The citadel of Charlevoix was alive with panic. Screams echoed from the skies as a geyser of water pierced the clouds, lighting up the night with an ethereal glow. From every corner of the city, armed men and women peered out of their doors, watching the sky with fear. Randonneurs scrambled into the streets, their armor clanking as they rushed toward the source of the disturbance. At the heart of the city, leaders stood on their balconies, watching with grim expressions. A few miles from Charlevoix, Lake Ire churned, and from its depths, a small island rose—a circle of standing stones glowing faintly, an ominous sign to those who watched from afar.
But the truth was stranger than the omen. The threat, as it seemed, wasn't a threat at all.
Albion felt the sting of the icy lake water before he even registered the fall. His body was numb, and the world around him blurred. The runes on his forearm, usually dull and faint, burned beneath the water, but the pain was distant, almost as though it belonged to someone else. Above him, through the cold surface, he could see the strange sky, hazed green with light scattered across the clouds. Two moons, one larger and darker, eclipsed the other. They seemed close enough to touch, too large for his world.
He surfaced, gasping, his limbs heavy as lead. The lake stretched endlessly in every direction, except for the circle of standing stones, just missing him. It rose from the water like a silent sentinel. He should have been dead, falling from that height. But something—maybe the magic of the place, maybe sheer luck—had spared him.
He was no hero. No chosen one. His life had been about control, about staying grounded. Yet here he was, alive when he shouldn't be. "Why?" he muttered, kicking toward the shore.
Albion's lungs burned, his entire body aching from the impact. Every muscle felt shaken loose, like he'd been rattled inside his own skin.
His hands sank into the damp, pebbled shore, fingers clawing for purchase as he forced himself up. His arms trembled, his breath coming in sharp, ragged bursts. His body sitting at the shallow end of the massive lake.
The cold of the lake still clung to him, weighing him down, turning his limbs into something too heavy, too slow. His soaked clothes stuck to his skin, each movement sluggish, like his body was resisting the very idea of moving forward.
He should be dead.
Albion rolled onto his back, his chest rising and falling in unsteady heaves. His mind replayed the fall in rapid flashes—the portal, the sudden plunge into icy blackness, the way the water swallowed him whole.
It didn't make sense.
He knew from the height he had fallen that he should've hit the surface like concrete. Instead, the lake had taken him in gently, almost like something had guided him through.
Magic? Luck? Fate?
None of those answers felt right.
His heart still pounded, his body screaming at him to slow down, to process—but there wasn't time.
He needed to know where he was.
With shaking fingers, Albion reached for his glasses, their familiar weight still miraculously intact against his temple. They felt like his last connection to sanity, the only tether keeping him from fully accepting the impossible.
He tapped the side.
Nothing.
His stomach clenched.
Another tap. A soft blue flicker pulsed across the lenses, sluggish and dim, as if the system itself was struggling to wake up.
"System active. Please wait…"
Albion swallowed hard, his pulse louder than the words scrolling across the HUD.
The moment stretched—too long, too silent.
Then—
"No network detected."
His blood ran cold.
Albion froze, staring at the screen as the words blinked back at him, stark and final.
He tapped the side again, harder this time, a flicker of panic creeping in.
No signal.
No calls, no records, no GPS.
Everything was cut off.
He swiped frantically through the settings, scrolling too fast, too desperate, searching for anything. But the results were the same.
No connection. No database access. No help.
All he had were pre-downloaded files—old photos, a handful of scanned books, some offline notes.
Everything else was gone.
Albion's stomach plummeted, his throat tightening.
"No connection detected. Internal data intact. No external data retrieval available."
His hands clenched into fists, the breath he'd been holding escaping in a shaky exhale.
The weight of realization settled in his gut like a stone.
No calls. No maps.
Makes sense.
No way home.
He was alone. Find Adelaide.
Albion exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening. No. No, focus. He wasn't going to lose it now, this was expected.
He pressed his fingers to his temples, forcing himself to breathe through the panic, to steady his thoughts.
Okay.
The glasses still worked—partially.
"Solar battery active. Core functions available."
Thank god for that much.
It meant he still had the storage drive, the data, the basic interface controls. No connection, but the core system was still intact.
Thank god, it wasn't damaged.
