The days had grown warmer as February slipped away, giving way to the first week of March. Yet despite the changing seasons, a lingering tension gripped Caerleon. The brutal demise of an AEGIS captain had left the city on edge, and the response had been swift. Patrols had doubled, and members of the Clock Tower were stationed at nearly every street corner. From the wards to the districts, from the industrial sectors to the bustling commercial avenues, it was near impossible to take two steps without the sharp gaze of a watchman trailing you.
The heightened security had done little to ease the concerns of the city's inhabitants. If anything, it had only stoked their ire. Protests simmered beneath the surface, their voices growing louder, frustration directed at the Mayor herself. She, in turn, had little patience for the unrest, forced to address both the fears of her constituents and the mounting discontent within her ranks. And with the scrutiny upon her shoulders, the weight was passed down to Sheriff Hartshorne, who found himself at the mercy of the Mayor's thinly veiled threats regarding his job security.
But for Godric, the turmoil beyond the walls of Excalibur was of little concern.
His mind was a ship adrift in an unrelenting storm, tossed between the endless duels within The Congregation and the demons that lurked in his waking hours. Sleep was a curse he had long since learned to despise. Each night, the same cruel nightmare—dangling the illusion of a future he could never have—only to wrench it away with merciless finality.
The challenges from the Clans had waned over time. Whether out of dwindling enthusiasm to hurl themselves into the lion's maw or the growing realization that besting the shadow of Damocles was nothing more than a fool's errand, the once-constant confrontations had all but ceased.
Now, he walked in silence, hands tucked into his pockets as he trailed behind his friends. The warm March sun cast its golden glow upon them as they made their way towards the dense woodlands behind the castle. The forest stretched endlessly beyond the horizon; its vast expanse untouched by the chaos of the world beyond.
Rowena clutched her books tightly against her chest, her expression unreadable. Salazar's gaze remained fixed ahead, his thoughts his own. Helga's voice rang bright and cheerful, though to Godric, it was nothing more than background noise, fading in and out like a distant echo. And then there was Jeanne. She had been watching him since they left the castle. He could feel the weight of her gaze on him, but he paid her no mind.
"Oh, I can't wait to see what Professor Kyar has in store for us today!" Helga exclaimed, practically skipping along, her excitement barely contained. "I hope it's something small, round, and fluffy."
Salazar let out a dramatic sigh, rolling his eyes. "The last time I was around something small, round, and fluffy, it robbed me of my Platas," he muttered. "Wretched Nifflers and their pilfering ways. The next time I lay eyes on one, I'll reduce it to ashes."
"Salazar, that's a horrid thing to say," Rowena said, casting him a disapproving glance. "Beasts are beasts. They cannot act against their nature."
"Perhaps," Salazar conceded, folding his arms, "but they can be trained. And if necessary—eradicated."
Rowena pinched the bridge of her nose. "Honestly, not everything requires a permanent solution. And I find it highly inappropriate to force creatures to conform to our ways." She shrugged. "After all, they were here long before we were."
"Rowena's right, Salazar," Helga chimed in, falling into step beside him. "Wouldn't it be better if we all just got along?"
Salazar smirked. "My dear Helga, how I admire your optimism." He placed a hand over his chest with mock sincerity. "Unfortunately, it is a trait I do not share—at least, not always."
"And most importantly, this will be Godric's first Care for Magical Creatures lesson," Helga announced, turning to him with a bright smile.
Godric didn't acknowledge her.
"Well… technically our third," she continued, undeterred. "But you did skip the last two."
"Not to mention," Salazar added with a smirk, "the only reason he's bothering to show up now is because he was this close to a full suspension."
He shook his head in mock disappointment. "We tried to warn you, Gryffindor, but no, you wouldn't listen. The Congregation is one thing, but if you insist on beating every foolish little pellock half to death, you still have to attend classes. That is the bare minimum."
"Whatever," Godric muttered, his irritation barely concealed. "The sooner we get this over with, the sooner I can get back to training."
"For what it's worth," Jeanne chimed in, "I'm glad you're easing back into routine."
Godric didn't so much as glance at her.
They followed the winding path, blending into the steady stream of students heading toward the lesson. Soon, they emerged into a clearing where several wooden and stone-fenced corrals stood in neat rows. At the center of it all was a sizeable wooden gazebo, its oaken pillars carved with elegant Elvish motifs. Vines of creeping ivy curled around the beams, their white blossoms in full bloom, releasing a sweet fragrance that mingled with the earthier tones of the forest—and the unmistakable stench of animal droppings.
