Helena no longer knew how much time had passed since they'd thrown her in this place. The walls around her were once white—alabaster, maybe—but the years had worn them down to a sickly, blistered grey. The plaster had chipped in uneven patches, revealing raw concrete beneath, rough as sandpaper. The iron bars that caged her were flaking, the paint peeling like old scabs, rust creeping across the metal like rot. She lay curled on the floor, pressed against the cold cement, which leached the heat from her bones and offered nothing in return—not comfort, not rest, not even the dignity of warmth.
The cell was barely large enough for a single body, yet they had stuffed it with four others when she first arrived—crammed together in a silence that was equal parts fear and disbelief. One by one, they were dragged out. None returned. Now, she was alone.
But not untouched.
They took her, too. Again, and again. Always returned her to the same place, to this wretched coffin of a cell, broken a little more each time. Her uniform was in tatters—ribbons of cloth clinging desperately to her frame. Blood, grime, and worse stained every inch of fabric. She held herself tightly, trembling fingers pulling down on what remained of her skirt, desperate to cover herself, to feel some semblance of control. The bruises on her wrists throbbed from where they'd snapped the manacles on too tight. Her body ached. Her stomach twisted from hunger. Her skin felt filthy, like it carried the memory of their hands.
Tears welled in her eyes, hot and useless. She couldn't scrub this shame away. She felt hollowed out. Violated. The sob that broke from her chest felt foreign, like it belonged to someone else. This wasn't supposed to happen. Not here. Not in Avalon. Not in a city governed by law and order. Not at the hands of the Tower's own.
She looked at the dented metal tray left on the floor beside her—a scoop of grey oatmeal, a crust of hard bread. Her stomach clenched, but her throat resisted. It had been days, maybe more, and yet the food never changed. They fed them just enough to keep them breathing. That was all they wanted—bodies that didn't die before they could be bled for information.
Through the damp air came the buzz of metal, cold and low. The sound froze her blood. The gate was opening. Every day, around this hour, they came for her.
The lock to her door clicked. Helena curled tighter.
Two Norsefire guards stepped in without a word, their boots echoing across the concrete. Their hands grabbed her—rough, impersonal—and yanked her upright. She didn't fight. She knew better now. Her body moved on instinct, but her eyes burned with a fire that refused to die.
They didn't speak. They never did.
The door slammed shut behind her.
****
They dragged her into the room without a word. It was colder than her cell, dimly lit save for a single hanging lamp overhead, swaying faintly, casting flickering shadows on the cracked concrete walls. In the center stood a steel table, its surface cluttered with objects—bottles of liquid, a cardboard box, gloves, wires, a stained cloth. The metallic scent of disinfectant barely masked the sour reek of dried blood.
Helena winced as they jerked her arms overhead, her wrists still raw from earlier. A sharp cry escaped her as they hooked the cuffs to the iron ring suspended from the ceiling. Her feet barely touched the floor. The pain stretched across her shoulders, her back arching in protest. The guards left as silently as they came, the heavy door shutting with a hollow clang behind them.
She swallowed her breath and glared into the darkness. "I know you're there, Erich," she said, hoarse but laced with venom. "Stop pretending. You're not as mysterious as you think—you're just pathetic."
A soft chuckle answered her. Footsteps echoed in the dark before a figure emerged from the shadows. Mid-thirties. Pale green eyes, sharp and cold. Blonde hair slicked back with precision. His Norsefire uniform was clean, pressed, unarmored—decorated only with the insignia of rank and a silver pin on his breast that caught the light like a blade.
"Ah, fräulein Helena," he purred, voice silk over barbed wire. "Your spirit remains intact. How… delightful." He stopped just beneath the light, letting the glow catch the glint in his eyes. "I must confess, there is something about defiance that stirs the heart, no?"
He stepped closer, far too close, and traced a finger down the edge of her tattered collar. "One would think," he mused, "after so many nights together, that flame inside you would die. But nein. You cling to it still." His smirk widened. "It only makes your eventual collapse all the more exquisite."
Helena's lip curled. Then, without hesitation, she spat directly into his face.
The room fell silent.
Erich blinked. He wiped the spit from his cheek with the back of his gloved hand. "Still ungrateful," he said softly—almost kindly—before striking her across the face with a brutal backhand. Her head snapped to the side. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth, but her eyes never left his.
"You'll never break me," she rasped. "No matter how many times you try."
He exhaled, a brittle smile returning to his face. "We'll see."
