, the same one, led by Bran Ravenclaw himself," Elias finished with visible amusement.
Bastion dragged a hand slowly down his face.
"So, all those stories about Magistrates, Prosecutors, and half the upper brass getting their asses lynched out of the Citadel windows were actually true," he muttered in disbelief. He shook his head slowly, letting out a dry scoff beneath his breath. "Gods above, I honestly thought Frank was just screwing with me."
Elias chuckled softly beneath his breath.
"Oh, you don't know the half of it. From what I've been hearing, they've been tearing through Burgess' remaining loyalists like starvin' wolves." His grin widened slightly. "And more recently, they've started setting their sights on the Entitled too."
The old Sheriff's expression grew oddly wistful beneath the dark lenses covering his blind eyes.
"Hah…" He shook his head slowly. "Rut me sideways, to be twenty years younger and back in the Tower right now." A low laugh escaped him. "I swear to the Gods, kid, I'd kill to be back on the team."
Bastion gave Elias a deeply conflicted look, caught somewhere between confusion, discomfort, and outright disbelief as he tried to reconcile the cynical old bastard sitting beside him with the stories he was telling.
"I can't see your face, kid," Elias said casually, "but I can sure as hell feel that expression from here."
A crooked grin tugged faintly at his lips, one hand resting atop the hilt of his cane.
"Lemme guess," he continued. "Right about now you're sittin' there wonderin' what kinda twisted, messed-up life a man must've lived to willingly sign up as an Unspeakable." A low chuckle escaped him. "Probably think I've gotta be nicked somewhere deep in the head."
Though there was amusement in his tone, there was no bitterness behind it, only the weary humor of someone long accustomed to people making assumptions about him.
"Maybe you're picturin' some miserable childhood too," Elias went on. "Parents treated me like dirt, siblings turned me into their personal punching bag, whole town lookin' at me like I was some cursed little thing the Gods forgot to finish properly." He tilted his head slightly. "Would make for a nice tragic story, wouldn't it?"
He tilted his head slightly toward Bastion.
"And I'm bettin' another part of you's wonderin' what kinda horrific accident I got into on the job to end up like this." He lifted the cane slightly, gesturing loosely toward his blind eyes behind the dark glasses. "Some big heroic last stand where I sacrificed my sight for the greater good."
A laugh escaped him then, low and rough. "Sorry to take a sledgehammer to your dramatic little narrative, son, but you couldn't be further from the truth."
Bastion raised a brow, now genuinely curious.
"I grew up in a tiny town near the coast," Elias began, settling more comfortably into the bench as the warm summer breeze drifted through the square around them. "Fishing town. Whole damned place smelled like saltwater and fish left out too long in the sun."
A faint smile touched his face. "Real close-knit kinda place too. Everybody knew everybody. Didn't matter if they were blood related or not, every old woman was somebody's aunt and every old man had a story he'd already told you six times before."
He took another slow lick from his ice cream before continuing.
"My old man built ships for a living. Mom stayed home and practically raised half the neighborhood." His expression softened slightly beneath the humor. "Had an older brother and a younger sister too."
Then he tapped lightly against the side of his glasses.
"And these?" He shook his head. "Wasn't war. Wasn't some accident." His words remained calm, matter-of-fact. "Just how I came into this world."
Bastion blinked.
"But the funny thing is," Elias continued, "my family never treated me any different because of it." A quiet chuckle escaped him. "Hell, if anything, they probably spoiled me more than they should've."
"I had friends. Got into trouble. Fell headfirst into puppy love a couple times." He waved his cone dismissively. "Normal kid stuff. Nobody in town ever made me feel lesser for bein' blind."
Bastion listened quietly, taking another lick from his own ice cream while Elias leaned his head back slightly toward the sky.
"But even then…" Elias sighed softly. "Part of me always wanted more."
The sounds of the city carried faintly around them.
"I didn't wanna spend my whole life trapped in some tiny little fishing town at the edge of nowhere." A grin spread slowly across his face. "Nah. I wanted adventure. Wanted to see the world."
A snort escaped him immediately afterward.
"See." He barked out a laugh. "Heh, poor choice of words."
Bastion rolled his eyes despite himself.
