Chapter 233 - 214: A Tale Of Mills

Chapter 233: Chapter 214: A Tale Of Mills

The unmistakable smell of mold and stagnant water lingered throughout the hallway despite the sharper scent of disinfectant and bleach mixed into the warm air drifting from the old heating system. Salazar’s emerald eyes moved across every corner as they walked, taking in the condition of the building with an increasingly dark expression. The faded paint had begun peeling away in broad strips, sections of trim between the walls and ceiling were either cracked or missing entirely, and the parquet flooring beneath their feet was so worn that some pieces had been taped down while others had simply been left loose over the concrete.

In several places, entire sections of plaster had fallen away from the walls, exposing wooden frames, insulation, and aging pipes beneath, while the heater vents were stained orange with rust and some of the grilles had corroded so badly they looked as though a firm touch might cause them to crumble.

Every few steps seemed to tighten something within Salazar further. His gaze caught on a red bucket sitting against one wall, already half full as water dripped steadily from a brown stain spreading across the ceiling above it. Green moss had begun creeping around the edges of the damp patch, and the sight drew a sharp breath through his nose as he continued behind Helga and Rowena, both of whom followed Denora deeper into East Eden.

Two children suddenly rounded the corner ahead, chasing one another down the hallway with bright laughter echoing behind them. One was an elf and the other human, both young girls who looked entirely absorbed in whatever game they had invented, though the sight of the black collars around their necks immediately tempered the warmth of the moment.

"Girls, please don’t run in the hallway," Denora called after them. "You’re going to hurt yourselves."

"Don’t worry, Miss Denora, we’ll be careful!" one of them called back before the pair disappeared around another corner.

Denora shook her head, still carrying the little fox therian in her arms, though a fond smile appeared despite herself. "Honestly, those two." She watched the empty corridor for another second before continuing. "It does my heart good seeing children actually get the chance to be children."

Her smile faded as they resumed walking.

"I only wish they could stay that way," she said quietly. "Happy, innocent, and unaware of what the world expects from people wearing these collars, especially girls."

Rowena’s expression tightened. "If you don’t mind me asking, why are there so many more girls here than boys?" Her sapphire eyes shifted toward the fox child, who had gradually fallen asleep against Denora’s shoulder. "Surely the Guild sees value in both."

"They do," Denora replied. "Men are generally sought after for physical labor. Mining, farming, transport, construction, anything that requires strength and endurance." Her gaze lowered. "But they aren’t always considered as valuable because there are plenty of desperate workers who can be exploited without actually being owned. Employers can underpay someone and still avoid the expense of feeding, housing, and clothing them."

She hesitated before continuing, and that pause alone was enough to change the expressions of all three. "Women are different," Denora said. "There are certain kinds of demand that have nothing to do with labor, and there are people willing to pay a great deal to satisfy them."

Helga’s expression went slack as one hand rose toward her mouth, while Rowena’s face visibly hardened.

Salazar’s eyes narrowed. "I rather regret having to ask," he said, noticeably quieter, "but am I correct in assuming you’re speaking from experience?"

Denora did not answer immediately, though the faint motion of her head eventually confirmed it.

"The moment this collar closes around your neck, you stop being treated like a person," she said. "You become property, no different from a chair or a table except that you can speak and move. Your choices stop belonging to you, and so do your wants, your needs, and your right to refuse." Her fingers rose toward the obsidian collar around her throat. "The Guild has rules against severe abuse and murder, of course, but those protections don’t mean much when a slave can be compelled to obey whatever order they’re given.".

Rowena’s eyes settled on the collar. "The Dicio command spell."

Denora nodded.

Helga tilted her head, clearly lost. "Huh? The what now?"

"Dicio, Helga," Rowena said, though the distaste in her expression made it obvious she hated the comparison she was about to make. "The easiest way to understand it is to think of the Imperius Curse, except woven specifically into every registered slave collar."

Helga’s amber eyes widened as the implication settled in, and the confusion on her face gave way to horror.

"A master doesn’t have to use it constantly," Rowena explained. "But once the Dicio is activated, it overrides the wearer’s resistance and forces them to obey, even if every part of them is fighting against the command." Her expression tightened. "And resisting only makes it worse. Some former slaves have described the pain as being almost as unbearable as the Cruciatus Curse."

Helga stared at her. "But that’s... that’s horrible."

"It is," Rowena said. "Although the Mandatum is still restricted by what the Guild calls the Three Laws. The first states that a slave cannot harm their master or knowingly allow their master to come to harm. The second requires a slave to obey their master except where doing so would conflict with the first law, while the third allows a slave to defend themselves so long as that defense does not violate either of the first two."

Her expression soured as she continued. "Violating those conditions is treated as a breach of the Ius Servitium, which gives the Guild grounds for punishment or other penalties."

"Exactly," Denora said. "The law is written to sound orderly and restrained, but when you’re the one wearing the collar, you quickly learn who those rules were actually designed to protect."

Salazar looked toward Rowena with one eyebrow raised. "My word, Rowena. For someone who so thoroughly despises the Authority, although perhaps not quite as passionately as Godric and I do, you seem to possess an impressive treasure trove of knowledge concerning its more repugnant mechanisms."

Rowena rolled her eyes and folded her arms. "Knowing how something works doesn’t mean I approve of it, Salazar. If anything, understanding the system gives us a better chance of knowing where it can be challenged." Her gaze shifted toward him. "Besides, I’m pretty sure you’d agree that knowing your enemy is the first step toward beating them."

Salazar’s mouth curved into the faintest smile. "On that, my dear Rowena, you and I are entirely in agreement," he said as they turned a corner.

The scent of something simmering on a stove drifted through one of the open doorways as they passed, leading into what appeared to be a modestly sized dining hall with rows of tables and chairs arranged across the floor. Along the left wall ran a long serving counter lined with shelves and metal frames meant to hold pots, trays, and containers during meals. Helga caught the smell almost immediately, and whatever unease had been lingering on her face disappeared beneath sudden interest.

"Mmm, something smells really good," she said, lifting her chin slightly as she sniffed the air. "Is that pottage? I’m getting carrots, potatoes, celery, maybe radish, and... a little lemon?"

Denora chuckled. "You have quite the nose, Miss Helga," she said, earning a pleased blush from Helga. "But no, not quite. It’s gruel."

Salazar raised an eyebrow, his expression twisting at the word alone. "And pray tell, what in the name of Scáthach is gruel? Because I must confess, the name alone sounds thoroughly unappetizing."

"It’s basically a peasant dish," Rowena explained, though her expression had already begun to dim. "Oats, wheat, rye, rice, whatever grain happens to be available, boiled down in water until it thickens. Sometimes other ingredients are added, but I’m guessing that depends entirely on what people can afford."

Denora nodded. "Pretty much. What we serve here is whatever we can buy cheaply or manage to get donated. Merchants sometimes sell us grain that’s too old, damaged, or misshapen to put on their regular shelves. Butchers give us trimmings, bones, and scraps from better cuts, and fishmongers will occasionally pass along fish they would have thrown out at the end of the day."