He wasn't expecting Stonehenge to actually work.
Albion swallowed down the frustration boiling in his chest.
He had been in unfamiliar places before. Had to figure things out without help before.
But this?
This wasn't another country.
This was another world.
And no one was here to guide him.
His fingers hovered over the side of the glasses, then slowly pulled away.
This was it.
No comms. No maps. No plan.
Fine.
He'd make one.
Albion clawed his way out of the water, his body aching with every movement. He collapsed onto the sand, breathing hard, staring up at the dense canopy of trees. The cold air bit into his soaked skin, but it was better than the icy grip of the lake. The world was alien, unsettling. Nothing familiar—no civilization in sight. And yet… he understood his surroundings. The sounds, the rhythm of the air, the distant hum of magic in the atmosphere. It all felt familiar, as if he had been here before, though he knew that wasn't possible.
His forearm still burned. The runes were dimming but pulsed beneath his skin, reminding him of the weight they carried. He had spent most of his life keeping them hidden. His father had made sure of that, ensuring he understood that his tattoo was a secret—a dangerous one. He never knew why. Until now, he hadn't even cared to ask.
But now? Now he needed answers.
The rumbling started as a soft tremor beneath his feet. It grew louder, more insistent. Albion froze, his heart hammering in his chest. The forest was too quiet, too still. He glanced down the road, seeing the outline of something large approaching—a steel horse, glimmering in the faint moonlight, followed by a carriage. Two figures walked beside it: a man in heavy armor with a sword impossibly large, and a woman in dark robes, runes stitched into the fabric like spells woven into every thread. There was something about her, the way she moved, the way her presence distorted the air around her.
Before he could hide, a soft whisper brushed against his ear.
Albion's breath caught.
A shiver crawled down his spine, his instincts flaring before his mind could fully register what had just happened.
His muscles locked, but not from fear.
Not yet.
Not panic.
Calculation.
His father had drilled it into him when he was just a boy—lessons disguised as games in the backyard, playful duels that weren't just about swordplay, but about knowing when to act. When to wait. When to run.
"You don't react. You don't panic. You assess."
The whisper had come from behind him, too close, too deliberate.
Not a mistake.
A trap.
Albion's mind raced.
Escape route. Weapon. Advantage.
The forest stretched out ahead, dark and twisting. He couldn't outrun someone who had snuck up on him this easily. His fingers twitched toward his runes, but he didn't know how to summon Excalibur, on command.
Not possible.
Think.
But he was out of time.
"So, what are you doing here, stranger?"
He didn't turn. He knew. He could feel her presence behind him, the air cooling against his neck.
A force yanked him backward before he could even flinch.
His body hit the ground hard, his breath ripping from his lungs as pain jolted up his spine. The impact stole his thoughts, his air, his sense of direction. The world spun. His ribs screamed. Leaves crunched beneath him as his back scraped against rough earth.
A shadow loomed over him.
Lilac eyes.
Sharp. Calculating.
The elf was barely more than a silhouette, but even in the dim light, Albion could see the precision in her movements.
Controlled. Efficient.
A hunter.
The blade at his throat was cold, but the voice?
Colder.
"You don't belong here."
Albion's pulse pounded, but his mind was already adjusting, shifting, gathering details.
She was testing him.
Her grip on his shirt was tight, but not brutal. The dagger? Firm, but not pressed hard enough to draw blood.
That meant she wasn't sure about him.
Not yet.
Albion forced himself to breathe, despite the crushing weight of her presence, despite the way his ribs ached from the fall.
He had seconds.
Seconds to decide whether to play dumb, to fight, or to buy time.
Fighting was out.
She had position. Strength. Experience.
If he tried anything, she'd break him before he could finish the thought.
But—
She was curious.
Curious was good.
Curious meant he had room to talk.
A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, even as his breath remained uneven.
"You don't react. You don't panic. You assess."
Albion exhaled through his nose, tilting his head just slightly.
"Would you believe I was out for a swim?"
The elf raised an eyebrow. "Is that so?"
A sudden blow to the back of his head brought darkness. Albion crumpled, his thoughts fading into nothingness.