"Spent my teens runnin' tables at the local tavern and inn, and it was there I came to learn of Guardians, and the Tower. Course, me bein' a dumb kid wanted in." Elias exhaled softly. "Course, mom and dad weren't too keen on the idea. My brother thought I was nuts," Elias continued. "They wanted me to stay, maybe find a different trade, one that didn't involve putting my ass on the line every time I stepped out the front door, but I was adamant."
"Dad, Gods bless his soul, knew that somehow it was my callin', but he wasn't about to send me into the fire the way I was." Elias gestured with his half-eaten ice cream. "So, he made me a deal, spend four years abroad in Azia, in a place called Nihon. Said he knew of a master there who taught kids like me." He gestured to his eyes. "Yeah, so I agreed. I was fourteen then."
Bastion nodded.
"Then when I eighteen, I came home, took the first airship to Camelot and joined the Tower," Elias smiled softly. "And the rest as they say is history."
"Yeah, yeah, fascinating stuff, old man," Bastion finally said, though there was far less bite behind the sarcasm than before. "Still doesn't explain why the hell you became an Unspeakable." He looked over at Elias, brows furrowed. "I mean, that kinda work had to mess you up something fierce."
Elias paused at that, the faint amusement on his face settling into something quieter as he took another slow lick from the rapidly melting cone in his hand. He bit into the wafer thoughtfully, chewing for a moment before swallowing.
"You're not wrong," he admitted calmly. "That job twists everybody eventually. Difference is whether you snap under it or learn how to live with the cracks."
The sounds of the square drifted around them again for a moment before Elias continued.
"But before I answer your question," he said, "lemme ask you one first."
Bastion raised a brow.
"You ever looked into the face of a kid who just lost their parents in the worst way imaginable?" Elias asked quietly. "I'm not talkin' about hearin' reports or readin' statements. I mean really lookin' at 'em. Seen what it does to somebody when their whole world gets ripped out from under 'em overnight."
Bastion's expression shifted slightly.
"Or maybe a girl who just lost the man she was supposed to marry because some twisted son of a bitch decided her happiness was worth takin' away." Elias tilted his head faintly. "And then all anybody can tell her is that the monster responsible disappeared into the wind."
The old Sheriff exhaled slowly.
"Sure, sometimes it ain't the Tower's fault. Sometimes they're stretched too thin. Sometimes they genuinely ain't good enough." His lips curled bitterly. "And sometimes they're just lazy, corrupt bastards too busy protecting careers to care."
His grip tightened slightly around the cone.
"But excuses don't change the end result." His tone lowered. "A killer, a rapist, a sick degenerate still walks free somewhere out there while the people they destroyed spend the rest of their lives lookin' over their shoulders without closure."
The bitterness in his tone deepened.
"And that?" Elias shook his head slowly. "That grinds my gears something fierce."
Bastion stayed quiet while Elias continued.
"See, your grandpa fought the bastards everybody could see." A faint grin touched his face again. "And make no mistake, Wilhelm was one hell of a protector. Man kept Avalon safe from some truly vicious sons of bitches over the years, and half the warlords and tyrants on this side of the world used to piss themselves at the mere mention of his name."
A chuckle escaped him.
"Hell, I'd wager there were grown men checking under their beds at night praying they didn't find Wilhelm layin' there with that huge ass axe of his."
The grin faded slowly afterward.
"But the truth is, kid, some of the worst monsters don't stand out on battlefields. Some of 'em live right beside us." Elias' expression darkened. "They wear smiles. Wear uniforms. Wear expensive suits and titles." He tapped lightly against the side of his glasses. "And some are so good at pretending to be human that even the smartest people alive never see what they really are."
A slow simper spread across his lips then, sharp and knowing.
"But they could never hide from me."
Bastion frowned slightly.
"Every murderer," Elias said. "Every rapist. Every sadist who thought they were too clever to get caught, too rich to face consequences, or too important for the law to touch…" His grin sharpened faintly. "They checked under their beds for me."
"So what?" Bastion asked after a moment, his brows furrowing as he looked toward Elias. "What is it then? Some kinda revenge by proxy?" He gestured loosely with his cone. "You hunting monsters because you wanna get back at them on behalf of the people they hurt?"