She glanced toward the dining hall. "Restaurants do the same with vegetables, leftovers, and whatever parts they don’t plan to use." Her smile returned, although there was something resigned beneath it. "We throw everything into a pot, add water, and if we’re lucky, enough seasoning to make it taste like something. It isn’t exactly good food, but when you’re trying to feed this many people, filling their stomachs matters more than making it fancy."

Helga’s earlier enthusiasm faded, her eyes drifting toward the doorway again.

Denora gave a small shrug. "It’s not much, but anything is better than going hungry."

They eventually came to a door with a frosted glass window, the words Administrator’s Office still clinging to its surface in faded lettering, though several of the letters had either peeled away or worn down enough to make the title look incomplete. The frame itself had seen better years, with scuffs running along the wood, chips missing from the edges, and splintered sections where the varnish had long since worn away. Even the doorknob had begun to oxidize, its once-bright metal dulled beneath a greenish tarnish.

Denora raised her hand and knocked softly.

"Come in," a gruff voice called from inside.

She turned the knob and pushed the door inward, revealing an office barely larger than two cubicles placed side by side. Steel filing cabinets crowded the corners, several packed so tightly that their drawers no longer closed properly, while stacks of folders covered nearly every available surface. Files tied together with red cord had been piled on shelves, cupboards, and even the floor, forming uneven towers that looked one careless movement away from collapsing. Muted sunlight filtered through grime-streaked windows and narrow gaps in the blinds, catching drifting specks of dust as it fell across an old wooden desk that had clearly survived decades of use and looked almost comically undersized beneath the broad-framed orc seated behind it.

Ruben looked up from the document in front of him, the quill in his hand stopping halfway across the page. He peered over a pair of reading glasses at the unexpected visitors before recognition brightened his expression. A smile spread across his face as he removed the spectacles and set them beside the quill.

"Well, now, this is a surprise." He pushed himself to his feet and immediately seemed to fill half the room, his height and sheer build forcing all three students to crane their necks upward.

"Miss Ravenclaw, Miss Hufflepuff," he greeted before his hazel eyes shifted toward Salazar. "And, of course, Mister Slytherin." He spread his arms toward the cramped office with a broad grin. "Welcome to our humble abode." His gaze wandered briefly across the crowded filing cabinets and leaning towers of paperwork. "Although, as you can probably tell, I’m using the word humble rather generously."

"The pleasure is ours, Mister Caryon," Rowena said with a polite dip of her head.

Ruben immediately raised one hand and gave an awkward laugh. "Please, Mister Caryon is my father. Just Ruben. I already have enough reminders of how old I’m getting without three academy students adding another one." He came around the desk to greet them properly. "So, what brings you all the way out to East Eden?"

"Well, we figured we’d finally take you up on your invitation," Helga said with her usual brightness. "Come by, look around, see what one of these sanctuaries is actually like." Her smile softened as her eyes briefly moved around the office. "I just... didn’t realize things were this bad."

Ruben and Denora exchanged a brief look before Denora glanced down at the sleeping fox child resting against her shoulder.

"Well, I think this little one could use a proper nap," she said, adjusting the girl carefully in her arms. "If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to put her to bed. I’ll be back shortly, but until then, please make yourselves at home."

"Take care, Denora," Salazar said with a courteous nod.

The elf smiled before stepping back into the hallway. The young therian’s ears twitched faintly in her sleep, her tail giving one lazy flick before Denora gently closed the door behind them.

Ruben waited until she was gone before returning to his desk. "Bad, Miss Hufflepuff, is putting it mildly." He lowered himself into his chair, and the worn leather creaked loudly beneath his weight before he gestured toward the two chairs positioned in front of the desk. His gaze then shifted apologetically toward Salazar. "Afraid I don’t have a third one."

Salazar glanced around at the cabinets, paperwork, and narrow stretches of floor barely wide enough to move through. "No apology necessary, Ruben. I’m perfectly comfortable standing."

Helga and Rowena exchanged a look before pulling the chairs closer and sitting down.

Salazar clasped his hands behind his back as his attention returned to Ruben. "That being said, do correct me if I’ve misunderstood something. You previously mentioned that Caerleon is officially recognized as a Sanctuary City, and that a portion of the levies imposed upon the Guild is directed toward funding places such as this."

Ruben nodded slowly. Salazar’s eyes moved over the battered office once more, and a thin smile touched his mouth, though there was little humor behind it. "Unless there is some rather nefarious bookkeeping taking place somewhere along the way, I would have imagined the havens to be considerably better funded than this."

"You’re not entirely wrong," Ruben said as he leaned back, the old chair protesting beneath him, "but you’re not entirely right either. Yes, the city gives us a decent amount of funding. The problem is that East Eden isn’t the only sanctuary in Caerleon. There are at least a dozen others scattered across the city, some larger, some smaller, and a few in even worse shape than this one."

He let out a tired breath and gestured around the office. "Once you divide that money between utilities, food, clothing, repairs, housing, medicine, and everything else it takes to keep these places running, there isn’t much left. And most of what we do have left ends up going toward legal representation."

Rowena frowned. "Even with barristers working pro bono?"

"Especially with barristers working pro bono," Ruben replied. "They can waive their fees, but there are still court filings, documentation, travel, specialist consultations, and more cases than any one person can reasonably handle. We’ve got dozens upon dozens of slaves needing representation, and one barrister can only be in so many courtrooms at once."

He leaned forward and rested his forearms on the desk. "And barristers aren’t interchangeable. Someone who specializes in Ius Avalonian, general Avalonian law, might know next to nothing about Sanctism Law, trade law, or the specific provisions of the Ius Servitium. Slave Law is its own miserable little maze, and there simply aren’t many barristers willing to specialize in it."

Salazar folded his arms and raised an eyebrow. "And why, precisely, would that be?"

Ruben looked back at him, the tips of his tusks catching the dull sunlight spilling through the blinds. "Because not many people want to make an enemy of the Authority or the Union," he said. "Taking these cases means challenging the Guild, challenging powerful owners, and sometimes challenging people with enough money or influence to make your life very unpleasant."

He paused before a faint grin pulled at one corner of his mouth. "Most barristers don’t have the stomach for that kind of fight." His eyes moved between the three students. "Unlike you and your friends, apparently."

Ruben folded his arms across his chest. "With that in mind, you can probably guess that barristers who specialize in the Ius Servitium tend to charge a pretty penny."

Salazar opened his mouth, but Ruben caught the objection before it could leave him. "And before you start talking about justice, righteousness, and the moral obligation to help those in need, Mister Slytherin, I’m sure you’re familiar with the old saying that if you’re good at something, you should never do it for free."

Salazar’s reply stalled before it ever reached his lips.

"Believe me, I understand the sentiment," Ruben continued. "We all like to imagine a better world, one where compassion, mercy, and basic decency are enough to move people into doing the right thing without expecting anything in return. Unfortunately, that isn’t the world we live in."