He awoke to the sound of metal chains and the press of wood beneath his hands. His head throbbed. His vision swam, but slowly, the scene came into focus. The carriage rattled over uneven ground, jolting Albion hard enough that his shoulder struck the wooden wall. His wrists throbbed, raw from the rough chains binding them behind his back, but he ignored the pain. It wasn't the worst part.
It was the silence.
No one had spoken since they shoved him into the carriage.
Across from him, Leon sat with his arms crossed over his broad chest, his expression unreadable. His sword rested beside him, within easy reach—not that he needed it. The man was a wall of quiet threat.
Next to him, Thalia perched on the bench, one leg crossed over the other, lazily twirling a dagger between her fingers. But her eyes? Sharp. Always watching.
Sicily sat beside her, silent, studying him from beneath the hood of her robe. She wasn't pretending to be interested. She was reading him.
The old man sat to the side, his hands folded on his lap, his gaze patient. Albion knew that look. It wasn't passive. It was the look of a man waiting for something to reveal itself.
A game was being played here.
Albion wasn't sure of the rules yet.
He forced himself to sit still, to not fidget, not react, not give them anything.
His father's voice echoed in his mind:
"You don't react. You don't panic. You assess."
Sicily was the first to speak.
"You're awfully calm for someone who just fell out of the sky."
Albion tilted his head slightly. "I've had worse."
Thalia huffed a small laugh, but Leon didn't so much as blink.
Sicily's gaze didn't waver. "You're not from here."
Not a question. A statement.
Albion shrugged as best he could with his hands tied. "Depends on what you mean by here."
Leon finally spoke, his voice like grinding stone. "Not from this realm."
Albion's pulse kicked against his ribs, but he didn't let it show.
They knew.
Or at least, they knew enough to be dangerous.
His smirk didn't waver. "You got me. I took a wrong turn. Meant to land in Paris."
Thalia's dagger stilled in her fingers. Leon's jaw tightened.
Sicily only smiled. It was a knowing thing. Dangerous.
The old man leaned forward slightly, the dim light from the lanterns catching the lines of his face. "You wear magic like a second skin."
Albion felt the weight of his arm burn beneath his sleeve.
The runes.
The old man's gaze flickered to his arm as if he could see through the fabric.
"You do not wield it, and yet it follows you."
Albion exhaled through his nose.
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
The old man ignored the remark.
"That does not happen by chance."
Albion shrugged. "I'm lucky like that."
No one laughed.
Leon spoke again, his tone firm. "You came through the arch."
Albion froze. Not visibly. But inside?
His stomach dropped.
They knew.
They knew about the arch.
Which meant they knew more than he did.
He needed to be careful.
Albion exhaled sharply, tilting his head. "So that's what that was."
Thalia leaned forward, her dagger resting against her thigh.
"You're dancing around the truth, stranger."
Albion smirked. "You assume I know what the truth is."
She studied him for a long moment.
Then, with a flick of her wrist, the dagger was at his throat.
Not pressed deep. Not enough to draw blood.
But enough to remind him that she could.
Albion didn't move. Didn't even blink.
She was testing him.
He had seen this before.
Some people kill out of necessity. Some out of anger.
And then there were people like Thalia.
People who kill out of curiosity.
The kind of person who looked at a situation like this and thought: "Let's see how far I can push him before he breaks."
Albion kept his expression relaxed.
"What's the matter?" he murmured. "Afraid I might be telling the truth?"
Thalia's grip tightened—just slightly.
But then she smiled.
And pulled the dagger away.
Albion didn't exhale.
Didn't give them the satisfaction.
The old man watched it all.
Finally, he spoke again.
"You fell from the sky."
"You appeared through a gateway."
"You carry magic you do not wield."
His gaze was piercing.
"Tell me why we shouldn't consider that an act of war."
The carriage was silent.
Albion let the words hang in the air, the weight of them pressing against him.
Then, finally, he exhaled slowly.
"You seem like reasonable people," he said, tilting his head slightly. "How about we start with introductions?"
Thalia snorted.
Leon didn't move.
Sicily only smiled, her fingers tapping idly against her knee.
The old man studied him.
Then, at last, he nodded.
"Very well, then."
The journey to the citadel was quiet. Albion sat in the back of the carriage, his hands still bound, his thoughts racing. The others rode beside him, their conversation muted but revealing. He listened closely, absorbing every detail.