Elias barked out a laugh loud enough that a few nearby pedestrians glanced briefly in their direction.
"Oh, kid," he said through the grin spreading across his face, "you've got some real balls askin' me that with a straight face." He pointed vaguely toward Bastion with the half-melted cone in hand. "Don't sit there pretendin' you never strapped on that badge and started swingin' that oversized slab of metal on your back for the exact same reason."
Bastion immediately flushed red.
"I— that's not—"
"Relax," Elias cut in with another chuckle. "Hell, I can't think of a single Guardian, Auror, or half-decent Tower bastard who joined up without at least a little part of them wanting to punch the big guy in the face for the little guy." His expression softened beneath the humor. "That's how most of us start."
The old Sheriff tilted his head toward the square around them.
"We grow up hearing stories," he said. "Stories about people too weak, too scared, or too powerless to stand up for themselves while the world keeps stompin' on 'em anyways." His tone lowered slightly. "We watch injustice happen to good people over and over again while everybody else keeps walkin' past pretending not to notice."
A pause followed before Elias sighed softly.
"But trust me, kid, it goes deeper than simple anger."
Bastion quieted completely at that.
"Sure, rage is where it starts," Elias admitted. "That ugly, burnin' feeling inside you when you're sick to death of watchin' innocent people suffer because some twisted animals get off on hurting folks weaker than themselves." His jaw tightened faintly. "But then one day you come across somebody that changes the whole thing."
The sounds of the city seemed distant now beneath the weight in his words.
"I remember this little girl once," Elias continued quietly. "Couldn't have been older than ten. Tiny thing." His blind eyes remained fixed ahead as though the memory still stood right in front of him. "She was standing outside a courthouse with a knife clutched in both hands so tightly her palms were bleeding."
Bastion's expression darkened immediately.
"She kept staring through the crowd at this man walking down the courthouse steps," Elias said. "And that son of a bitch had butchered her parents before selling her and her older sister into slavery."
The disgust in his words sharpened. "Only reason the kid was even there that day was because her big sister managed to get her out." A pause followed. "Girl sacrificed everything to help her escape."
His grip tightened around the cone.
"She didn't make it."
"Shit…" Bastion muttered beneath his breath.
"And there that little girl stood," Elias continued quietly, "tears runnin' down her face while she watched the bastard responsible walk straight outta that courtroom smilin' like he'd just won the lottery."
The old Sheriff exhaled slowly.
"And she would've killed him too."
Bastion looked over at him sharply.
"If I hadn't stopped her first."
For a moment neither of them spoke.
"Found her a family afterward," Elias finally said. "Good people who took her in and gave her a real life." Then his expression darkened again beneath the calmness. "After that, I went to work."
"Started keeping tabs on the bastard after the trial, because men like that don't just stop." A faint scoff escaped him. "People always wanna believe monsters can quit if they get away clean enough once, but they can't. Not really. Sooner or later the itch crawls back under their skin."
He leaned back against the bench while the memory played somewhere far behind his blind eyes.
"Took about three months before he slipped again." His jaw tightened faintly. "Same pattern. Same hunting grounds. Different victims." A pause followed. "Family of four. Husband, wife… two little girls."
"But what the son of a bitch didn't count on," Elias said quietly, "was me already there waitin' for him." A slow bite disappeared from the edge of the cone before he continued. "And I made damn sure he died screamin' loud enough that every friend he had hiding inside the Tower heard it echo through the walls."
Bastion stared at him.
Elias chuckled quietly afterward, though there was no humor in it.
"Funny thing is, the judge who exonerated him ended up dead too." A grin tugged at his lips. "Heard Ravenclaw personally tossed the bastard out a Citadel window with a paracord around his neck."
"Gods…" Elias muttered almost wistfully. "Would've loved to hear that conversation on the way down."
The amusement faded slowly after that.
"Point is," he continued, "you don't keep doing this job just because you're angry at the world." He shook his head slightly. "That rage burns out eventually."
His expression settled into something unexpectedly solemn.
"You do it because you don't want other people ending up as broken as you are." His grip loosened around the cone in his hand. "You look at somebody standing on the edge of becoming consumed by grief, guilt, hatred, and somewhere along the way you decide you'd rather carry that burden yourself than let it swallow them whole."
