The semi-modern streets of Camelot were a stark contrast to the rustic charm of Caerleon in more ways than one. Towering buildings loomed over narrow streets, their facades a mix of beige stone, aged copper, and soot-stained black, their gothic architecture framed with intricate iron grilles over large glass windows. The streetlamps, crafted from dark steel and enchanted crystal, cast a muted glow over the city, flickering against the evening's dimming light.
A thick haze of smog and oil clung to the air, the inevitable consequence of the heavy traffic flooding the streets—an endless stream of sleek, motorized vehicles weaving between clunky carriages drawn by horses. The distant hum of engines and the rhythmic clicks of hooves on stone blended into the city's ceaseless murmur. Overhead, the sky stretched in a dull, oppressive gray, mirroring the weary expressions of the pedestrians who trudged through the streets, their faces buried in enchanted newspapers or the soft glow of holographic screens.
For Salazar, Rowena, and Helga, this was a world apart. Even as students of Excalibur Academy, where magic and modernity intertwined, there was something about the cold efficiency of the Crown City that unsettled them. In a world where the idea of a device sending messages across the ether was once considered witchcraft—even among wizards—Camelot had long embraced innovation at a rapid, relentless pace.
Nestled at a prominent street corner stood the Continental Hotel, an elegant yet unassuming establishment recommended by Helena for their stay. It was meant to be a simple overnight arrangement, just until the airships were cleared for travel the following morning. The hotel, though modest compared to the grander spires of the city, still loomed over its surroundings, its dozen floors rising above the cobbled streets.
Inside, the lobby exuded an industrial charm—dark wood paneling, cigar-brown leather chairs, and a mahogany front desk polished to a pristine sheen. The scent of freshly brewed coffee mixed with the lingering aroma of expensive cologne, giving the space an air of quiet sophistication.
Salazar strode across the marble floor, his emerald eyes scanning the expanse of the lobby, searching for any sign of Godric. His breath came quick, though he kept his expression calm. Spotting an orc concierge standing at the front desk, he made his way over. The orc, a large but impeccably dressed figure, adjusted his rounded glasses as Salazar approached.
"Excuse me, Mister…" Salazar squinted at the golden name tag pinned to the orc's dark blazer. "Reddick. Would you be so kind as to tell me if you've seen a young man—similar age and build to myself, re—black hair, looks as if he hasn't slept in days… or showered?"
The orc's lips curled slightly in amusement. "Ah, you must be talking about Mister Gryffindor, eh?" His voice was deep and measured as he pushed his glasses further up his nose. "My deepest apologies, my friend, but the last time I saw that young man was this afternoon, when he left together with you."
Salazar exhaled, nodding. "My gratitude," he murmured before turning away, just in time to see Rowena and Helga hurrying toward him, their expressions drawn with worry. "Any luck?" he asked.
"No," Rowena said, her sapphire eyes filled with panic. "He's not in his room, not in the restaurant, not even in the bar."
"We checked the closets, the stairwell, and even the drawers," Helga added, counting on her fingers.
Both Rowena and Salazar paused, turning to Helga in unison. "Drawers?" they repeated, their tones dripping with incredulity.
Helga grinned sheepishly, rubbing the back of her head. "Hey, I figured if anyone could Reducto themselves into a dresser just to avoid us, it'd be him."
Salazar exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "We'll need to spread our net a little further." He turned to Rowena. "I'll take the east side, you go west, and—" he hesitated, eyeing Helga. "Helga, you take the south. And for the love of the Gods, no more drawers."
"Righto!" Helga saluted, grinning.
"We meet back here in an hour," Rowena instructed. "If we don't find him by then, we're going to have to get AEGIS involved. And by Hecate, that is the last thing we need right now."
Salazar cast a glance toward the cluster of AEGIS guards stationed around the lobby, their armor polished, and weapons secured at their sides. His expression remained unimpressed.
"Not sure how much help they'll be," he muttered. "The city's still under high alert. They're more likely to waste time questioning us than actually doing anything useful."