The students began filtering in, taking their seats at the desks arranged within the gazebo.
Helga brightened immediately, waving enthusiastically.
"Heya, Professor Kyar!" she called.
Godric stepped into the gazebo and froze.
His breath hitched, crimson eyes widening at the sight before him.
Standing beside the teacher's desk was a seven-foot tiger.
Not just any tiger—a bipedal one.
Thick fur of deep orange, black, and white covered her from head to toe. A cascade of fur swept back from her head, styled much like hair, framing a feline face complete with sharp whiskers and piercing sapphire-blue eyes. A smile spread across her muzzle, revealing gleaming white fangs.
She was built like a warrior, broad-shouldered and powerful, her physique apparent even beneath her casual attire—a snug black shirt that did little to hide her sculpted abs, dark denim jeans, and a worn brown leather jacket. Her feet—or paws—remained bare, resting naturally on her plantigrade legs. A long, striped tail flicked lazily behind her.
"Helga, what's shakin', bacon?" Professor Kyar greeted as she bumped fists with Helga, her large paw contrasting sharply against the smaller girl's hand. The black claws on her fingers gleamed in the sunlight. "How's my favorite student?"
Helga beamed. "Eager and ready to learn!" she said, bouncing slightly on her heels. "Ooo, I wonder what we'll be dealing with today? Hippogriffs? Thestrals? Oh—dragons?" Her eyes practically sparkled with excitement.
Professor Kyar chuckled. "You'll get there eventually, little badger. For now, let's start with something a bit less scaly and significantly less likely to set you on fire."
She grinned.
"Kneazles."
Helga's shoulders slumped. "But we already did kneazles last year," she groaned.
Professor Kyar's gaze flicked to Godric, her irises narrowing to razor-thin slits. A slow grin spread across her face as she stepped toward him, folding her arms over her rather sizeable chest.
"How nice of you to finally attend my class, Mister Gryffindor," she said, tilting her head slightly. "I've heard plenty about you—from every corner of Excalibur, and I do mean every corner." Her eyes glinted with amusement. "Though I must say, I'm sorely disappointed. The famed Lion of Ignis… and yet, you're so much shorter than I expected."
A choked sound came from Salazar, who had to clamp a hand over his mouth to keep from bursting into laughter. Rowena, ever composed, simply smirked.
Godric, however, hadn't stopped staring at the large tiger woman before him.
Professor Kyar raised a brow. "Judging by that look, I take it you've never seen a therianthrope before." Her tail flicked idly behind her. "Well, that's not entirely accurate, is it?"
She placed a hand on her hip. "Name's Sienna Kyar. And in case you haven't already figured it out, I'm a tiger therianthrope." A playful grin tugged at her lips. "Or, to put it another way, I'm what you'd call a Bestias."
She turned to the class, her sharp gaze sweeping over them. "Now then, can anyone here tell me what that means?"
Like clockwork, Rowena's hand shot up. Not waiting to be called on, she launched straight into her explanation.
"Therianthropes, or the therian race, are known for their human and animal-like features due to centuries of interbreeding with other races. However, there remain pockets of what we would call 'pure-blooded' therians, who retain the full features of their ancestors. These individuals are known as Bestias. They are bound by the laws of their respective tribes—such as the Tiger Tribe—to preserve their bloodlines and prevent the extinction of the true therian race."
Professor Kyar's fanged grin widened. "A bit more elaborate than I'd planned for, but I'll take it. Ten points to Ventus."
Her attention snapped back to Godric.
"Now that we're all up to speed, why don't you take a seat, Mister Gryffindor?" She leaned in slightly, smirking, her hands resting on her hips.
"Don't worry, young lion," she murmured. "I don't bite…" Her grin flashed wider. "Much."
****
As the lesson progressed, Professor Kyar elaborated on the topic at hand—kneazles.
Rowena sat upright, quill scratching across parchment as she meticulously scrawled down notes. Every detail, every nuance of the lecture, was captured in her flowing script. Beside her, Salazar sat with his fingers intertwined, his gaze fixed on the words written in chalk upon the blackboard, absorbing every piece of information with quiet focus.
Godric, meanwhile, had barely paid attention to a single word.
Seated next to Helga, his eyes hadn't left the large, feline creature sprawled lazily on the desk before him. Its fur was a rich ginger hue, its flat face framed by long whiskers, and its plume-like tail curled idly around its body. Normally, he might have mistaken it for an oversized housecat—if not for its sheer size.