The robed woman—Sicily, they called her—was skilled in magic. Albion could sense it in the way she spoke, the way she moved. She was powerful, but not as powerful as she let on. The man in armor—Leon—was the leader, though he deferred to the old man more than Albion expected. And the elf… she was dangerous. He could feel it in every glance she threw his way.
As they approached the citadel, Albion kept his head low, observing everything. He needed to know as much as possible if he was going to survive in this world. The magic, the politics, the people. They were all pieces of a puzzle he was only just beginning to understand.
And in the back of his mind, the name lingered. Pendragon. It was a name he wasn't ready to accept, a legacy he wasn't prepared to claim.
Not yet.
In the citadel's dungeons, Albion sat quietly, his mind racing. The others questioned him, but he gave them nothing. He wasn't ready to reveal who he was, or what he was searching for. Not until he had the full picture. Not until he understood where he stood.
The dungeon's chill seemed to crawl into Albion's bones, leaving him with a dull ache that gnawed at the edges of his mind. The shackles bit into his wrists and ankles, the cold metal harsh against his skin. His arms hung loosely at his sides, and his head rested back against the damp stone wall. The flickering torchlight cast long shadows over the narrow chamber, and the steady drip of water somewhere in the distance counted the seconds, each one heavier than the last.
Across from him stood the trio that had been wearing down his patience for hours. Sicily, the robed mage, leaned casually against the stone wall, her face mostly hidden beneath her hood, though her sharp eyes were visible—watchful, predatory. She hadn't shown much emotion since the interrogation began, but Albion could sense her frustration brewing beneath the surface. Next to her was Leon, built like a brick wall, arms crossed over his chest. His face was set in an expression that seemed permanently stuck between boredom and annoyance, though his muscles flexed subtly, like he was waiting for an excuse to snap Albion in half. And then there was Thalia, the elf with the lilac eyes that never seemed to blink. Her gaze unnerved him the most, sharp and unyielding, as though she could peel back his skin with just a look and see straight into his soul.
They had been asking him the same questions, over and over. The same routine. Who are you? Why are you here? Who sent you? Albion had lost count of how many times he'd heard it, and he had long since stopped responding. His body ached, but it wasn't from the chains. It was the waiting. The game of attrition they thought they were winning.
Thalia spoke again, her voice soft but dripping with ice. "You're testing my patience, stranger. You think silence will protect you? There are worse things than what you've been through."
Albion let his head tilt back, knocking it lightly against the stone wall. He gave a small, exaggerated yawn. "I've heard that before. Usually from people who think they're scarier than they are."
Leon took a step forward, his thick boots thudding against the stone floor, but Thalia raised a hand to stop him. She didn't take her eyes off Albion, though.
"Who are you?" Thalia asked again, this time more forcefully, like she was trying to pin him down with just her words.
Albion shrugged, the chains clinking lightly with the movement. "I'm a tourist. Got lost. Maybe this is all a big misunderstanding."
Sicily's voice cut in, soft and lilting, but with a razor edge. "We know you're lying."
Albion's smirk widened, though his eyes were tired. "Yeah, well, I've been told I'm good at that."
"Tell us who you are," Leon growled, stepping closer. He cracked his knuckles, the sound echoing in the narrow space. "Or we can find out the hard way."
For the first time since they'd started this dance, Albion met Leon's gaze directly, and his voice dropped to a cold, calm tone. "You could try."
Sicily straightened, pushing away from the wall, her patience clearly thinning. "Enough of this," she snapped, her eyes narrowing. "Do you think we don't know what you are? You didn't stumble into Avalon by accident. You came here for a reason. You know something."
Albion tilted his head, considering her for a moment. "Why does everyone always think I know things?" he mused aloud. "I swear, it's the glasses. Makes people think I'm smarter than I am."
Leon's fists clenched at his sides, and his whole body seemed to tighten like a coiled spring. "You think this is funny?"
"No," Albion replied dryly. "I think it's hilarious."
Sicily sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose as if she were trying to stave off a headache. "Enough. We've been polite. The Order wants you alive. But if you keep playing this game, you're going to regret it."