"I'm sure Godric's fine," Helga said, though concern flickered behind her usual optimism. "He has to be."
Salazar then turned toward the exit. "Alright, let's move. See you all back here."
With a nod, the three parted ways.
He pushed through the heavy brass-framed glass doors and stepped onto the bustling street. The sun had begun to set, casting the city in a dusky glow as streetlamps flickered to life, their crystal cores pulsing with soft luminescence.
He pulled his jacket tighter around him, his emerald gaze shifting across the unfamiliar streets.
Wherever Godric was, he could only hope—pray—that he was safe.
****
Godric staggered down the uneven cobblestone streets, his body swaying like a ship battered by an unforgiving tide. His shoulder slammed into the rough, red-bricked wall, the impact jarring but dulled by the whiskey coursing through his veins. His steps were clumsy, barely coordinated, his vision blurred and distorted with each unsteady blink.
In his trembling hand, a near-empty glass bottle sloshed with the last remnants of golden liquid, the scent of strong liquor clinging to him like the stench of decay, mingling with the acrid bite of bile and vomit that lingered on his boots from when he'd retched—once, twice, he had lost count.
Sleep had become an empty promise, violence a hollow reprieve, and the drink… the drink was nothing but a cruel illusion of solace. It dulled the edges, muffled the agony just enough to pull him under, to let him slip into a void where for a fleeting moment, he could escape. A few hours of blackness, free from the ghosts that tormented him whenever he closed his eyes.
At first, it was something that brought him guilt. Now, it was the only thing he sought, the only sensation that still made sense. Between the savage release of bloodied knuckles and the searing burn of whiskey sliding down his throat, there was something—something without a name, something that filled the spaces where grief and rage coiled in his gut like a sickness.
He collapsed against the wall, sliding down to sit on the ground, his breath uneven, his fingers tightening around the empty bottle. He lifted it, tilted it, willing a single drop to escape, but there was nothing. Just emptiness. With a scoff, he threw it aside, the glass skittering across the street before coming to rest beneath the dull glow of a lamplight. It glistened mockingly, reflecting the dim firelight as if whispering a cruel truth—that he, like the bottle, was drained, hollow, discarded. Useless. Worthless.
The weight of the sword against his back once stood as a reminder of the warrior he had been. Now, it was nothing more than an anchor dragging him further into the abyss.
He closed his eyes, drawing in a deep breath as his chest rose and fell in slow, uneven rhythms. The air was thick with the scent of damp stone and stale whiskey, but he barely noticed. He wanted to cry, to let the pain spill from him in a flood of tears, but there were none left. He had wept himself dry long ago. The sorrow had settled too deep, fused with his very being until it became something else—something quieter, heavier, suffocating in its permanence.
More than once, he had questioned whether he was truly alive or if he had already died somewhere along the way, leaving nothing behind but a hollow specter trapped in the tide of existence. Not living, not dead—just drifting, counting the days, the hours, the minutes until the Gods, in their distant indifference, would finally grant him the mercy of an end.
His head tilted back, gaze lifting toward the endless stretch of stars above. The night was vast, a world beyond his reach, silent and unmoved by the turmoil raging within him. A question turned over in his mind, one that had been repeating for longer than he could remember, gnawing at the edges of his thoughts. What am I doing?
The answer never came. Perhaps it never would.
Then, he heard it—a voice, sharp and strained, cutting through the muffled hum of the city. A scuffle followed, along with the heavy shuffle of boots and the unmistakable sound of a struggle. Godric's brows furrowed. His head swam from the whiskey, but something deep inside him—some instinct that had never dulled, no matter how lost he had become—snapped him back to focus.
Bracing himself against the wall, he pushed off and stumbled forward, his movements unsteady but determined as he made his way toward the source of the commotion. He followed the sound through a narrow alleyway, the path darkened by the towering buildings overhead, before stepping into an open space tucked behind the structures.
That's when he saw them.