Helga ran a brush through its thick fur, and the kneazle purred deeply, its eyes closed as it leaned into her touch, utterly content.
"And as you know," Professor Kyar continued, placing her chalk down on the desk, "kneazles are highly intelligent creatures. Many wizards keep them as pets due to their uncanny ability to detect suspicious or untrustworthy individuals."
She turned her attention to Jeanne, whose kneazle was rubbing its head affectionately against her cheek. Jeanne, looking thoroughly uncomfortable, attempted to push it away—only for the creature to purr louder and nuzzle her again.
"And they tend to bond with those they deem loyal and worthy of their trust," Kyar added with a knowing grin.
"I understand, Professor," Jeanne said, still trying to gently pry the kneazle off her. "But are they always this… affectionate?"
Kyar chuckled. "As affectionate as your common housecat, sure." She eyed the kneazle nestled against Jeanne. "Though it seems yours has taken quite the fondness to you. You must be a cat person, Miss D'Arc."
Jeanne looked utterly betrayed by the accusation.
Professor Kyar turned back to the rest of the class. "Now, take turns with your respective kneazles. Give them a good brush. If they're hungry, feed them. Warm hugs, gentle pets—all that lovely nonsense."
She smirked. "But—keep in mind, they are still cats at heart, so avoid their more… sensitive areas. Kneazle claws are sharp, I assure you."
As Helga continued brushing her kneazle, making strange cutesy noises and cooing over it, Godric exhaled sharply and pushed himself up from his chair. Without a word, he stepped around the table and headed outside. Salazar and Rowena followed him with their eyes, exchanging a look that needed no words. Professor Kyar noticed his exit but made no move to stop him. Let him have his space, she reasoned. At least for now.
Godric perched himself on a boulder by the wooden fence, elbows resting on his knees as he gazed toward the treeline. His thoughts were a tangled blur, the lesson nothing more than distant noise. He felt detached from it all, as empty as the hollow ache that had settled deep inside him. A part of him kept questioning why he was still here—why he remained in Excalibur.
More than once, the thought of leaving had crossed his mind. Leaving the academy. Leaving Avalon. There was nothing tying him here. No purpose. No joy. Just a hollow void, gnawing at the edges of his existence. Maybe he should go back to Dark's Hollow. Back to the moors. Let the world forget him as easily as he could forget it.
He let out a slow breath. He should have turned Blaise down. How simple life would have been if he'd stayed behind. No magic. No swords. No expectations. Just Godric Gryffindor. A man, not a warrior. A boy, not a weapon. At least then, he might have been spared the darkness festering inside him.
A rustle beside him snapped him from his thoughts.
His muscles tensed. His eyes flicked to his left.
A kneazle sat beside him.
It was larger than the others in class—by at least a foot. Its fur was a fiery red, a shade that almost matched the strands beneath the black ink he now used to dye his own hair. Scars riddled its body, marking it with the stories of old wounds. One ran over its left eye, leaving it pale with age. Its bottom fangs jutted out slightly in an underbite, locked in an eternal scowl that made it look almost comically fierce.
Godric stared at it, his brow furrowing.
The kneazle growled lowly, tilting its head toward him.
Godric leaned back, half puzzled by its presence.
Slowly—hesitantly—he reached out, fingers brushing against its thick fur.
The kneazle didn't flinch. Instead, it leaned into his touch.
"Well, I'll be," came Professor Kyar's voice as she stepped up beside him.
Godric turned to find her watching with mild amusement, arms folded.
"I see Commodus has taken a liking to you."
"Commodus?" Godric echoed.
The towering tiger woman smirked. "There's a reason I didn't include him with the rest of the kneazles in class. He's not exactly the sociable type. In fact, aside from me, he doesn't let anyone near him." She tilted her head slightly. "Believe me, he's sent more than a few students to the hospital wing."
Godric blinked as the kneazle made itself comfortable, curling up in his lap and pressing its head against his chest. He hesitated before resting a tentative hand on its back, feeling the slow, steady rise and fall of its breath.
"But… why me?"
Professor Kyar crouched down to his level, her piercing sapphire eyes locking onto his.
"I rescued Commodus from an illegal fighting ring," she said. "Some rather unsavory types like to pit magical creatures against each other. Some for profit. Some for the hell of it."
Godric tensed.