Albion's eyes flickered to the runes etched into his forearm, hidden beneath his sleeves. He could feel their faint hum, the power that lay dormant there, waiting. His legacy. It was the only card he hadn't played yet, and part of him wasn't even sure he wanted to. He had spent so long keeping it at arm's length, pretending it didn't matter, that now it felt like a weight he didn't want to bear. But they were running out of time, and the storm gathering in the back of his mind warned him that things were about to get worse if he didn't make a move.
"I've not answered your questions," Albion said, his voice dropping to a low murmur, almost too soft to hear. "And yet, here we are. Maybe it's time to rethink your strategy."
Thalia's eyes narrowed dangerously. "I don't think you understand the gravity of your situation."
"I understand perfectly," Albion replied, his voice flat now. The humor was gone, replaced by something harder, colder. "You don't know who I am. And you won't, until I want you to."
Sicily took a step forward, her eyes sharp, as if she had caught something in Albion's words that the others hadn't. "What do you mean by that?"
Albion sighed, leaning his head back against the wall again. "Let me guess. You've been playing this game for hours now, and you still don't know why I'm here, do you?"
Sicily's expression darkened. "Tell us."
Albion closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the magic hum beneath his skin, urging him forward, and when he spoke again, there was a sharp edge to his voice. "You've been asking the wrong questions."
Leon lunged forward without warning, his massive hand grabbing Albion by the front of his shirt and lifting him off the ground like he weighed nothing. Albion's body slammed against the wall, knocking the breath from his lungs. Pain shot through his back, but he bit down on it, refusing to let Leon see any weakness.
"Stop playing games!" Leon roared, his face inches from Albion's, his breath hot and furious. "Tell us who you are!"
Albion coughed, the air knocked out of him for a moment, but then he grinned. "Finally getting somewhere, huh?"
The brute tightened his grip, and Albion's vision blurred at the edges as the pressure on his chest made it harder to breathe. His thoughts began to swim, the edges of his mind pulling inward like a noose tightening around him.
And then, with a sudden burst of clarity, he felt it—the runes flared under his skin, glowing faintly. The power was there, just waiting for him to grab hold of it. His birthright, the thing he had spent years trying to avoid. He didn't want to use it. But right now, he didn't have a choice.
Albion gritted his teeth, his voice a low growl. "You want to know who I am?"
Leon's eyes blazed with fury. "Yes!"
Albion's smile widened, but this time, it wasn't sarcastic or amused. It was cold. Icy. "Then let me show you."
Before Leon could react, Albion's hands shot up and clamped onto the brute's wrist. The runes carved into his forearm flared to life, burning with molten light. Power surged through him in a violent burst, a ripple of raw force that tore through his nerves and launched outward. It struck Leon like a battering ram. The man flew backward, his massive frame slamming into the far wall with a bone-rattling crunch. Stone cracked. Dust rained from the ceiling. Albion didn't wait to see if he got back up.
He staggered forward, the rattling of his shackles drowned out by the white-hot current still pulsing through his veins. The metal bit into his skin, groaning under the pressure. Then it snapped. One link at a time. With a final scream of shearing steel, the chains fell away, clattering to the stone floor.
Sicily's eyes widened—just barely—but it was enough. Albion saw the flick of her fingers, the subtle twist of her wrist. Spellcasting. He didn't need to hear the incantation to recognize the danger.
"Thalia!" she barked.
Albion turned.
The elf was already moving.
Thalia was a blur. Her blade gleamed in the torchlight, her eyes locked on his with clinical precision. She covered the distance between them in a heartbeat, her boots silent on the floor, her dagger slicing through the air in a perfect arc aimed for his throat.
Albion dropped, the motion sloppy but fast. The dagger hissed past his face, close enough that he felt the wind of it cut his cheek. He rolled sideways, came up unsteady, but moving. She pivoted, low and fast. Another strike. He raised his arms to block it, and the dagger scraped across the glowing runes with a shower of sparks.
She didn't let up. Another slash. Albion ducked and twisted, catching the edge of her boot with his foot. He swept hard. Thalia's balance faltered for a fraction of a second, just enough. He surged up, driving his shoulder into her stomach. They hit the ground together.