Six men, dressed in the dark uniforms of AEGIS, stood in a loose circle. One of them had a girl pinned in his grasp, his gloved hand clamped over her mouth, stifling her cries. She struggled, twisting against his hold, but he was stronger. Too strong.
She looked to be around his age, dressed in a white sleeveless blouse with a short lavender-blue tie at the collar. Her shorts matched the tie, barely reaching mid-thigh, and her knee-high socks bore scuff marks, dirtied from the struggle. But what stood out the most was her hair—golden as the morning sun, woven into a thick French braid that cascaded all the way down to her knees. Her blue eyes burned with both fear and defiance, a silent scream trapped behind the hand that kept her quiet.
"Oh, looks like we caught ourselves a big one, eh?" one of the guards sneered, his eyes roving over her with sickening interest. "A real prize. They'll pay handsomely for this one, no doubt."
Another guard let out a low, leering chuckle. "Shame to sell her off without a little test run. You see those curves?" He licked his lips. "I bet she tastes just as sweet as she looks."
The girl's eyes widened in terror, her muffled protests growing more desperate.
"Idiot," a third guard scoffed. "The last time you decided to 'sample the merchandise,' you broke her. Docked our pay for it, remember?" He folded his arms, indifferent to the girl's terror. "Nah, we sell her as is. I've got a mortgage to pay."
Godric exhaled slowly, his blood beginning to simmer. The fog of alcohol was already burning away, chased out by the fire rising in his chest. His hands clenched at his sides, his breath deep and steady.
He had been looking for a fight.
And now, the Gods had handed him one.
"Hey!" Godric's voice cut through the alleyway, rough and slurred, but loud enough to catch their attention. He staggered forward, his footing unsteady, but his eyes—bleary though they were—locked onto the men with a smoldering fire.
The group turned, their expressions shifting from surprise to amusement as they took in the sight of him—disheveled, reeking of whiskey, and barely standing upright.
"What do you want kid?" one of the guards asked, folding his arms. "Ain't it past your bedtime. Take a hike, before you get hurt."
Godric's smirk deepened, sharp and wolfish, as he reached behind him, fingers curling around the hilt of his sword. The silver blade sang as it left its scabbard, the metallic trill slicing through the alley's tense silence. Immediately, the guards stiffened, hands snapping to the hilts of their own weapons, leather-wrapped grips creaking beneath tightening fingers.
But Godric didn't attack. Instead, he twirled the blade once in a practiced flourish before driving it into the cobblestone with a sharp, deliberate slam. The sword stood upright, unwavering, gleaming under the dim lamplight.
His crimson eyes flicked up, locking onto the guards.
He wasn't going to give them the satisfaction of steel. Not tonight.
Instead, he cracked his knuckles, one hand after the other, the tight pop of his joints punctuating the still air. His body swayed slightly, not from uncertainty, but from the lingering burn of whiskey coiled in his veins.
"I'm gonna mess you up," he muttered, his words slow, deliberate, and brimming with intent.
For a brief second, they only stared at him. Then, laughter erupted—booming, raucous, unchecked. Some of them nearly doubled over, slapping their knees, gripping each other's shoulders as if the sheer absurdity of the moment had rendered them weak. One even wheezed, shaking his head in disbelief.
"Oh, that was priceless," one of them gasped, wiping a tear from his eye. He nudged the man beside him, still chuckling. "Kid's so plastered, I'm surprised he even knows where he is."
Another sneered, arms folding across his chest as he gave Godric a once-over, his gaze lingering on the torn and stained Excalibur Academy robe. His eyes narrowed at the emblem emblazoned on the fabric, his lip curling in distaste.
"Fantastic," he scoffed. "Another one of those House Ignis brats with a hero complex. You lot are the worst—always running headfirst into fights you've got no business in, thinking you've got something to prove." He shook his head. "You're all the same. Loud, reckless, and painfully predictable."
Godric exhaled, slow and measured, the amusement around him barely registering. His crimson gaze flicked from one sneering face to the next, sizing them up, counting down the moments until they realized—far too late—that this wasn't a drunken bluff.