He eased slightly in his chair. "There are people in Caerleon who are more charitable than others, and I won’t pretend otherwise. A few weeks ago, for example, we received a very generous donation from someone who said it was his way of giving back after a group of slaves saved his life during the Norsefire occupation and eventually the Siege."

A faint smile touched his face. "People like that remind you there’s still some good left in the world, but donations are unpredictable. Some months we receive more than we expect, and others we barely scrape together enough to keep the lights on. You can’t build something like this around the hope that strangers will always be feeling generous."

The large orc leaned forward again, resting his arms across the battered desk as his expression softened.

"That’s not why I do this anyway. I’m not here for money, and I sure as hell don’t need anyone praising me for it." His gaze drifted briefly toward the office door. "There’s already too much suffering in this world, and I refuse to believe some people were born into it for no other reason than to hurt."

His words grew quieter. "Most of the children in our care were born slaves. They had collars put around their necks before they were old enough to understand what those collars meant, sometimes before they could even speak."

Helga’s expression fell, while Rowena lowered her gaze. Salazar’s fingers tightened against his sleeve where his arms remained folded.

"If they’re lucky, they end up with owners who treat them decently," Ruben said, though the bitterness in his tone made the word lucky sound almost obscene. "They’re fed, clothed, given somewhere warm to sleep, and maybe allowed enough kindness that they can convince themselves their lives could have been worse."

His hands slowly curled into fists atop the desk. "Others aren’t so fortunate." A heavy silence settled over the office as Ruben looked between them. "I don’t think I need to explain what that means."

"No," Salazar said, his jaw tightening. "You most certainly do not."

His emerald eyes darkened as he stared toward the floor for a moment before looking back at Ruben. "And by the Gods, whatever foul creature presides over the deepest pit of whatever hell awaits us had better reserve a particularly exquisite corner for such people. I can think of few souls more deserving of whatever torment finds them after they leave this world."

Ruben let out a deep, hearty laugh, though it faded almost as quickly as it came. "By the Gods, lad, that’s a wish I’d give just about anything to see come true." His expression darkened as he leaned back in his chair. "And may those same Gods have mercy on my soul when my own time comes."

Rowena raised an eyebrow. "Whatever do you mean by that?"

Ruben looked at the three of them for a long moment before answering. "You remember when we first met, how Commander Khan knew me by name?" he asked. "That wasn’t because of the work I do now. It was because of what I used to do." His shoulders sagged slightly. "For once upon a time, I too was an Agent of the Authority."

Silence settled over the office as the revelation hit them. Helga’s eyes widened, Rowena stared at him in disbelief, and even Salazar’s expression lost its usual sharpness.

"And it wasn’t just me," Ruben continued. "My father served, and so did his father, and his father before him. My mother, my brothers and sisters, my uncles, my cousins, nearly everyone in my family wore the Authority’s colors at one point or another." A bitter laugh escaped him. "I suppose you could call it tradition. One big, happy family under the Guild’s banner, enforcing the Ius Servitium generation after generation."

His gaze drifted toward an old photograph hanging on the wall. The frame was chipped and faded, while dust clouded much of the glass, but the image beneath remained clear enough to make out a dozen orcs of different ages, all wearing the unmistakable gray uniforms of the Authority.

"When I came of age, I followed the same path. My father was so proud when I graduated, and the entire family celebrated like I’d finally become the man I was supposed to be." Ruben’s mouth tightened. "For a long time, I believed them. I thought that was what I wanted too." A shadow passed across his face. "I had no idea how wrong I was."

None of the three interrupted him.

"It took about three years before I finally understood what the job was doing to me," Ruben said. His fists tightened atop the desk. "I watched people I worked beside. People I respected, even members of my own family, treat slaves like livestock. It didn’t matter how much they cried, begged, pleaded, or screamed. To them, it was just noise coming from property."

His jaw tightened as he looked away.

"And when they thought nobody important was watching, some of them would take the girls somewhere private and..." His words faltered, and he brought one hand over his mouth before shaking his head. "By the Old Gods in Elysium..."

The silence in the room grew heavier.

"I’d go home every night feeling sick. The badge felt like a weight strapped to my chest, and no matter how much I washed, I still felt filthy." He stared at the desk as he spoke. "Then the holidays would come around, and I’d sit with my family listening to them trade stories about the job. When I was younger, they were just stories. No faces, no names, no people attached to them. But after I’d seen it for myself, hearing them laugh about those same things, hearing how much some of them enjoyed it..." He swallowed hard. "It turned my stomach."

Ruben drew in a sharp breath and let it out slowly.

"For a long time, I stayed quiet. Part of it was fear, but mostly it was because I loved my family. And more than anything, I couldn’t stand the thought of disappointing my father." His expression hardened. "Eventually, that stopped being enough. I couldn’t do it anymore."

He looked back at them. "The day I resigned from the Authority was the day my family unblooded me."

Helga blinked. "Un... blooded?"

"It’s an orc term," Rowena answered. "It can mean an orc who hasn’t yet proven themselves in battle, but in another context..." Her sapphire eyes turned solemn. "It refers to someone cast out from their tribe. They’re marked as a disgrace and forbidden from returning, sometimes under pain of death."

Ruben gave a small nod. "As knowledgeable as ever, Miss Ravenclaw."

His gaze dropped again. "I’ve never seen my father so furious, but what I remember most wasn’t the anger. It was the shame," he said. "I respected that man my entire life. I loved him, and even now there are days when I’d give just about anything to sit across from him and hear his voice again." He paused before lifting his eyes. "But I’d rather spend the rest of my life as an exile than waste another day pretending to be someone I’m not."

Salazar smiled softly as his gaze settled on the orc. "You sound almost apologetic for the man you once were, though I would argue you’ve little reason to diminish what it took to become the man you are now. It requires a tremendous amount of courage to realize that what you were raised to consider normal was anything but."

He gestured lightly with one hand. "You saw the world for yourself, drew your own conclusions, and decided you wanted no further part in what your family had taught you. More importantly, you did not merely walk away from it. You chose to become the very change you wished to see in the world." His expression warmed. "For whatever it may be worth, Ruben, you have my admiration."

Ruben’s expression softened. "That’s rather kind of you to say."

"Still, an entire family devoted to the Authority..." Rowena sighed as she leaned back slightly in her chair. "I suppose I shouldn’t find it strange, considering my own family and everything I was raised around. We’re all shaped by the homes we grow up in, whether we like to admit it or not. If my ancestors had chosen a different path, I could easily have become someone entirely different too."

Helga chuckled. "I don’t know, imagining Row being mean to slaves is kind of funny. You’d probably lecture them on proper grammar while doing it."

Rowena slowly turned toward her with a scowl. "Helga."

Ruben laughed deeply at the exchange before shaking his head. "Believe me, Miss Ravenclaw, I’m ashamed to admit there was a time when I thought exactly like the rest of my family. I genuinely believed people in chains were beneath me, and I never stopped long enough to question why."