Her elbow cracked against his ribs. Albion grunted, shoved her off, and scrambled to his feet. She was already recovering, reaching for her second blade. He didn't give her the chance.
He bolted.
His legs burned, lungs heaving. The rush of blood in his ears drowned out everything—Sicily's spell, Thalia's hissed curses, the dull growl of Leon pushing himself upright behind him.
The dungeon blurred past him. Cell doors. Stone walls. The narrow window at the far end of the chamber called to him like salvation. The air beyond was cold and wild. Wind howled through the gap, wet with storm.
He didn't stop.
Didn't think.
Didn't hesitate.
With every ounce of strength left in him, Albion launched himself through the window. The sharp stone scraped his shoulders, tore at his sleeves. Then he was airborne, tumbling into the void beyond the citadel's walls, the night swallowing him whole.
The cold air hit Albion like a wave the second he squeezed through the narrow window and flung himself out into the open sky. For a split second, there was nothing but the wind, sharp and biting, tearing at his clothes and hair as he plummeted through the air. Albion's stomach lurched, his heart pounding in his chest as he twisted, trying to get his bearings.
No ground, no trees, just sky.
He was falling, and fast.
Albion flailed, arms and legs moving wildly as the stars above him blurred, and the wind roared in his ears. The stone tower of the fortress loomed in the distance, getting smaller as he plummeted further and further from it. His mind raced. I'm dead. This is it. I jumped out of a window in a flying castle. Genius move, Albion.
His eyes darted around, looking for something, anything to slow his fall. But all he saw was the endless night sky and the faint outline of a distant forest below—miles away and much too far for him to survive the impact.
His heart constricted in his chest, panic rising. The runes on his forearm flickered, responding to his panic, but Albion wasn't sure what to do. He didn't know how to summon their power intentionally—he had only done it in desperate situations before, and this? This was about as desperate as it got.
Think, Albion. Think.
He closed his eyes for a brief moment, forcing himself to breathe, even as the wind threatened to rip the air from his lungs. He could feel the faint hum of magic beneath his skin, waiting, but he didn't know how to control it. He had never learned. But right now, control didn't matter—survival did.
The runes. Use them.
He focused on the energy he could feel pulsing under his skin, willing it to rise, to help him slow the fall. The runes began to glow brighter, flickering like embers, and Albion could feel the magic stirring to life. It was raw and wild, but he grabbed onto it with everything he had.
Albion had never felt anything like this.
His body was no longer his own—his limbs twisted, stretched too far, then too tight, like he was being unraveled thread by thread. The world bent, folded, tore itself apart around him.
It was like being dragged through a keyhole that wasn't meant for him.
A scream ripped from his throat, but he wasn't sure if the sound escaped or got swallowed by the void.
His skin burned. The runes on his arm were searing, branding themselves deeper into his flesh like they were fusing with the magic itself. His bones vibrated, his ribs aching like something was pulling him inside out.
Was he dying?
No—this was something worse.
This was breaking.
His vision fractured. It wasn't just blinding light—it was all light. His mind couldn't comprehend what it was seeing—colors that didn't exist, sounds that shouldn't be possible.
And then—
The pain hit.
His entire body slammed into something solid—hard but not unrelenting, like a wall of air had caught him at the last second.
And then—
Impact.
His back crashed against wood—no, something softer. A mattress? His limbs flailed as his body rebounded, his momentum not fully spent. He rolled, twisted, flipped straight off the bed and hit the floor with a brutal thud.
He lay there, gasping, his chest rising and falling in erratic bursts.
His heart hammered, his body tingling with the lingering aftershock of whatever had just happened. His ears rang, his vision still spotted with flickers of that otherworldly light.
The first real sound that reached him was the startled scream of a woman.
Albion's head jerked up. A couple sat on the bed—half-dressed, staring at him in horror.
The man in the bed sat up, his wide eyes blinking in disbelief, while the woman clutched the blankets to her chest, frozen in shock. Their faces mirrored a strange combination of confusion and terror, both of them too stunned to speak.
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Then—
"WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?" the man bellowed.
Albion groaned, rubbing his temples as he tried to piece reality back together. His stomach still felt like it was on the wrong side of his body.
He forced himself upright, staggering slightly as he raised a hand in surrender.