"Well, this Ignis brat is about to make you regret you ever got out of bed this morning," Godric shot back, tilting his head as he rolled his shoulders, loosening up. A slow, dangerous smirk tugged at his lips.
"So come on then," he taunted. "Let's see if you've got the spine to back up that mouth, or if you're just another coward hiding behind a badge."
The laughter once again rang out in the air as one of the guards stepped forward. He shot a glance over his shoulder at his comrades, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "Hang tight, boys. I got this," he said as he sauntered toward Godric.
Before Godric could react, the guard's fist snapped forward, cracking against his jaw with brutal force. His head whipped to the side, his vision momentarily swimming as he stumbled back a step. Pain flared through his cheek, a sharp, burning sting that spread down his neck. A groan rumbled from his throat as he straightened, shaking off the impact just in time to see the guard rearing back for another swing.
This time, Godric struck first.
His fist met the guard's nose with a sickening crunch, sending the man staggering back with a sharp yelp. Blood sprayed from his nostrils as he clutched his face, but before Godric could press the advantage, another came at him from the side, a solid punch driving into his ribs, forcing the breath from his lungs. He barely had time to react before the first guard, regaining his footing, smashed another fist into his face. Then the second struck him again.
His teeth clenched as blood pooled in his mouth. He spat it onto the ground, crimson staining the path. Slowly, he lifted his gaze as the guards rushed him, fists flying.
Godric moved instinctively, raising his arms to block. Despite the alcohol dulling his senses, despite the haze in his mind, his body still knew how to fight. He weaved between their swings, his own fists lashing out in brutal, precise counters. Knuckles cracked against jaw, rib, and temple. The wet smack of flesh meeting flesh echoed through the alley as blood splattered the stones beneath their feet.
He tackled the first guard, grabbing the front of his uniform and driving his fist into the man's face with a force that split his lip wide open. The second lunged at him from behind, but Godric, sensing the movement, slammed his elbow backward, shattering the man's nose in a spray of red. A strangled cry of pain followed as the guard stumbled back, clutching his face.
Then, more joined the fray.
Two additional guards surged forward, fists raised, their eyes burning with anger and determination. Godric shifted, his stance widening, bracing himself as they came at him all at once. His world became a blur of motion—ducking, weaving, throwing punches, dodging just enough to minimize the damage while dealing out his own in devastating retaliation. One by one, they fell back, clutching their wounds, struggling to keep up with his relentless assault.
Off to the side, one of the remaining guards reached for his sword, but before he could draw it, the man restraining the girl barked a sharp order. "No! He's unarmed."
The guard scoffed, his grip loosening on the hilt of his sword. Meanwhile, the girl thrashed harder in the grasp of her captor, her blue eyes wide, desperate—then, for the briefest moment, they locked onto Godric's.
He saw it. The flicker of hope. The silent plea.
That was all he needed.
His fists moved on instinct, striking like a relentless hammer, knuckles splitting flesh, breaking bones, shattering teeth. A knee drove deep into one guard's stomach, folding him in half before an uppercut sent a spray of red into the air, molars clattering to the ground like discarded dice.
Before he could react, a pair of arms locked around him from behind, vice-like and unyielding. A sharp, brutal fist slammed into his gut, driving the air from his lungs in a ragged gasp. Blood and saliva splattered onto the cobblestone as pain exploded through his core. His vision swam, the edges darkening, but there was no time to recover—his captor wrenched him off balance and hurled him to the ground.
He hit the alley floor hard, rolling across the damp stone until he came to a stop, face-down, breath ragged and shallow. The world tilted as he fought to push himself up, but the pounding in his skull and the throbbing in his ribs made every movement agony.
The guards groaned, picking themselves up, their faces bruised, noses bent at unnatural angles, blood smeared across their uniforms.
One of them, cradling his mouth, turned to his comrade. "Is it…?" He pointed at his broken teeth. "Is it bad?"