His smile faded into something more reflective. "The part I find painfully ironic now is that while we spent our lives putting chains on others, we never realized how many we wore ourselves. Pride, prejudice, tradition, loyalty to people simply because they shared our blood. Those can bind someone just as tightly as iron."

He rested one hand against the desk. "Back then, I could never understand why people spat at my feet, refused me service, or hurled insults at me whenever I walked into certain parts of the city. I convinced myself it was because I was an orc. It never occurred to me that most of them weren’t looking at my tusks."

His gaze drifted toward the old photograph on the wall. "They were looking at the badge I wore so proudly on my chest." A faint smile returned. "Now some of those same people shake my hand when they see me. They offer a seat at their table, call me friend, and sometimes they even tell me I’m a hero." Ruben gave a quiet chuckle. "I don’t know if I deserve that word, but I’ll admit it feels better than anything the Authority ever gave me. Better than money, better than rank, and certainly better than fear."

His hazel eyes shifted toward Salazar, and the smile on his face became a little more knowing. "I imagine that’s a feeling you’ve started to appreciate yourself, eh, Slytherin?"

Salazar’s cheeks immediately colored as he cleared his throat and looked away, suddenly finding something beyond the grimy window intensely interesting. Helga snickered under her breath while Rowena’s smile widened.

"My dear Ruben," Salazar said after recovering some measure of dignity, "I believe we were discussing your personal revelations, not mine."

"Of course," Ruben said with a chuckle. "But I think I’ve bored all three of you with my life story long enough." He pushed his chair back and rose to his feet, stretching slightly before looking around the cramped office. "Besides, there’s plenty of work to be done around here."

Helga was on her feet almost immediately, her earlier solemnity giving way to sudden enthusiasm. "Oh, oh, can I use the kitchen?"

Ruben raised an eyebrow at her.

Helga beamed. "I mean, you’ve already got lunch going, but I could probably put something together for supper. Believe me, I’ve learned how to make do with a lot less. Back home, when you grow up helping feed seven kids who could probably eat an entire nation into famine, Mama Hufflepuff picks up a trick or two." She planted her hands proudly on her hips, her grin widening. "Thankfully, she passed more than a few of them down to me."

Ruben laughed. "Well, if you’re that confident, I won’t stand in your way. Surprise us."

Helga’s grin widened immediately.

"I suppose I could spend some time with the children," Rowena said as she rose from her chair. "Maybe teach them how to read, write, and work through some basic arithmetic."

Ruben opened his mouth, but Rowena lifted a hand before he could say anything.

"And yes, I’m well aware that the Ius Servitium forbids slaves from receiving a formal education." Her sapphire eyes hardened. "I also couldn’t care less. Everyone deserves the right to learn, and if the Authority has a problem with that, they’re more than welcome to come find me."

Salazar let out an amused laugh. "My word, it would appear our wayward Gryffindor has rubbed off on you considerably more than I first realized."

Rowena shot him a glare, which only sharpened his smile.

"As for me," Salazar continued, turning his attention toward Ruben, "I believe I shall see what can be done about the state of this building. There appears to be no shortage of things desperately in need of repair."

Ruben blinked. "That would certainly help, but we’ve had several workmen look over the place already. Some of them said there are things here that are simply too far gone to salvage."

Salazar’s mouth curled into an assured smirk. "Then, they quite clearly lack my particular talents. There is, after all, a reason they are mere workmen and I am an elite student of Excalibur Academy." He turned toward the door before anyone could respond. "I presume we shall reconvene for supper?"

Without waiting for an answer, Salazar opened the door and stepped into the hallway.

Rowena pinched the bridge of her nose and slowly shook her head. "You’ll have to forgive him. Every now and then, he gets his nose so high in the air that he forgets there’s a world beneath it." She sighed. "I swear there isn’t a mountain in all of Avalon large enough to contain that head of his."

Helga chuckled. "A mountain?" She shook her head. "Row, you’d need an ocean."

Ruben laughed as he came around the desk. "The lad’s still young. Modesty has a habit of being one of those lessons people learn with age, and believe me, I speak from experience." He gestured toward the door and motioned for them to follow. "Come on, then. I’ll show you where the kitchen is," he said to Helga before glancing toward Rowena. "And I’ll take you to the living quarters afterward. I’m sure the children will be more than happy to see a new face."

Rowena rose fully from her chair, and together she and Helga followed Ruben out of the office and back into the hallway.

****

The hours slipped away within the sanctuary as the sun sank steadily toward the horizon, casting long amber rays across the lifeless grays of the Projects. The fading light stretched over cracked pavements, derelict parks, stained alleyways, and neighborhoods that looked as though the rest of Caerleon had long since forgotten them. Raised voices carried between the buildings, arguments spilling from windows and street corners with enough venom that anyone passing through might assume some of them would inevitably come to blows. Yet within the worn walls of East Eden, life continued as steadily as it could.

To the slaves living beneath its roof, the sanctuary was more than a building. For many of them, it was the closest thing they had ever known to a world of their own. Every room, every corridor, every battered floorboard represented a little more freedom than they had possessed before arriving there. However small or temporary that freedom might be, every square foot of East Eden had become hallowed ground simply because, within those walls, they could exist without immediately answering to a master.

Helga spent most of the day in the kitchen, and the longer she worked, the heavier the reality of the sanctuary settled upon her. The facilities were barely holding together, while the pantry looked as though it had been stocked from whatever scraps the rest of Caerleon no longer wanted. Half-filled sacks of grain, oats, and rye leaned against the walls, while vegetables and cuts of meat sat dangerously close to spoiling. Even many of the jars, tins, and preserved goods had passed their recommended dates. The rest amounted to little more than bones, skin, cartilage, trimmings, and other pieces most people would have discarded without a second thought, and Helga had little doubt that was exactly where much of it had come from.

Still, she refused to let that stop her. By late afternoon, several pots simmered across the stove, a roasting pan sat inside the oven, and a number of finished dishes had already been transferred into serving trays. Helga had stretched every ingredient as far as she could, coaxing flavor from bones, salvaging vegetables others might have dismissed, and turning scraps into something that smelled far better than anyone would have expected from what she had started with. The aroma gradually drifted beyond the kitchen and into the dining hall, drawing more than a few curious faces toward the doorway.

Some of the residents simply stood there and breathed it in. A few of the children whispered to one another with wide eyes, while more than one stomach rumbled loudly enough to be heard across the room. Helga could only chuckle whenever it happened, though each sound tightened something in her chest when she realized how unfamiliar the smell of a genuinely good meal seemed to many of them.

Rowena, meanwhile, spent most of the day with the children in the living quarters. A narrow bookshelf stood near the far wall, filled with books that had clearly seen better years. Several had torn covers, frayed bindings, missing pages, or stains from moisture, though most remained readable. Dust had gathered across the shelves from years of disuse, which hardly surprised her given the laws surrounding slave education.

One particular book, however, made her pause.

Lumea and the Starbound Tree.