"Commodus was raised to fight," Kyar continued. "He's never known peace, never known kindness. I spent months trying to earn his trust." She chuckled, shaking her head. "Believe me, I've been clawed, bitten, mauled—every which way to Tuesday—but I never gave up."
Her gaze softened as it fell upon the kneazle, now sleeping soundly in Godric's lap.
"In time, he came to trust me. But only me. He has little patience for others—his own kind included—which is why he has his own pen." She studied Godric carefully. "But somehow, against all odds, he's opened himself to you."
Godric said nothing, staring down at the scarred creature curled against him.
"Maybe because he knows," Kyar mused. "Maybe because he doesn't just see a stranger—maybe he sees someone who understands the same pain he does." She glanced at him meaningfully. "As I said, Mister Gryffindor… kneazles are highly intelligent creatures."
"And I also said," Professor Kyar continued, "kneazles have no love for the suspicious and unsavory." She gestured to Commodus, still curled against Godric's lap. "And judging by his reaction to you, I'd say there's more to you than the man you're pretending to be."
Her sapphire eyes held his steadily.
"There's goodness in you, Mister Gryffindor. Despite everything that has happened. Despite everything you've done." She paused. "And I'm sure Miss Raine would agree with me."
Godric's shoulders tensed at the name.
"I'm a therianthrope," Kyar said, her tone quieter now. "I know what it's like. What you did. What you had to do… I wouldn't wish it on anyone. Not my own kin. Not even you."
Godric let out a slow breath, his expression unreadable. Then, his eyes narrowed.
"I beg to differ," he said coolly. "I've done things. Terrible things. And I'll be the first to admit that I have no regrets." His words were steady, but something darker lingered beneath them. "I wanted vengeance. Needed it. And I took it."
Professor Kyar studied him for a long moment before a small smile tugged at the corner of her lips.
"You know what I love about beasts, Mister Gryffindor?"
Godric shook his head.
"They're simple creatures," Kyar said. "Loyal. True. And most of all—honest."
She glanced down at Commodus, who stretched slightly but remained nestled against Godric, perfectly content.
"If an old, battle-worn grump like Commodus can see the good in you, perhaps you should too."
She stood, tucking her paws into her pockets.
"Or perhaps, like him, you should let someone show you."
Without waiting for a reply, she turned and strode back toward the gazebo, leaving Godric alone with his thoughts. He exhaled slowly, glancing down at the large kneazle still resting against him. Then his gaze drifted to Jeanne, still locked in a losing battle against her own kneazle, which remained relentless in its attempts to nuzzle her. A quiet chuckle rumbled in his chest. A faint, almost imperceptible smile curled at the edges of his lips.
Commodus let out a low growl, clearly displeased by the sudden pause in attention.
Godric sighed and resumed petting him
****
The first touch of sunlight crept through the gaps in the tent, warm against his skin. The distant murmur of voices, muffled at first, began to rise—a melody of laughter, conversation, and the morning bustle of the camp. Small hands tugged at his broad frame, shaking him insistently. Orgrim stirred, a slow smile pulling at his lips even before he opened his eyes.
"Papa is awake!"
His dark gaze settled on the faces of his children—two little orcs, a boy and a girl, their wide, eager eyes brimming with excitement.
"Can we go to the river now?" the boy asked, practically bouncing where he stood.
Orgrim chuckled as he swept them both into his arms, holding them close against his bare, ashen skin.
"One at a time, my darlings," he said. "Oh, to be young and so full of energy again." He glanced around, his brow lifting. "Where's your mother?"
He ducked beneath the tent's frame, stepping outside into the crisp morning air. Before him stretched the vast, untamed expanse of Vol'dunin. The camp was alive with movement—dozens of tents, clustered like islands in an endless sea of golden grass. Orcs of all ages and statures went about their morning routines; warriors sharpening their axes, hunters skinning fresh game, elders tending to the sacred fires. The scent of roasting meat and spice filled the air, carried on the smoke that drifted lazily toward the cloudless sky. This was home. The land of his ancestors. The Warsong Tribe.
Orgrim took in a slow, deep breath, filling his lungs with the familiar scent of the plains. The air here was alive, untamed, his. Then his eyes fell upon her.
Tia stood a few steps away, a cloth in her hands as she wiped them dry, her simple tunic dusted with flour from the morning's baking. She was a foot shorter than him, but strong, sharp-eyed, and unshakable.
"Our mighty chief finally emerges from his slumber," she teased.
Orgrim grinned, stepping forward. "A chief is only as mighty as his mate," he murmured, leaning down to steal a kiss.