The sounds of the square drifted softly around them again. "Because no matter what anybody says," Elias murmured, "most people don't deserve the nightmares that come afterward."
Bastion fell silent after that, the weight of Elias' words settling heavily over him as his mismatched eyes slowly drifted down toward the stone beneath his boots. His jaw tightened faintly before he let out a quiet breath through his nose, somewhere between a scoff and resignation.
"That's… a seriously messed-up way of looking at things," he muttered at last, though there was no real conviction behind the criticism. After a moment he gave a small shrug. "But honestly?" His gaze remained lowered. "Can't exactly say I disagree with you."
Elias chuckled softly at that as he finished off the last of his cone, popping the remaining wafer into his mouth before chewing thoughtfully. He licked the melted cream from his fingers with the casual ease of someone entirely unbothered by the horrors they'd just discussed. He tapped the tip of his cane once against the stone before slowly pushing himself up from the bench.
"Problem with spendin' your life stickin' your head down into the pit," Elias continued, "is that sooner or later you stop being able to pull it back out clean." His expression settled into something quieter now, less amused and more reflective. "You always leave a piece of yourself behind somewhere in the dark."
"And once enough of that darkness seeps into you," he said, "you start seein' it everywhere." A bitter smirk tugged faintly at his lips. "Hell, eventually you start lookin' for it even when it ain't there."
He tilted his head slightly toward Bastion.
"Truth is, every damned day I pray nobody else ever has to walk through the shadows the way I did," Elias admitted quietly. "Same way your grandfather spent most of his life praying none of his boys would ever end up carrying the weight he did."
Bastion's gaze slowly lifted toward him.
"Thing nobody tells you when you first put on that badge," Elias continued, resting both hands atop the hilt of his cane, "is that the hardest monsters to kill usually ain't the ones standing in front of you with claws, swords, or magic."
He slowly lifted the cane and tapped the side of his temple.
"It's the bastards in here."
The words hung between them for a long moment.
"And from where I'm standin', kid…" Elias said. "You're still fighting yours." His expression hardened faintly. "Problem is, I can already tell part of you's startin' to lose."
Bastion opened his mouth immediately, ready with some sharp retort or denial, but the words never came. Whatever argument he tried to muster died somewhere in his throat before it ever reached his lips.
Elias noticed.
"You probably think your grandpa's the toughest bastard the Tower ever shat out," he said after a moment, a faint grin touching his weathered face. "And honestly, you wouldn't be wrong. Wilhelm Reinhardt was built like a damned fortress with enough fury in him to light the sky on fire." A low chuckle escaped him. "Man fought battles outnumbered a thousand to one and still came home dragging enemy commanders back in sacks."
The grin faded slowly afterward.
"But even he stood at the edge more times than anybody realizes."
Elias settled both hands atop his cane once more.
"Now listen carefully, because I ain't about to feed you any of that hollow tough-love bullshit people like throwing around." His tone remained calm, steady. "I ain't gonna tell you to suck it up. Ain't gonna tell you to walk it off or pull yourself together either." He shook his head. "Only complete dipshits treat pain like it's some kinda competition."
Bastion remained silent.
"You dug yourself into a hole?" Elias shrugged faintly. "Fine. Stay there a while if you need to. Sulk. Brood. Feel sorry for yourself. Gods know everybody does it eventually." He tilted his head slightly. "Might even do you some good to sit there long enough to figure out where the hell you actually wanna be."
Then his expression sharpened. "But understand this, kid. Nobody's climbing outta that hole for you, and the only way you get out…" Elias said quietly, "is when you decide to start climbing."
A brief silence lingered between them before Elias spoke again. "And it ain't just for your sake either," he continued. "It's for that kid you're saddled with."
Bastion's brow furrowed faintly.
"Raul's a good kid," Elias said as he adjusted his grip on the cane. "Heart's in the right place, morals mostly intact, still dumb enough to believe he can genuinely make a difference." A faint chuckle escaped him. "But it don't take a blind man to notice the amount of darkness that boy's carryin' around inside him."