The sight of it softened her expression almost immediately. She remembered all too well that it had been Raine’s favorite story, and perhaps because of that, Rowena found herself pulling it from the shelf. Some instinct told her that the children here might love it just as much, and she was right.

What began as a simple story soon turned into something more. Between Chapters, Rowena started teaching them the alphabet, showing them how individual letters formed sounds and how those sounds became words. Numbers followed soon after, then simple counting, basic arithmetic, and eventually short sentences written carefully across scraps of parchment. What surprised her most was not their difficulty in learning, but their eagerness. Even several teenagers joined in, watching with the same quiet fascination as the younger children when the strange markings they had spent their entire lives staring at finally began to carry meaning.

For some of them, it was the first time a written page had ever spoken back.

Salazar spent his day almost entirely on the opposite end of the sanctuary’s problems. From the attic down through every floor, room, hallway, and utility space, he combed through the building piece by piece, repairing whatever he could with wandwork and more than a little stubbornness. Leaks were sealed, rusted pipes replaced, damaged sections of flooring reinforced, and the heating system coaxed back into proper function after years of neglect. Cracked plaster closed beneath careful transfiguration, peeling sections of wall were restored, and the crystal lighting finally stopped flickering every few minutes.

The irony, however, was not lost on him. With every repair, some part of Salazar grudgingly suspected he might owe Professor Duchannes an apology for the number of times he had dismissed the practical usefulness of transfiguration. Broken furniture could be repurposed into replacement parts, damaged materials reshaped into something useful, and even a number of pests inhabiting the building found themselves suddenly contributing to society in ways they had almost certainly never anticipated. By Salazar’s reasoning, if a rat or insect insisted on occupying the sanctuary without paying rent, the least it could do was become something that helped keep the place standing.

There was still far more work to be done than one afternoon could possibly solve, but by the time evening settled over the Projects, the difference was impossible to ignore. The lights no longer flickered overhead, water no longer dripped steadily into buckets, and several of the more dangerous holes in the floors and walls had disappeared entirely. Even Ruben, after walking through the building and inspecting Salazar’s handiwork, had been forced to admit that perhaps the young Slytherin was not entirely composed of arrogance and hot air after all.

By the time the clock struck five, Helga wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of one hand and let out a long breath, planting the other firmly on her hip as she surveyed the fruits of several hours of work. A large pot of porridge sat warming on one stove, a hearty stew simmered beside it, and several trays of pudding had already been set aside to cool. Better still, she had managed to put everything together without emptying the pantry, leaving more than enough ingredients behind for the days ahead.

A wide grin spread across her face as pride settled warmly in her chest. Even Mama Hufflepuff would have taken one look at what she had managed with so little, patted her on the back, and given her an approving thumbs-up.

Helga’s amber eyes drifted toward the clock, and when she realized there was still time to help set the tables before supper, she removed her apron and headed for the door. The moment she stepped from the kitchen into the dining hall, however, she slowed to a stop.

A girl around her age sat alone at one of the tables near the far wall, dressed in a simple white dress that had clearly been repaired more times than Helga could count. Patches covered several sections of the fabric, stitches ran visibly along the seams, and the hem had become worn and frayed with age. Her shoulder-length brown hair was neatly kept despite everything, and her hazel eyes were lowered toward the infant cradled carefully in her arms. There was a softness in the girl’s expression as she nursed the baby, one that stood in painful contrast to the black obsidian collar fastened around her neck.

Helga’s gaze lingered there for only a moment before shifting back toward the child. It did not take much imagination to understand what she was seeing, though she made certain none of that realization reached her face. Instead, she offered the girl a warm smile and walked over at an easy pace.

"Heya," Helga called gently, drawing her attention. "You doing okay?"

The girl looked up quickly, surprise flashing across her face. "Oh, I’m sorry. I hope I’m not in the way," she said, glancing around the otherwise empty dining hall. "It’s usually quiet in here around this time, so I come down here to feed her."

Helga immediately shook her head. "Nope, you’re perfectly fine. I just finished cooking anyway." She smiled and gestured toward herself. "I’m Helga, by the way. Helga Hufflepuff."

The girl’s expression eased. "Nell," she replied. "Just Nell."

Helga glanced toward the infant resting against her. "Is she yours?"

Nell’s smile returned as she looked down at the baby. "Yeah. She’s eight weeks old." Her thumb brushed gently across the child’s small hand. "I came to East Eden not long after she was born. Libertalia hit the mill where I was being held, and I managed to slip away in the confusion. Ruben found me not long after."

The word mill struck Helga harder than she expected, and some of the warmth left her expression before she could stop it. She drew in a quiet breath, forcing herself not to let the questions already forming inside her spill out all at once.

"Mind if I sit with you?"

Nell blinked, as though the question itself surprised her, before she gave a small smile. "No. Of course not."

Helga pulled out the chair beside Nell and sat down, though for a few moments she said nothing. Her hands rested loosely in her lap while she worked through the question in her head, clearly debating whether she had any right to ask it at all. Eventually, she drew in a slow breath and let it out.

"There’s something I wanna ask you," she said, meeting Nell’s hazel eyes, "but if you don’t wanna talk about it, that’s completely fine. I mean that."

Nell gave a small nod, waiting.

"You see, a while back, my friends and I got tangled up in this whole mess with some really awful people," Helga continued. She rubbed the back of her head and gave a nervous little grin. "It’s a long story, but one of my friends was in love with a slave, and the main jerk behind everything threatened to send her to the mills."

Nell’s expression changed slightly, though she remained quiet.

Helga’s smile faded. "That was the first time I really learned what the mills were. I mean, I knew they existed, but knowing something exists and actually understanding what it means are two very different things." Her fingers fidgeted together for a moment. "Ever since then, part of me’s wondered about it. Not because I think it’s interesting in some sick way, just because..." She hesitated, searching for the right words. "I guess I’ve always felt like not knowing makes it too easy to pretend something that horrible is far away."

Nell watched her more carefully now.

Helga swallowed and looked down for a moment before meeting her gaze again. "Salazar would probably call it morbid curiosity, but I think what I’m really trying to say is that I wanna understand."

She paused before asking more softly, "What was it like?"

Her amber eyes briefly flicked toward the collar around Nell’s neck before returning to her face. "The mills, I mean."

Nell took a moment before her cheeks suddenly puffed and she started laughing, leaving Helga staring at her with her lips twisted in complete bewilderment. After a few seconds, Nell wiped the tears gathering at the corners of her eyes and managed to settle herself.

"I’m sorry, Helga, I really don’t mean to laugh at you. It’s just the way you asked." She smiled apologetically. "You looked like you were terrified I was going to fall apart the second you mentioned it."

Helga opened her mouth, but Nell lowered her gaze toward the baby still nursing in her arms. "I won’t lie to you and pretend it wasn’t horrible, but the truth is, I wasn’t born free. Nobody captured me, dragged me away from my family, and forced me into that life. My mother was already a slave, and I was born in a mill, so to me, it was simply normal."