He turned toward the table, removing his gloves, fingers uncoiling like snakes. "Seems you need… a refresher course," he said, setting the gloves down neatly. "Just a little lesson. A reminder, yes?"
From beneath the table, he retrieved a metal box—sturdy, unmarked. He opened it and drew out two rods, thick and insulated, one capped in red, the other in black. Long wires snaked out from the ends.
Helena's breath caught.
"No," she whispered. "Please. Not that. Not again."
Tears spilled down her cheeks. She recoiled, as much as her restraints allowed. Her body remembered—every searing jolt, every scream she hadn't been allowed to release.
Erich smiled—almost tenderly.
"Don't worry, fräulein," he said, hushed like a lullaby. He brought the rods together. A crackle of sparks snapped in the air between them. "I'll be gentle."
He stepped forward. The hum of the rods grew louder.
"And thorough. As always."
****
The old precinct had certainly seen better days. Once the seat of the Tower's law enforcement in a much smaller Caerleon, it now stood hollowed by time—its walls chipped, its floors warped, the very air within heavy with the ghosts of a forgotten order. Thirty years had passed since the Tower moved downtown, but the structure remained, now repurposed by Norsefire as a makeshift holding facility. Amber light from worn magical lamps spilled across the dusty floorboards and splintered desks, relics of a more civil age. The quiet murmur of fear replaced the once-disciplined order. Panic clung to the air like damp fog.
Inside, the guards were anything but composed. Voices clashed in alarm, papers flew like startled birds, and boots thundered across wood and stone. Whispers of massacred patrols and obliterated checkpoints echoed louder than commands. Tales of Excalibur's Visionaries moving like phantoms, cutting down armed battalions with terrifying precision. Clans from the Congregation sweeping through the underbelly of Caerleon like a cleansing flame. The idea that mere students could break Norsefire's iron grip had seemed absurd—until their communications began falling silent, one after another.
Outside the chaos, a lone guard reclined behind the front reception desk. One boot on the counter, the other dangling lazily, he flipped through a pulp crime novel and chuckled, a steaming mug of coffee resting nearby.
He didn't notice the footsteps. Not at first.
Then—there it was. The slow approach of heavy boots across the marble floor.
The figure halted before the counter. Cloaked in a coat black as midnight, trimmed in a deep, venomous green. A scarf, the same shade, fluttered faintly from the holster slung over his back. His hood cast his face in shadow, save for the eyes—piercing emerald, cold and calculating.
"Excuse me, good sir," the figure said. "Might I trouble you for some assistance?"
The guard looked up, frowning. "You lost, kid?"
The stranger drew back his hood, revealing jet-black hair and a sharp face.
"My name is Salazar Slytherin," he said calmly, words laced with restrained malice. "And I've been told this facility currently houses a number of your so-called detainees." He raised one hand and tapped his temple with a gloved finger. "Forgive me—victims, rather."
He settled his hands upon the desk. "Among them is a friend of mine. Her name is Helena Abbot. I've come to collect her."
The guard snapped his book shut, dropping his feet to the floor. "You think this is funny?" he snarled, hand moving toward his belt.
"Oh, far from it," Salazar replied. "I'm offering you two very simple options. Option one: you fetch her, return her to me unharmed, and you live to finish that abysmal excuse for literature. Option two…"
His eyes sharpened like drawn blades. "I retrieve her myself. And in doing so, I'll carve through every living soul in this building—until your corpses are just footnotes beneath my boots."
The air seemed to chill.
And in that moment, the guard realized the stories weren't just rumors.
They were warnings.
The guard rose slowly, lips curled into a smug sneer as he slid the baton from his holster with a practiced flick. "Well, here's mine—since I'm feelin' generous tonight," he said. "You turn your skinny arse around, march back to Excalibur, and stay there."
With a sharp crack, the baton extended.
"Before I crack your skull open and toss you in the same cell as your little friend."
Salazar tilted his head slightly, that faint, unsettling smile growing across his face. But he said nothing.
Instead, something older than language slipped from his lips. A sound—not a word, but a hiss. Low. Ancient. Reptilian. It reverberated through the air, crawling down the spine and into the marrow. The guard blinked, breath catching in his throat.
Two pieces of blackened steel detached from the holster across Salazar's back. Twin spears—one long, one short—hovered in the air, gleaming dully in the lamplight. The scarf that had seemed like mere ornament unraveled from its place, revealing a slender spine of emerald-lined metal coiled around the haft like a living thing.