The other, still pinching his bleeding nose, gave a slow, solemn nod.
Godric coughed, spitting a fresh glob of blood onto the ground as he forced himself upright. His chest heaved, bruised and battered, but the smirk never wavered. Streaks of red glinted against his teeth as he raised his fists once more, defiance burning in his crimson gaze. He locked eyes with the men who had tried to put him down.
"I can do this all day."
The words had barely left his lips before a blinding flash of light engulfed his vision. A searing force slammed into his chest, sending a white-hot shockwave through his ribs as if he had been struck by a battering ram. The impact wrenched him off his feet, hurling him backward.
He hit the ground hard, his body skidding against the alley's rough stone. The breath was torn from his lungs, leaving him gasping as a groan rumbled deep in his throat. Through his blurred vision, he made out a figure looming over him. The guard. Wand still raised, its tip glowing ominously with the aftershock of the spell.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" one of the guards snapped, eyes wide with alarm. "I said he was unarmed—"
"Piss off!" the wand-wielding guard snarled over his shoulder, his grip tightening around the handle. "I'm not about to stand here and let this little shit humiliate us." His nostrils flared as he stepped forward. "I'm putting a stop to this now."
Before anyone could intervene, he drove his boot into Godric's chest, shoving him hard against the cold stone. A sharp gasp tore from Godric's throat as the pressure crushed down on his ribs, each breath coming in short, ragged spurts.
"You should've kept your damn nose out of this, just like the rest of this miserable city." The guard sneered, leaning in closer. "Pity, really. If you were worth anything, we'd ship you off to market along with the girl. But boys? They don't fetch much of a price." His smirk widened, cruel and amused. "Guess they'll just have to find what's left of you in a ditch somewhere—assuming the dogs don't get to you first."
The wand in his hand pulsed with a sickly green light, crackling with unspoken malice. But before he could utter the fatal incantation, the steady echo of approaching footsteps cut through the tension.
A shadow stretched across the alley's entrance.
The guards turned sharply, their attention snapping to the figure standing at the mouth of the alleyway. He was a man of striking presence, dressed in a meticulously tailored three-piece suit of deep charcoal black, the fabric catching the dim glow of the streetlamp above. A pair of polished loafers reflected the faint light, while a gold chain ran from his vest pocket, glinting subtly with each slight movement. Yet, it wasn't his attire that commanded attention—it was the quiet authority in the way he carried himself, the effortless confidence exuding from every measured step forward.
His expression remained calm and unreadable, yet there was an unmistakable weight behind his gaze, something unspoken yet deeply commanding. His rough-shaven face, angular and chiseled, bore the quiet wear of a man who had seen much and spoken little of it, each hard line carved by experience rather than age. His jet-black hair, swept back in deliberate disarray, revealed the subtle intrusion of silver at the roots.
Strapped across his back was a sleek, black case, long and narrow, its design hinting at the presence of something more than a mere instrument, something far deadlier than the polished exterior suggested.
A lit cigarette rested between his lips, the ember glowing faintly as tendrils of smoke curled into the night air, dissipating in lazy spirals. His brown eyes, sharp and calculating, moved with slow deliberation, taking in every detail of the scene before him.
They lingered first on the girl, still struggling in her captor's grasp. Then, his gaze shifted to Godric, sprawled on the ground, bloodied but still bristling with defiance. Finally, his attention settled on the guards, as if already determining their worth—or lack thereof.
"Well, I'll be damned," the man drawled, exhaling a slow stream of smoke as he took the cigarette between his fingers. His voice was smooth, deliberate, carrying an accent that felt out of place—gritty yet polished, almost from another time. "All this way, through the magical asscrack of time and space, only to find myself right back where I started. Same damned shit, different wrapper."
"Truth be told, as a Brooklyn boy, I've seen enough badges in my time to know when they're pinned to slime. And if there's one universal truth across every world, it's that dirty cops never change." His lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile, more like a weary acknowledgment of an old, familiar disappointment. "So tell me, boys—what's the going rate for selling your soul these days?"