The smile slowly faded from her face. "But I’ve seen what happens to girls who weren’t, though. They came from everywhere across Avalon. Some were sold by families desperate enough to believe it was the only way to keep everyone else fed," she said. "Others were kidnapped, captured, or taken so far from home that even if they escaped, they wouldn’t have known how to get back. That’s if the Authority doesn’t get to them first."

Helga remained silent.

"You could always tell when new girls arrived," Nell continued. "They’d be brought in inside cages, and for the first few seconds there was usually this confusion on their faces, like they still couldn’t quite believe where they were. Then, they understood."

Her gaze grew distant. "That was when the screaming started. They’d pull against the chains, cry for their families, beg to be taken home, anything they thought might make someone listen." Nell shook her head faintly. "Nobody did."

Helga’s fingers curled faintly against her knees.

"The first few weeks were usually what they called the Breaking," Nell said. "The new girls were taken to a place everyone called the Corral, and that’s where it..." She hesitated, her expression tightening as she searched for words she could actually bring herself to use. "Happens... where the handlers broke them in. They made sure the girls understood exactly what kind of life was waiting for them, and what would happen if they ever tried to fight back or, worse, escape."

"It was meant to be a warning as much as anything else. A first-hand lesson in what the rest of their lives were going to look like, and a reminder that resistance always came with a price."

Her hazel eyes returned to Helga, whose face had already begun losing color. Nell noticed and softened her tone. "Don’t worry, Helga, children weren’t taken there. Even the mills had rules about that. Usually it didn’t begin until a girl was considered old enough by Guild standards." She looked uncomfortable with the phrasing herself. "Least, until she had matured. You know."

Helga swallowed.

"I went through it too," Nell continued. "But I was easier than most because my mother had spent my whole childhood teaching me how to survive. She told me never to fight back because resistance only gave them another excuse to hurt you." Her expression tightened. "Sometimes they’d deliberately hand a girl over to one of the more violent studs just to make an example out of her."

Her fingers gently stroked the baby’s blanket. "The girls who fought were restrained, and then the handlers would keep going until there was nothing left for them to fight with. They’d take turns, drag it out for hours, sometimes days, using chains, straps, stockades, whatever they thought would break someone fastest."

"By Bacchus’ butterbeer..." Helga murmured.

"There was always crying," Nell said. "Some girls started out angry. They’d curse, threaten them, swear they’d make every last one of them pay somehow. But sooner or later, the anger usually turned into tears, and the tears turned into begging." Her hazel eyes lowered. "After a while, some of them just stopped reacting altogether. You could see it in their faces, that empty look when they realized nobody was coming to help."

Nell drew a slow breath.

"I learned early not to give the handlers that satisfaction if I could help it. Some of them enjoyed fear almost as much as obedience. They wanted to see someone panic, wanted to know they were the reason she was crying." Her fingers tightened slightly around the blanket. "If you refused to give them a reaction, sometimes they lost interest and moved on to someone else."

Helga stared at her, disturbed less by the words than by how calmly Nell could say them. "As for where we lived, the easiest way to picture a mill is like a ranch," Nell continued. "There weren’t bedrooms. There were stalls. My mother and I shared one when I was little, about the size of a horse stall, with thin bedding on the floor and a corner for washing and relieving ourselves. We ate there, slept there, and spent most of our lives inside those same walls."

She hesitated. "And when I got older, they moved me into my own." Her lips trembled slightly for the first time. "After that, I never saw my mother again after that. I don’t know what happened to her. She was probably sold somewhere else."

"I’m sorry," Helga said quietly.

Nell shook her head. "You don’t have to apologize." She shifted the baby more comfortably in her arms. "Anyways, when the mill decided it was time for us to have children, everything happened in those stalls too. They chose the father based on whatever traits someone wanted, then sent him in." Her gaze dropped. "There wasn’t really anything for us to decide."

Helga’s hands slowly curled into fists in her lap.

"You could hear girls crying from the other stalls sometimes," Nell continued. "Therians were watched especially closely because of how seriously some of their cultures treat bonds. Girls who already had mates sometimes couldn’t live with what was being done to them."

Her expression grew more solemn. "I’ve seen more than a few therian girls who would rather end their own lives, and the lives growing inside them. After enough incidents, the handlers started keeping them heavily restrained and sedated through most of their pregnancies, just to make sure they survived long enough to give birth."

Helga’s stomach tightened, but Nell’s attention had already shifted downward toward the baby in her arms.

"She would be been my fourth," she said softly, and a small smile touched her lips. "My first was a boy. His father was a cat therian," Nell continued. "He and his husband wanted a child of their own, so they paid the mill for a surrogate. He’d never been with a woman before, so he was almost as uncomfortable with the arrangement as I was." She gave a quiet chuckle. "I suppose that made it less frightening than it could’ve been."

Helga could not bring herself to smile.

"My second was a girl. There wasn’t anything particularly special about that arrangement. The buyers wanted elven blood, so they chose an elf as the father." Nell’s expression tightened slightly. "He was rough, and it hurt, but it was what it was."

"My third never survived the birth." She drew in a small breath before continuing. "You see, the mills have a potion that can force the body to ovulate, and they use it pretty often on therian slaves to push them into heat." Nell’s expression tightened slightly. "They used it on me barely a day after I’d given birth to my second child, and, unsurprisingly, there were complications."

Her gaze lowered toward the baby in her arms. "I nearly died, and the doctor was furious with my master because he said the damage could have left me sterile. After that, they finally gave me some time away from the breeding stalls so I could recover. While I was resting, I helped nurse some of the other girls and their children."

Nell paused for a moment. "Thankfully, I wasn’t punished for the miscarriage."

Helga looked at her in horror. "Punished?" she asked. "What do you mean, punished? It wasn’t your fault. Gods, Nell, losing a baby is a tragedy."

"Normally, yes," Nell replied. "But in the mills, they don’t look at it that way. Losing a child means losing a product, especially when the pregnancy was arranged for someone who paid a lot of money for it." She gave a small, resigned shrug. "If one of us miscarried, the handlers would usually beat her bloody because, in their eyes, she had failed to protect something that belonged to them."

Helga’s expression darkened immediately, her jaw clenching hard enough to ache. One hand closed around the edge of the chair until the wood began to crack beneath her fingers and the metal bracing underneath groaned from the pressure. Her lips parted as though she wanted to say something, but whatever words had risen in her throat never made it out before Nell quietly continued.

"I know what you’re thinking, Helga."

Her hazel eyes lifted to meet hers.

"You think I must be crazy for talking about all of this like I’m describing the weather. That I should be angry, or crying, or completely broken." Nell’s expression softened. "But the mills were all I ever knew. When something is your whole world from the day you’re born, you don’t always know you’re supposed to hate it. You just learn how to survive it."

She looked down at her daughter again. "For most of my life, I believed that was how I would die too. I figured they’d keep me as long as I could give them children, and once I couldn’t anymore, they’d sell me for whatever work I still had left in me or throw me away when even that stopped being useful."