The two halves of the weapon snapped together midair with a metallic click, forming a single spear—elegant and vicious. It rotated once, before jerking still, the ebon tip locking onto the guard's chest.
Salazar's eyes never left him.
"A shockingly poor choice, my dear friend," he said coolly.
****
The wall exploded inward—splinters of wood and stone hurtled across the room like shrapnel. The Norsefire guard crashed through the debris, his body slamming against a desk with a sickening crack, scattering papers and shattered glass in every direction. He twitched once… then went still. Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth, pooling beneath him.
The room fell into stunned silence.
All eyes locked on the six-foot spear now embedded clean through the man's chest—blackened metal glinting ominously in the amber light. A sharp hiss echoed as the weapon tore itself free from the corpse and flew across the room, landing in Salazar's outstretched hand with a clean snap. He caught it effortlessly and gave it a fluid twirl.
His emerald gaze swept the precinct floor.
"I shall extend to you the same courtesy I offered your friend there," Salazar said with the deadly clarity of a man who meant every word. "You ill-bred, boorish mongrels are detaining Helena Abbott. Along with countless others, against their will. So, listen carefully, for I'll not repeat myself."
The spear in his hand still slick with blood, its tip angled toward the corpse sprawled across the floor.
"Return her to me. Now. Do so, and I may allow you to slink away with your lives intact… perhaps even with a tale to regale over ale and roast."
His gaze hardened.
"Refuse… and I give you my word, when dawn breaks over this city, it shall carry with it the wails of your loved ones—mourning the news of your demise, delivered not with ceremony, but with silence and ash."
The guards exchanged tense glances, then as one, drew their weapons—wands crackling with magic, batons snapping to full length, swords gleaming under the amber light. A half-circle of steel and fury formed around Salazar.
"We've got you surrounded!" one of them shouted. "Toss the spear and surrender. We'll even make it quick."
"You've got some stones, kid," another barked, wand leveled straight at his chest. "Breaking into a Norsefire facility alone? You've either lost your mind or you're begging for a death sentence."
Salazar's shoulders trembled. At first, it seemed like fear.
Then he laughed.
It started low, a rumble in his throat, then rose, sharp and ringing, echoing off the walls of the precinct. He threw his head back, laughing with genuine delight, as though their threats were the funniest thing he'd ever heard. The guards flinched, uneasy. When the laughter ceased, Salazar lowered his hand from his face, his grin sharp and unforgiving. He took in a slow, deliberate breath.
"Oh, Nirah… my darling," he said with mock sympathy. "They never learn, do they? Shall we educate them?"
The smile remained, but his eyes were no longer human. They burned a vivid amber—vertical slits cutting through molten gold. The temperature in the room plummeted. A palpable silence. Then a low vibration, like a drumbeat beneath the skin.
The marble floor trembled.
"What the hell is—" a guard began.
The hissing came next. First one, then dozens. Then a chorus—thousands of serpentine voices echoing through the walls and vents. A deafening screech of metal tore through the air as vents burst open in every corner of the precinct. From the ducts, the shadows, the very cracks of the foundation, they came.
Snakes.
A tidal wave of scales and fangs, a living storm of slithering horror. Emeralds, obsidians, bronzed coils—their numbers uncountable, a grotesque deluge.
The guards screamed. Some swung weapons blindly, others ran, but there was nowhere to go. The snakes lunged with ruthless precision. Fangs sank into flesh—necks, hands, eyes. Men thrashed, fell, shrieked in agony as venom worked its black magic. Muscles seized, veins burned, and bodies collapsed twitching and still.
One woman leapt onto a desk only to have serpents pour from above, coiling around her face and dragging her down into the swarm.
Over the chaos, Salazar stood unmoving, watching the carnage unfold with an eerie stillness.
Then came a louder hiss—a familiar call—from above. He looked up.
Nirah was perched elegantly on the stone balustrade of the second floor, her sleek body coiled like a queen upon her throne.
"Where is she?" Salazar asked.
Nirah's tongue flicked, hissing in reply.
He gave a single nod. "Then take me to her."
And without hesitation, he moved—ascending the stairs as another guard came tumbling down, shrieking and clawing at the serpents latched to her face, before crumpling into a heap.
Salazar stepped over her without a glance.
The hunt had begun.
****
Helena's body jerked violently as another pulse of electricity tore through her. Her throat ached from the screams. hoarse, raw, and empty. When it ended, her limbs hung limp from the cuffs, shoulders burning. Her breath came in shallow, ragged bursts, the air thick with the scent of sweat, iron, and something fouler. Erich stepped back, removing the electrodes with an air of deliberate calm. He watched her with a smug satisfaction, eyes glittering with perverse amusement.