Tia's face warmed, but she accepted it, taking and shifting the children in her arms. "Well, someone has to make sure you stick to your priorities." She arched a brow. "The tribe depends on you, you know."
Orgrim let out a low chuckle. "How could I forget? You remind me every day."
Tia smirked, but her gaze softened as she reached up, fingers brushing against his cheek. "I know times are hard," she murmured, "but I have faith in you. You'll guide us through this."
Orgrim's smile faded to something gentler. His hand drifted down to her stomach, his palm resting there.
"For you," he said. "For them."
"For our future."
Then—
A crack. A fissure.
The world shattered like broken glass. The scent of roasting meat dissolved into the reek of fire, of blood, of death. Laughter twisted into screams. The sky, once clear and endless, darkened with smoke. Orgrim stood among the ruins of his tribe. His hands coated in blood. His own. Theirs. His arms cradled the lifeless forms of his family, their bodies limp, their warmth already fading.
His voice tore from his throat, a raw, guttural wail, drowned by the clash of steel and the roaring of flames. They had come without warning.
Not his kin. Not rival tribes. Humans.
The banners of AEGIS rippled in the firelight. Their blades dripped red. Their badges gleamed, marking them as something worse than monsters. He saw their faces. He heard their laughter.
Orgrim remembered all of it. The smirks. The glee. The casual cruelty as they cut down the old, the young, the helpless. Most of all—he remembered him.
The one who led them. The one who commanded the slaughter.
Orgrim fought. He lost count of how many he had killed—but it wasn't enough. Not nearly enough.
He fell in the end.
Collapsed among the dead, bleeding out—he waited for death. Welcomed it. Perhaps in that quiet beyond, he would see them again. Perhaps there, he would finally know peace.
But even death had forsaken him.
He lived. A lone survivor. Days bled into months, months into years. He crawled through life like a beast—scarred, shamed, disgraced. Powerless. He took refuge in the dark—caves, crevices, forgotten hollows. He fed off the land: rats, fish, birds—whatever his hands could catch and his teeth could tear.
Each day, he asked why. Why the ancestors had turned their backs on him. Why he remained.
And then—he saw it.
A shadow. A figure, framed against the light of the moon. The scent of burning. The gleam of a blackened sword laced with fiery veins.
A voice.
An offer.
A promise of vengeance.
A chance to make the wrong things right.
And in the silence of that forsaken cave, what should've been his grave—
Orgrim accepted.
And from the blackness, he was reborn.
****
Thunder cracked through the night, splitting the blackened skies over Caerleon as rain poured in relentless sheets, drowning the streets below. Neon light flickered against slick cobblestones, the holographic signs casting their cold, artificial glow over the ruin left in Orgrim's wake.
He stood motionless in the downpour, hood drawn low, the rain hammering against him, soaking through to his skin. His war hammer, monstrous in size, gleamed in the neon haze—its surface black as the void, veins of molten flame creeping along the hilt, slithering through the steel like cracks in the earth before an eruption. Around him, bodies lay strewn across the street—broken, beaten, unrecognizable.
AEGIS guards, their armor crushed inward like brittle shells, their bodies twisted and caved where his hammer had met them. Some lay in pools of crimson, their entrails splattered across the pavement. Others—what remained of them—were but shattered remnants, skulls split open, faces caved in, lives snuffed out with a force that had left nothing whole.
All but one.
A single Auror.
He lay sprawled on the rain-slicked stones, trembling, clutching what was left of his leg—now little more than mangled meat, shards of bone piercing through the torn flesh. His breath came in ragged, shuddering gasps, eyes wide with terror as they locked onto the massive figure before him.
Orgrim took a slow step forward.
The Auror scrambled back, dragging himself with his elbows, his hands slipping against the blood-slick pavement.
"P-please," he choked. "Please, don't—I don't want to die!"
Orgrim said nothing. Instead, he inverted his hammer and drove it down onto the man's ruined leg. The crack of bone and the wet, sickening crunch of pulverized flesh tore through the storm. The Auror screamed, a sound raw, desperate—his agony lost beneath the roar of the rain.
Orgrim loomed over him. "Neither did my family, Mister Clanton." He pressed a foot against the man's chest, forcing him down against the soaked concrete ground. "Nor my tribe."
Clanton writhed beneath him, sobbing through his pain. "F-family? T-tribe—what are you—?"
Then his breath hitched. His face went pale. Orgrim reached up, gripping the edge of his hood—then pulled it back, the rain pouring freely down his scarred face. Clanton stared. His mouth worked soundlessly, his chest rising and falling in shallow, frantic gasps.