Her fingers curled protectively around the blanket. "That’s what eventually happened to a lot of women in the mills," Nell said. "But the truth is, it wasn’t always the mill itself, or even the horrible things waiting for us there, that scared us the most. Sometimes it was looking at the older slaves, the ones who had already been there for decades, and seeing what time had done to them."

"You’d see them holding another child they already knew they were going to lose, trying to convince themselves not to get attached because it would only hurt more when that child was taken away." Her expression grew more distant. "After enough years, some of them stopped crying altogether. They’d just sit there, looking down at the baby in their arms with this tired, empty look, like they were already grieving someone who was still right there in front of them."

"I know it better than anyone." Nell swallowed softly. "For that was the look my mother had."

Helga stared at her for a long moment, her throat tightening as every comforting word she tried to summon suddenly felt small and painfully inadequate. What disturbed her most was not the anger in Nell’s voice, because there was scarcely any anger there at all. It was the calmness with which she carried everything that had happened to her, as though suffering had been woven so deeply into the fabric of her life that she had never been given the chance to imagine it could have been anything else.

The door to the dining hall suddenly slammed open hard enough to strike the wall behind it with a violent crack, shattering one of the glass panes and sending glittering fragments skittering across the parquet floor. Nell’s baby immediately startled awake and began crying, prompting her to pull the infant closer against her chest and rock her gently while murmuring soft reassurances.

Helga’s amber eyes snapped toward the doorway, and the moment she saw who had entered, the warmth she had carried only seconds earlier vanished. The first thing she recognized was the ashen-gray coat, a uniform she had come to know all too well. Then her gaze dropped to the badge pinned across the man’s chest, and the words stamped into the metal ignited something hot and furious inside her. The Burra Auctoritas. The Authority. What made it worse was the smug expression on the face of the man wearing it.

The Agent, looking in his mid-thirties, sauntered into the dining hall with both hands buried in his pockets, carrying himself with the swagger of a street thug who happened to possess a badge. Unlike the other Authority Agents Helga had encountered, his uniform was poorly maintained and worn with almost deliberate disrespect, the front left half-buttoned to expose a set of silver identification tags hanging against his chest more like jewelry than standard issue. His head had been shaved nearly to the skin, while a narrow jaw tapered toward a prominent cleft chin. A scar cut through his left eyebrow, leaving a section of hair permanently absent, and his dark eyes wandered lazily across the dining hall as though he had already decided there was nothing inside worth respecting.

Two bandoliers crossed his body, each carrying nearly a dozen throwing knives sheathed neatly across his abdomen and torso, while a pair of daggers rested in holsters at his sides. Their brass hilts were worn with scratches and scuffs from years of use, but they had been polished well enough to catch the amber glow of the crystal lights overhead, sending brief flashes of reflected light across the metal whenever he moved.

Two more Authority Agents followed him through the broken doorway, both carrying themselves with the same obnoxious confidence.

"Whoo-wee, if this ain’t the biggest shithole I’ve seen in a while," the man said as he looked around, rolling one of the knives across his gloved fingers with effortless familiarity, letting the blade spin and dance between them with the practiced ease of a trickster who had performed the motion a thousand times before. "Then again, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. A place like this oughta look like a dump."

He pulled his other hand from his pocket and lazily gestured around the hall. "Seems about right for a bunch of runaways." He drew a deep exaggerated sniff. "But holy hell, does something smell good in here."

Helga’s expression twisted as her grip tightened further around the edge of the chair. Wood creaked and shattered beneath her fingers. Then a voice boomed through the hallway outside.

"Lester!"

The man’s smirk faltered for the briefest moment, and he took a half-step back as his head turned toward the sound. Ruben then appeared in the doorway a second later. The orc towered over Lester by a considerable margin, his broad shoulders nearly filling the entrance as his face twisted with barely restrained anger.

"I knew the Authority was scraping the bottom of the barrel when they sent you to Caerleon, but I’d hoped that, despite everything, you weren’t stupid enough to pull something like this." His eyes narrowed. "Looks like you were determined to prove me wrong."

Lester’s confidence returned almost immediately, and he spread his arms with a grin. "Ruben! How’s my favorite little disgrace doing? Been a while."

"Cut the bullshit, Lester!" Ruben snarled, pointing toward the shattered doorway. "You know the law as well as I do. The Authority has no jurisdiction inside a recognized sanctuary, and the second you stepped through that door without authorization, you violated the Ius Servitium yourself."

He stepped closer, forcing Lester to tilt his head slightly to meet his gaze. "As much as I’d personally enjoy throwing you and your boys back into the street, I’m going to give you the courtesy of asking first. Leave."

Lester’s smirk thinned as one eyebrow twitched. He flipped the knife into the air, caught it cleanly by the handle, then lazily leveled it toward Ruben as he stepped forward until barely any space remained between them. "Oh, really?" His grin returned, sharper this time. "That’s cute. Real cute."

Ruben’s expression did not change. Lester glanced around the dining hall before continuing. "See, there’s been some concern lately about these little..." He gestured vaguely around himself. "Safehouses. Word reaching the Authority is that some of them have been sheltering Libertas."

A flicker of unease crossed Ruben’s face, subtle but unmistakable.

"And you know what happens when a sanctuary gets caught helping terrorists," he continued, clearly enjoying himself now. "It gets deconsecrated. Loses every protection that fancy little plaque outside gives it." His grin widened as he waved one hand toward the rest of East Eden. "And once that happens, every slave under this roof becomes fair game."

Nell instinctively tightened her hold around her daughter.

"Like I said, cut the bullshit," Ruben replied. "I have never aided Libertas, and I never will. You know damn well there’s no evidence saying otherwise."

"Well, that’s gonna be a little difficult to take on faith." Lester rocked back on his heels, his smirk returning in full. "Besides, when this gets written up, who do you think they’re gonna believe? Me, an active Agent of the Authority, or you?"

His eyes swept over Ruben from head to toe. "A washed-up has-been who suddenly grew a conscience."

Ruben’s hands curled slowly into fists. "To think you used to be one of the best," Lester added with a scoff. "Now look at you."

"Lester, this is your final warning." Ruben’s tone dropped low enough that even the two Agents behind Lester seemed to lose some of their confidence. "I haven’t held my battle axe in years, but don’t mistake that for me forgetting how to use it. Right now, you’re trespassing on protected ground, and judging by how monumentally stupid this entire stunt is, I’m willing to bet Commander Khan has no idea you’re here."

Lester’s expression went blank as the two Agents behind him exchanged a nervous glance.

Ruben saw it and gave a humorless smile. "Thought so. I know Hector. He’s one of the hardest asses the Authority has ever produced, and considering your reputation, I imagine he tolerates you on a good day."

Ruben pointed toward the doorway. "Something tells me he won’t be particularly thrilled when he hears you broke into a sanctioned haven, damaged sanctuary property, threatened protected residents, and tried to manufacture grounds for deconsecration without his authorization."

Lester’s jaw tightened.