"Oh, don't go quiet on me now, fräulein," he said, tilting her chin up with a gloved finger. "You've been so spirited… but they always tire out eventually." His voice slithered between condescension and mock affection. "So much bark, so little bite."
"You see," Erich continued, "I've met many like you. Girls who wrap themselves in defiance, thinking it makes them strong—but in truth?" He leaned in, his pale eyes narrowing. "You're just frightened little children, wearing bravado like a costume to hide the trembling underneath."
Helena's bloodshot eyes burned as she met his gaze. She didn't speak—not at first. Her strength was nearly gone, but that last shred of defiance still lingered in her stare.
"They scream, they curse, they thrash about," Erich said, casually letting the rods clatter to the floor. "But in the end, they all shatter the same." He crouched slightly, his smile thin and cruel. "Delicate little things... like ornaments of glass. And mein Gott, there's nothing I enjoy more than watching girls like you… crack."
"Screw you!" Helena snarled, the fire in her words cutting through the air. "I'll never submit to you. Never."
Erich's smile faded. His expression darkened as he stepped closer, the cruel amusement in his eyes replaced by something colder, more calculating. He reached out and grabbed her tattered shirt, yanking it violently. Buttons snapped and scattered across the floor like shattered glass. Helena's eyes went wide, and for the first time, a cold tremor crawled down her spine. Her breath caught in her throat, and the strength she'd clung to so desperately began to falter, not from weakness—but from the cruel, creeping dread that no amount of defiance could keep at bay.
"Try saying that again, fräulein," Erich murmured as his finger crept toward the hem of her bra. "I dare you."
"S-stop... p-please," Helena choked out, thick with tears. Her entire body trembled; muscles taut with fear.
"Hmm?" Erich leaned in, the smirk never leaving his lips. "You'll need to speak up, liebling. I want to savor every word."
"I'm sorry," Helena whispered as tears streamed down her cheeks. "Please… just stop. I'll do whatever you want. Anything, just… not this. Please."
Erich threw his head back with a shrill, unsettling laugh. "Oh… if only you'd said that earlier. Perhaps I would have led with this from the start," he crooned. He drew in a sharp breath. "You truly are my favorite kind of girl, but I'm afraid you've gone and riled me up, and I am now in need of some…" He leaned in closer, his finger tracing over the hem of her skirt. "Relief."
"No… please, no," Helena whispered, trembling as her eyes widened, glassy with terror.
"And I believed you when you said you were sorry," Erich said with a cold smirk. "Because if you aren't the sorriest little girl in all of Caerleon, I promise you, by the rising sun, you'd most definitely be the sorest."
He hooked his finger onto Helena's skirt as she screamed. Suddenly, the door burst open with a metallic crash, slamming against the wall.
"Captain Erich!" a Norsefire guard shouted, breathless.
Erich's head snapped toward the door, his expression flattening, irritation sparking like flint behind his pale eyes. He turned. "How many times," he hissed, "must I tell you dummkopfs that I am not to be disturbed when I—"
"We're under attack!" the guard cut in; his face stricken with panic.
Erich froze, his irritation giving way to sudden wariness. "Attack?" he repeated. "From where? How many?"
The guard hesitated—just for a breath.
"Well?!" Erich barked. "Speak, schwein!"
"There's only one… Captain!" the guard blurted, as if the truth pained him.
A long silence hung in the room.
Erich blinked once. His face twisted in disbelief, then fury. "If this is your idea of some revolting Camelot humor," he growled, "I'll peel your skin from your bones—"
"It's not a joke!" the guard cried. "Every unit in the precinct's been mobilized, all of them—and he's still cutting his way through! He's heading straight for this room!"
Erich's lips parted, then closed. He drew a long, deliberate breath and ran a hand back through his hair, smoothing it down. Then, with calm precision, he adjusted his collar and straightened his tie.
His gaze slid back to Helena—trembling, strung up and silent. A twisted smirk tugged at his lips.
"Well," he said softly, "it seems we'll have to postpone our little session. But don't worry, fräulein... when I return, there will be no more interruptions."
He turned on his heel and strode out of the room.
The door slammed shut behind him.
Helena hung limp in the chains, the distant sound of alarms ringing through the corridors. Tears streamed down her face as her body trembled, but her eyes stared blankly into the dark. For the first time since she was thrown in this hell, the last flicker of hope had begun to fade.