"Okay, okay," he wheezed, still catching his breath. "I can explain."
The woman grabbed a candle holder from the nightstand and chucked it at his head.
Albion ducked.
"Alright, maybe not!" he yelled, stumbling toward the door as the man lunged forward, fists clenched.
Albion flung himself into the hallway, barely slamming the door shut before a wooden mug exploded against it.
What the hell just happened?
His breath was still uneven. The world still felt off. The air here was heavier, richer and thicker. His body was trembling, the runes on his forearm still pulsing with heat.
Get out. Keep moving.
Albion moved quickly through the unfamiliar house, navigating the narrow hallways with instinct and a desperate sense of urgency. A storm outside raged on, thunder rumbling ominously in the distance, and the wind howled as it rattled the windows. He could feel the crackle of magic in the air, thick and oppressive.
He made his way to the door and flung it open, stepping out into the cold night. Rain began to fall in heavy sheets, drenching him within seconds. Albion cursed under his breath; his hair plastered to his forehead as he took off down the street.
The sky above was dark, storm clouds swirling like an angry vortex. Lightning cracked across the sky, followed by a deafening boom of thunder. Albion glanced up, his stomach twisting with unease.
This storm isn't natural.
The night was growing darker, and as Albion stumbled into the open street, a deep rumble of thunder rolled across the sky. He looked up, his breath catching in his throat. The storm clouds were thick and menacing, swirling above like the hand of some vengeful god ready to strike him down.
Not good, Albion thought, his pulse quickening. The wind picked up, whipping his hair across his face, and the air smelled charged—like ozone, just before a lightning strike.
Albion's breath hitched.
The air wasn't just heavy—it was alive.
The space around him tightened, thick with something unnatural. His skin tingled, his hair stood on end, and a sharp, metallic taste filled his mouth, like he had bitten into raw energy itself.
The night had gone too quiet.
Not the stillness of peace—the stillness before something breaks.
A pulse. A shift in the air.
Then—
Everything exploded.
The sky split open with a blinding crack.
A bolt of pure, white-hot energy detonated behind him, slamming into the cobblestone with the force of a war hammer. The ground burst apart—chunks of stone launched into the air, one barely missing his shoulder as he staggered forward. A ringing overtook his ears, blocking out everything but the high-pitched whine of destruction.
For a moment, his vision blurred.
His limbs locked. His lungs seized.
The bolt singeing a lock of his hair.
This wasn't just a storm.
This was something hunting him.
The second strike was already forming, crackling above him.
The sky glowed, a latticework of burning veins fanning outward, stretching like fingers—grasping.
Every part of him screamed: Move.
But he couldn't.
His legs wouldn't listen, trapped between terror and disbelief.
His brain scrambled for logic—lightning didn't strike like this. It didn't follow you. It didn't target.
The runes on his arm burned hot.
Something deeper than instinct took hold.
He dove.
The next strike obliterated the space where he had just stood. The impact sent another shockwave through the street, sending him rolling across jagged debris. Pain flared in his ribs, his hands scraped raw as he caught himself just before slamming into the edge of a fountain.
His lungs burned. His head spun. His entire body buzzed with the aftershock of the strike.
He tried to push himself up—tried to breathe.
Then the voices started.
Distant at first, carried on the wind.
Then clearer.
People.
A gathering crowd, murmuring, shouting.
"What was that?"
"The sky—did you see that?"
"Something's happening—"
Albion wiped the rain from his eyes. His mind raced. He had seconds—maybe less—before more people saw him, before questions started, before whoever was controlling this storm realized they had missed.
And then, a voice boomed through the streets.
Not from a person.
From everywhere.
"Return to the citadel, or face judgment."
Albion's breath stalled in his throat.
The sky rumbled again, the lightning not just above—but inside the clouds, curling and churning like a living thing.
A warning.
A sentence.
Run.
He didn't hesitate this time.
He ran.
And then, as if the heavens had been waiting for him to notice, another bolt came crashing down.
Lightning split the sky, slamming into the cobblestone street just feet behind him. The impact sent a wave of energy rippling through the ground, and Albion felt the shock race up his legs, his teeth rattling from the force. He stumbled forward, nearly losing his balance, but he kept moving, his feet pounding against the slick stones as he ran.