"So, I’m not going to ask again," Ruben said, his words carrying through the dining hall. "Get the hell off my property, or—"

Lester’s expression twisted as his eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared. With a sharp flick of his wrist, four more knives appeared between his fingers with a metallic trill, and he immediately brandished the blades toward Ruben, forcing the orc to step back just as one of the edges flashed dangerously across his front and passed close enough to graze his chest.

"I’d shut my gob if I were you, pigskin," Lester snarled, the slur leaving his mouth like venom as he kept the knives leveled in Ruben’s direction. "It was bad enough when you turned your back on the Authority and started playing for the other side, but now you stand there acting like you’ve got shit on us. Newsflash, you don’t. Last I checked, I’m the one wearing the badge, and you’re just some wannabe hero moonlighting as an over glorified nanny."

His mouth twisted into a vicious grin. "And let’s not even get started on how many people in the Union hate your guts. I mean, what the hell did you expect? You might think you’re some kind of liberator, but in the eyes of the law, you’re just a Godsdamned thief keeping people’s property from them and forcing them to jump through hoops just to get it back. That’s messed up, and you know it."

Ruben’s expression tightened, though he said nothing, and Lester seemed to take the silence as encouragement. His lip curled as he shifted the blades threateningly between them and leaned in just enough to make the challenge unmistakable. "So enjoy it while it lasts, because things are gonna change in this piss-poor, slave-loving excuse for a city. And when they do, you and every blasted runaway hiding in places like this can kiss whatever little freedom you think you have goodbye."

His smirk returned, broader and uglier than before. "And I can’t wait to see what their masters do when they finally get their hands on them again." He chuckled under his breath before his gaze drifted across the dining hall and settled on Nell. "Nothing gets me going quite like watching a serf get exactly what’s coming to them, and I swear, I can’t wait to chop your damned hands off myself, just like they do to thieves in the Farlands."

The color drained from Nell’s face the moment she realized he was looking at her, and she instinctively drew her baby closer against her chest.

"And you," Lester said, pointing the knives toward her. "Hoo boy, after what you pulled? Your master’s gonna have a field day with you when he gets you back. That is, assuming there’s anything left of you once the boys at Tartarus are done with you."

Helga rose from her chair without saying a word, and there was something far more unsettling about the silence than there would have been in any shouted threat. The soft tap of her boots against the parquet carried through the dining hall as she began walking toward the doorway, her amber eyes fixed upon Lester with an intensity that Nell immediately noticed. One of Nell’s hands moved instinctively as though she wanted to reach out and stop her, but Helga had already crossed too much of the room.

"Lester," Ruben said as he planted himself between the Agent and the rest of the sanctuary, "you’ve always been a mad dog, even back when you were a cadet. Hell, I know that’s probably the only reason the brass keeps you around, but this is hella stupid even for you. So I’m gonna ask you nicely one more time to put those away, get your ass out that door, and maybe, maybe, I’ll consider not pressing—"

Lester shoved the knives forward before Ruben could finish, one of the tips slicing across his chest and tearing a small hole through the front of his shirt. "Do the words shut your damned gob not register in that pigskin head of yours?" he snarled, his expression hardening.

"But you’re right about one thing. I am the crazy mutt they send in to deal with punks like you, those pretty little pansies who think words printed on some Godsdamned page are gonna save their asses. The law exists to serve us, and then you and every bastard like you come along thinking you can twist it around and use it against the very people enforcing it."

He gestured toward his own face with his free hand, almost daring Ruben to challenge him. "So take a good, long look at me. Does this look like the face of a man who gives a shit? The law doesn’t protect you from me. Hell, all it does is piss me off even more."

Ruben’s expression darkened further. "A bit of self-awareness. Didn’t think you were capable of that." His gaze flicked toward the knives before settling back on Lester. "Word to the wise, that isn’t the brag you think it is."

Lester scoffed and shifted his stance, lowering the blades slightly as his attention drifted past Ruben toward Nell. The smugness returning to his face only deepened the fear already written across hers. "To each his own, I suppose. Truth is, I didn’t come here to shake you down." He tilted his head toward her, his grin sharpening. "I came for her."

Nell’s grip tightened around her baby as Lester’s smirk sharpened.

"Turns out her master wants her back real bad. Paid us a pretty penny to make it happen, and I’m gonna deliver." His eyes flicked back toward Ruben. "And not you, not the law, not Khan, not even that bitch of a barrister you have on a leash is gonna stand in my way."

Ruben’s fists tightened until his knuckles hardened beneath the skin. "Final chance, Lester."

"Like I said, there ain’t anything you can—"

Lester never finished. Something in the room shifted before he could force out the rest of the sentence, and his eyes moved toward his right as he became aware of the presence standing less than a step away from him. Helga had crossed the dining hall without another word, and whatever warmth usually lived in her expression had vanished completely. Her face had settled into a cold, terrible stillness, but the fury burning behind her amber eyes made that calm far more frightening than any scream could have been.

Before Lester could properly react, Helga drew her right arm back and twisted her body with the motion, planting her feet as her weight moved through her hips and shoulders. A roar tore from her throat as she swung, and her fist crashed into Lester’s face with enough force to make the impact sound less like a punch and more like an explosion. Bone cracked beneath her knuckles as his nose collapsed and his head snapped violently to the side, blood spraying from his mouth while the sheer power behind the blow sent a shockwave through the dining hall. The walls rattled, doors shook in their frames, and dust sifted from the ceiling as the force of the strike seemed to ripple through the entire building.

Lester was ripped from the floor and hurled backward through the hallway like a cannonball, his body tearing loose sections of parquet in its wake before slamming straight through the wall beside the front entrance. Stone burst apart, timber splintered, and a dense cloud of dust erupted across the foyer as he crashed through the structure and struck one of the lampposts outside hard enough to bend it. The impact failed to stop him, and his body continued across the street before hitting the asphalt with enough force to fracture the road beneath him, sending black shards of pavement scattering outward.

He bounced once from the broken street and slammed back-first into the wall of the building opposite East Eden, burying himself into the brickwork as cracks raced outward around the shape of his body. For a moment he remained lodged there, eyes rolled back until only the whites were visible, before the damaged wall finally gave him up and he dropped face-first onto the pavement below, unconscious before he struck the ground.

Inside East Eden, everyone stared through the ruined wall at the path of destruction Helga had carved through the sanctuary and out into the street. Ruben, Nell, and the two remaining Agents followed the damage from the shattered doorway to the cratered road and the broken wall beyond before their attention slowly returned to the girl standing in the dining hall.

Helga remained where she had thrown the punch, her chest rising and falling heavily while both fists stayed clenched hard enough for the veins along her forearms to stand prominently beneath the skin. Rage still twisted her features, her jaw locked and her teeth bared as she turned her attention toward the two Agents who had entered with Lester.

She brought her fists together, and the bracelets around her wrists flared to life as metal shifted with a grinding mechanical whir. Plates unfolded across her hands and forearms, locking into place until heavy gauntlets completely enclosed her fists, and only then did Helga lift her amber eyes toward the remaining men.

"So... who’s next?"