"Kid's hauling baggage around by the ton, and he's still grinding that axe against the bastards who took his parents." His expression settled into something knowing. "And if I had to guess, you've already seen it yourself."
Bastion stayed silent. Elias nodded faintly to himself.
"Wilhelm used to say they all get the same look eventually," he murmured. "That moment where the light behind the eyes starts dimming." His grip tightened slightly atop the cane. "And all that's left is this cold, ugly understanding that whoever's standing on the other side of the blade." A pause followed. "Has to die."
Bastion's expression shifted almost immediately at the words, because he had seen it.
In the restaurant.
In the street.
In the way Raul's hands trembled afterward not from fear, but from how badly part of him had wanted to keep going.
"Like it or not," Elias continued, turning his head slightly back toward Bastion, "you're the one that kid's looking at now. Every choice you make, every call you give, every line you cross or refuse to cross, it's all shaping the kinda man he's gonna become."
"You might not realize it yet, but people like Raul." Elias exhaled slowly. "They latch onto someone. Somebody they think embodies the sorta strength they wanna have themselves." A faint grin tugged briefly at his face. "And congratulations, kid, seems you're the unlucky bastard he picked."
Bastion frowned.
"So now you've gotta decide what exactly you're teaching him." Elias' expression darkened slightly.
"Whether he stays that fire-in-the-chest kinda guy who still believes protecting people actually means something…" He paused then, the humor leaving his words entirely. "Or whether he ends up becoming just like me."
Bastion's eyes widened slightly at the final statement, and for the first time since the conversation began, Elias did not laugh afterward.
He let out a quiet breath before turning away from the bench, the corners of his mouth tugging upward into the faintest hint of a smile. "Good talk, kid," he said. "We oughta do this again sometime."
The cane tapped steadily against the stone as he started making his way across the square.
"Hey."
Bastion's voice stopped him.
Elias paused mid-step before glancing back over his shoulder. Bastion sat there for a moment longer, his gaze fixed not on the old Sheriff, but on the cone slowly melting between his fingers, rivulets of cream sliding down across the leather of his gloves unnoticed.
"There's something I've been thinking about," Bastion said slowly. "About everything you told me." His eyes narrowed slightly. "You being an Unspeakable. Hunting jackasses the Tower couldn't touch. Taking down people like Jack the Ripper and every other sick bastard that needed putting in the ground."
A brief silence lingered between them.
"Back when we first met…" Bastion finally lifted his gaze toward him. "Those Red Dragons that suddenly keeled over on the street."
His expression sharpened.
"That was all you, wasn't it?"
For a moment Elias simply stood there beneath the afternoon sun, the city moving around him while a grin slowly spread across his weathered face. The old man lifted one hand and nudged his dark shades slightly higher along the bridge of his nose.
"Maybe," he replied casually. "But I ain't handin' over all my secrets just yet, kid." A chuckle rumbled softly in his chest. "We ain't that close."
Then he turned once more and resumed walking, his cane striking the stone in an easy rhythm.
"But stick around long enough," Elias called back over his shoulder, "and you just might get lucky."
Bastion watched him disappear deeper into the crowd, his mismatched eyes narrowing faintly as thoughts churned heavily in the back of his mind. The stories Elias had told him, the weight behind his words, the quiet understanding buried beneath the old man's cynicism, all of it lingered heavier than he cared to admit. And worst of all part of him knew Elias was right.
The thought had barely settled before something vibrated sharply against his hip. Bastion frowned and reached toward the pouch hanging at his side, pulling free a metallic orb no larger than an oversized marble. He pressed his thumb against its surface with a click, and immediately the device floated upward into the air before projecting a sapphire-blue holographic screen between his hands.
His eyes scanned the message.
Hector.
Bastion drew a sharp breath as the hologram dissolved back into particles of blue light. The orb dropped neatly back into his palm before he slipped it away into the pouch once more. Then he rose from the bench in one smooth motion, grabbed the massive sword resting against the wood beside him, and swung it back over his shoulder with practiced ease. The remains of the ruined ice cream cone hit the nearby wastebin a second later.
Without another word, Bastion turned and started toward one of the exits leading out of the square, disappearing into the restless pulse of Caerleon beyond.