The guard's grip on his wand tightened, his knuckles whitening as frustration bled into his voice. "What the hell is it with you lot tonight?" he snarled, his patience fraying at the edges. "One shady judge gets taken out by some masked vigilante, and now every two-bit wannabe thinks he's the hero of the damned story."
His glare flicked between the newcomer and Godric, lips curling into a sneer. "Tell me, old man, you got a death wish, or are you just too stupid to mind your own business?"
The man let out a slow, unimpressed sigh. "Old man?" he echoed, raising a brow before fixing the guard with a deadpan stare. "I'm forty, you backward-ass little shit." He dragged a hand down his face as if physically restraining himself from saying more. "You know what—let's cut through the bullshit. How about I make you a deal?"
He tapped his loafer against the ground, a seemingly casual gesture that somehow made the air feel heavier, more charged. "You let these kids go, and I pretend I never saw you. No reports. No witnesses. No mess."
He spread his hands in a slow, deliberate motion. "It's late. I'm tired. You're tired. Your friends and family probably think you're off doing something respectable. So let's keep it that way. We go our separate ways, and this never has to be a problem for any of us."
The guards exchanged uneasy glances, their confidence wavering for the first time. But the one with the wand now had it trained on the man, removing his boot from Godric's chest as he stepped forward, the tip of his wand flaring to life with a dangerous glow. "And why the hell would we do that?"
The others followed suit, hands tightening around the hilts of their swords, some gripping their wands.
But the man in the suit didn't so much as twitch. If anything, his expression only grew colder. He took a slow, deliberate drag from his cigarette, holding it for a moment before exhaling a lazy stream of smoke, as if none of this was worth the effort it would take to care.
"Because…" his voice dropped just enough to make the hairs on the back of their necks rise. "It'll be a hell of a lot easier than having mommy dearest explain to your kids why daddy ain't ever coming home."
"Is that so?" the guard sneered, stepping toward him, wand still raised. "Because from where I'm standing, the only explanation we'll be needing is how two unfortunate fools wound up floating face-down in the canal after a regrettable accident." His words dripped with smug confidence, bolstered by the nods and muttered grunts of agreement from his comrades.
The man in the suit let out a quiet sigh, flicking his cigarette into the air. He raised his hands in mock surrender, head tilting ever so slightly.
And then he moved.
It was fast—too fast.
Before the guard could react, before the burning cigarette even hit the ground, the man seized his wrist in an iron grip, wrenching it violently aside. In that same instant, his free hand dropped to his waist, fingers curling around something black, sleek, and metallic.
The alleyway erupted with sound.
A deafening series of explosions tore through the air, bursts of fire and light flashing in the darkness. Godric barely had time to cover his ears, but even then, the ringing in his skull was unbearable. The first guard with the wand lurched backward, his chest erupting in red as he crumpled to the ground.
The others barely had time to register what had happened before the sharp, brutal cracks rang out again—one shot, one body. Another. Then another. The last two never had a chance to draw their weapons before they collapsed in lifeless heaps, blood pooling beneath them.
The entire confrontation was over in the span of three heartbeats. By the time the cigarette and almost a dozen brass shells hit the ground, the last guard had already crumpled, lifeless, to the floor.
Only one remained.
He lay sprawled on the cobblestones, blood seeping into his uniform from two clean holes in his chest. His breaths came in ragged, wet gasps, a tremor overtaking his limbs as he forced his head up to look at the man who had just slaughtered his comrades. His lips parted, a thick dribble of blood slipping past them.
"W… what did you…?" he wheezed.
The man leveled his weapon, the barrel steady, unwavering. It was unlike anything the guard had ever seen. The way the man held it, fingers curled around the grip with effortless familiarity, made it clear—this was a tool of execution in the hands of someone who knew exactly how to use it.
When he spoke again, the teasing edge from earlier was gone, stripped away like a mask no longer needed. "People like you are supposed to stand for something." His finger flexed against the trigger. "Protect and serve? Uphold the law? Justice?" His breath hitched slightly, as if something inside him had cracked. "Remember?"