"No…" he rasped, shaking his head in disbelief. "No, it can't be—"
Orgrim exhaled, slow and steady, watching as the realization took hold. "They all say that."
He lifted his hammer, flames flickering to life along the runes etched into its surface.
"They all have that same look—the look that fans the fire within me." His words were low, steady, unwavering. "The look of surprise. Of fear."
He tilted his head slightly, amber eyes dark with quiet fury. "The look of a man who thought the past would never return to claim him."
His grip tightened on the hilt.
"The certainty that the sins they buried would never find them."
"Look, you don't understand," Clanton stammered, his entire body trembling. "What we did… to you, to your tribe… we had no choice. We were soldiers—we were just following orders!"
Orgrim's expression remained unreadable. His amber eyes fixed upon the man before him. When he finally spoke, it carried the weight of something far more dangerous.
"Oh, I'm well aware," he said, tilting his head slightly. "A good soldier follows orders, no matter how vile, no matter how twisted, no matter how depraved or immoral those orders may be. Sacrifice your soul upon the altar of the Tower—that's what they ask, isn't it?"
His gaze flickered downward, settling upon the golden Auror badge pinned to Clanton's chest, its polished surface marred with rain and blood. "And look where it's gotten you, Mister Clanton." He let the words hang in the air for a moment, his lips curling into something that might have been amusement, though there was no warmth in it. "Quite the promotion, wouldn't you say?"
Clanton sucked in a shuddering breath, his face pale, eyes darting frantically as though searching for an escape that didn't exist. "Please… I had to do it," he rasped. "They would've executed me otherwise!"
Orgrim exhaled slowly, shaking his head. "Funny," he mused. "Didn't seem that way when you were butchering my tribesmen. Didn't seem that way when you were skewering children and disemboweling mothers with child. I remember your face, Clanton."
He leaned in. "I remember the smile. The laughter. I remember all of it."
Clanton whimpered, his back pressing up against the cold stone of the pavement, the last place he would ever see.
Orgrim's jaw tightened. "Even now," he said, "you lack the remorse to admit your crimes, because deep down, past the fear, past the desperate cries for mercy, your pride won't allow you to apologize to a being you consider lesser than yourself."
Clanton opened his mouth, whether to protest, to beg, to offer some final plea that might change his fate, Orgrim would never know, nor did he care.
His fingers curled tighter around the grip of his hammer. "But you're right about one thing," he murmured. "There are others more responsible than you… and they will be held accountable." His shoulders tensed as he adjusted his stance, the rain cascading down his broad frame, the veins of fire within his war hammer glowing brighter as if drinking in the fury of the moment.
"But for now," he said, "I'll settle for you."
Clanton let out a strangled cry as Orgrim lifted the hammer high.
The weapon came down in a blur of blackened steel and molten fire, and the last thing Clanton saw was the reflection of his own fear in the polished metal before it met him with merciless finality.
The scream was brief—cut short as bone and flesh gave way with a sickening crunch. Blood splattered in every direction, diluted and washed away by the rain as the body beneath it twitched once, then fell still. Orgrim exhaled, shoulders relaxing ever so slightly as he cast one last glance down at what remained of Clanton.
Then, above him, movement caught his eye. A massive holographic screen flickered to life, casting an artificial glow across the rain-slicked streets, its projection stretching across the billboard of a towering building. The voice of a polished announcer, a woman in her early thirties, rang through the static-laced feed, crisp and unwavering despite the downpour.
"Tonight, we sit down with one of AEGIS' most decorated heroes," she began. "Captain Shane Langston, the man who quelled the orc insurrection and restored peace to the plains of Vol'dunin. Tonight, we take an exclusive look into the man behind it all."
Orgrim's gaze lifted to the screen, where the image of him—Langston—flickered into view, seated across from a reporter, a practiced smile upon his lips. The air around Orgrim grew thick, heavy, charged with something raw and seething. His jaw tightened. His teeth clenched.
The world around him seemed to blur, the city's neon glow drowned beneath the rising tide of old memories clawing their way to the surface Langston's face was still the same.
Smug. Untouched. Unpunished.
Orgrim exhaled slowly, rainwater running in rivulets down his hood, mingling with the heat radiating from beneath it. Then, without a word, he pulled his hood low over his eyes. And in an instant, he was gone, vanishing into the night in a swirl of smoke and pulsing embers.