****
Between the screams of terror and the frenzied clatter of boots, the precinct had descended into utter bedlam. Guards scrambled over one another, writhing and shrieking as a living tide of serpents flooded every corridor. Dozens of snakes slithered over boots and up legs, fangs gleaming. Some were caught in the crushing embrace of monstrous constrictors—bones splintered audibly beneath the pressure, limbs spasmed, and the screams tapered into silence.
The air was thick with the stench of venom and blood. Bodies littered the stone floors, some twitching in their final throes, mouths foaming as blackened veins bulged beneath blistered skin. The snakes came from everywhere—vents, cracks in the wall, gaps beneath the doors. Even those who made it to the exits found themselves trapped, doorknobs and handles already swarmed by coiling serpents, jaws snapping.
But it was not the snakes alone they had to fear.
Salazar tore through the chaos like a reaper given flesh. One spear in each hand, his blades shimmered black in the dim amber light, streaks of crimson trailing behind each arc. He moved with elegant brutality, twirling the weapons with surgical precision. The first guard lunged—Salazar sidestepped and impaled him clean through the ribs, retracting the blade before spinning, bludgeoning the second with the haft. The third barely had time to raise his shield before it was cleaved in half, and his throat with it.
Sparks flew as steel clashed in the narrow corridor—until Salazar connected the spear halves with a click. Now a single weapon, six feet of whirling death. He danced down the hallway in wide, fluid arcs, twin blades slashing the air, carving through walls and men alike. Flesh split open, cries rang out, and blood sprayed in streaks across the cracked alabaster.
Those fortunate enough to die quickly were spared the worst.
The less lucky—the ones nicked or grazed—collapsed in writhing agony, blood seeping from eyes, ears, nose. Their screams turned to gargled sobs as the venom burned through their bodies like fire through parchment.
Salazar didn't spare them a second glance.
He turned his gaze upward, toward the metal grates lining the ceiling. "Make your way to the holding cells," he commanded. "Find the master release switch. Free the prisoners."
A chorus of hissing answered from the vents.
Salazar's lips curled into a cold, elegant smile. "And of course…" he paused, turning toward the next group of armed guards. "Leave none of these Norsefire vermin breathing."
Then he lunged, and the screaming began anew.
****
Erich let out a guttural cry, his teeth clenched as the curved blade of his saber sliced through the air, severing the head of a serpent mid-lunge. Blood and venom splattered against the wall as the carcass writhed at his feet.
"Verdammtes Ungeziefer!" he snarled, stomping down on another snake and hacking a second in two with a fluid sweep of his blade. But it made no difference. The corridor was alive with hissing—every doorway flooded with serpents, slithering from every crevice. For every one he killed, more came, pouring from vents and shadows like black water.
His men screamed, striking wildly, only to be dragged down in coils or bitten and left convulsing. The narrow passage echoed with agony and panic. The captain had long since lost count of the dead. His saber danced with precision, cutting another in half, then a third, but even his honed skill faltered before such sheer numbers. The hissing—gods, the hissing—was everywhere, inside his skull, drilling into the marrow of his bones.
Then, all at once, it stopped.
Every serpent froze.
Erich and the few remaining guards hesitated, weapons raised, chests heaving. The snakes slithered away from the center of the corridor, retreating to the edges. It was unnatural—like something ancient had entered the room, and the creatures instinctively obeyed.
Erich's jaw tightened, though sweat slid in a bead down his temple. His eyes rose toward the heavy steel door at the far end of the hallway. The latch groaned. With a hydraulic hiss, the door creaked inward.
Bootsteps echoed.
Salazar stepped into view. His silhouette cast long by the amber light. He moved like a phantom of vengeance, his black coat trailing behind him, spear glinting in his right hand. His emerald eyes locked with Erich's, unblinking.
He then came to a halt.
"I take it you're the one in charge of this charming little dungeon," he said. His hand flexed slightly on the shaft of his spear. "I must confess, I expected more from the infamous Norsefire. You lot have been talked up as wraiths from the depths of Hell. Ruthless. Efficient. Terrifying."
He stepped forward, the main spearhead dragging a faint screech from the floor.
"How utterly and pathetically disappointing to find nothing more than frightened little vermin. Mangy, diseased, flea-infested rats scurrying for cover in the dark."
His gaze settled on Erich with venomous intent.
"And you," he lifted the spear, pointing it squarely at the captain. "You must be their king."