"Please…" the guard choked out. "I—I've got a family. A wife. Kids." His hand lifted slightly, fingers twitching in a feeble, desperate plea for mercy.
The man didn't even blink.
"They're better off without you."
He stepped past the trembling man and pulled the trigger. The final shot rang out, echoing off the stone walls. The guard's body jolted before going completely still, his lifeless eyes staring up at the sky. And just like that, the alley fell silent again.
The man slid his weapon back into its holster with the ease of someone who had done it a thousand times before. With a slow, deliberate motion, he dusted off his jacket, stepping over the lifeless bodies without so much as a glance. His expression remained stoic as he approached the girl.
He stopped just short of her, tilting his head slightly. "You alright?"
She swallowed hard, nodding despite the lingering fear in her wide blue eyes. "Yes, thank you, Mister—"
"Nobody," he cut in, his tone making it clear there'd be no further elaboration. His eyes flickered over her once more, scanning her face, her stance, the way she clutched herself as if to keep from shaking. "You got somewhere to go?"
"I was supposed to be on the airship to Caerleon, but they had to reschedule," she admitted. "I was on my way to the inn when…" Her gaze flickered to the bodies of the guards, her lips pressing into a thin line.
Nobody let out a dry scoff, shaking his head. "Yeah, figures." He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his dark hair before fixing the girl with a level stare. "Don't take this the wrong way, sweetheart, but a girl like you? You stand out. And in a place like this, that's a problem."
His tone edged with something far too knowing. "Where I'm from, slavery's a relic of the past. Hell, we even fought a war to end it. Here? It's alive, thriving, and a whole lot meaner. If you don't want to end up as some fat bastard's personal toy, you'd do well to stick to the main streets from now on."
"Far as I know, snatching people off the street and selling them like pound puppies is still illegal," Nobody muttered, lighting another cigarette with an effortless flick of his lighter bearing the reds, whites and blues of an unfamiliar flag. "But paperwork's a funny thing. A few forged documents, a couple of bribes in the right places, and suddenly, you're not a person anymore. Just cargo."
He turned away, already making his way toward Godric, his steps unhurried, casual. But just before he moved out of earshot, he tossed one last remark over his shoulder.
"Oh, and one more thing—just because someone wears a badge doesn't mean they ain't rotten. Some of the worst monsters I've met had the law on their side. Keep that in mind."
Nobody crouched beside Godric, his gaze sweeping over the younger man's disheveled, barely-conscious state. With a muttered curse, he grabbed the front of Godric's jacket and hauled him upright with little effort. Godric groaned, limbs deadweight, the stench of whiskey clinging to him like cheap cologne.
"Jesus Christ, kid," Nobody scoffed, throwing one of Godric's arms over his shoulder, practically carrying him toward the entrance of the alley. "What the hell'd you do? Go skinny-dipping in a barrel of Jack?"
Before stepping out, he glanced back at the girl. "Grab your stuff and follow me. Got a spare bed you can crash in for the night."
Her eyes widened. "No, I couldn't possibly intrude—"
"Look, you got two options," he cut in, nodding toward the bloodied bodies of the guards. "You come with me, or you roll the dice at that inn and pray you don't run into more of their kind," he said, a matter-of-factly.
"And yeah, I know it's rich, me telling you to be careful about strangers right after that speech about dirty cops." He sighed, adjusting Godric's weight against him. "But I ain't that kind of sleazebag. And you ain't my type."
She wanted to protest, to insist she could take care of herself, but something about the way he spoke—the frankness, the lack of ulterior motive—made her pause. Against all logic, she nodded, moving quickly to grab her belongings before falling into step behind him.
Nobody cast her a sidelong glance. "Got a name?" he asked.
She hesitated, as if weighing whether to answer, before finally speaking.
"Jeanne," she said. "Jeanne d'Arc."
Nobody exhaled sharply, a half-smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Of course it is."