Albion froze in his tracks, his blood running cold. The voice reverberated with power, a voice that could only belong to someone who wielded magic beyond his comprehension. He didn't need to look to know who it was.
They've found me.
For a split second, Albion considered stopping—turning himself in, facing whatever fate awaited him. But then the thunder cracked again, and a bolt of lightning struck the cobblestone street just feet away from him, the force of the impact sending a shockwave through the air.
Albion didn't wait for another warning.
Move, Albion!
He sprinted down the street, his feet pounding against the wet cobblestones as the storm chased him. The wind howled, and the rain lashed against his skin, but Albion didn't look back. He could feel the magic in the air—lightning crackling, energy pulsing, and with each second, the storm grew more violent.
Another bolt of lightning struck behind him, barely missing his heels. The ground shook with the force of it, and Albion stumbled, his heart racing.
This is insane. What kind of storm is this?
He darted through the narrow alleyways, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His boots slipped on the wet stones, and he nearly lost his footing more than once. But the lightning kept coming, relentless and unforgiving, as though the sky itself was hunting him.
Albion's mind raced. There had to be a way out, some kind of escape. He could feel the runes on his arms pulsing with faint energy, but they weren't responding the way they had before. Whatever magic he had used earlier, it wasn't enough to stop this.
The street opened up into a wide square, and Albion skidded to a halt, his eyes locking onto the figure in the center.
There, standing tall and proud, was the statue.
His mother.
Albion's heart skipped a beat as he looked up at the stone figure of the Saint of Avalon. Her likeness was perfect—Excalibur raised toward the heavens, her face full of strength and pride. The sight of her made Albion's chest tighten with a mixture of grief and longing.
Mum.
For a moment, everything else faded away—the storm, the danger, the chase. All Albion could see was his mother's face, immortalized in stone, her legacy stretching far beyond her lifetime.
Tears blurred his vision as he stared up at the statue, his hands trembling at his sides.
"I'm sorry," Albion whispered, his voice barely audible over the roar of the storm. "I'm so sorry."
The wind howled, and the first drops of rain began to fall, but Albion didn't move. He couldn't. He was rooted to the spot, overwhelmed by the weight of everything—his mother's legacy, his own identity, the future that awaited him.
Who are you, Albion?
The question echoed in his mind. He had spent so long running from it, so long hiding from the truth of who he was. But now, standing before the statue of his mother, he couldn't run anymore.
You are a Pendragon.
The rain pelted Albion's face, mixing with the sweat and tears that blurred his vision. He blinked hard, trying to clear his mind, trying to process the weight of the truth that had settled on him like a yoke. The statue of his mother—Saint Elaine Pendragon, hero of Avalon—towered above him, her sword raised triumphantly to the heavens.
But Albion felt anything but triumphant. The storm whipped around him, the wind howling in his ears as lightning crackled ominously in the distance. The very sky seemed to be waiting, watching him. He could feel the weight of hundreds of eyes on his back. The crowd that had gathered in the town square stared at him in a mix of confusion, curiosity, and barely contained fear.
He felt like a prisoner standing before his executioners.
Then, cutting through the sound of the storm, a voice, cold and commanding.
"Who are you, boy?" the old man from before ordered.
Albion blinked, wiping the rain from his face. Through the haze, three figures emerged from the shadows. Chancellor Ian Leeds, the grim leader of Charlevoix, his armor gleaming even in the dim light; Guildmaster Mako Rahl, a towering, broad-shouldered, old man who moved with the quiet authority of someone who had witnessed and caused more violence than Albion could fathom; and finally, Vicar Sebastian Tighe, a man whose robes billowed like the storm itself, his eyes filled with a fanatical glint, as if he could perceive Albion's soul and was already weighing it for judgment.
They approached like wolves closing in on prey.
Albion's heart pounded in his chest, his pulse deafening in his ears. He could sense the mob behind him, waiting for someone—anyone—to ignite their violent impulses. He wasn't just a boy anymore. He was a threat.
Chancellor Ian Leeds broke the silence, his gravelly voice cutting through the tension. "He asked you a question. Who are you?"
Albion opened his mouth, but the answer lodged in his throat. Fear churned his gut, and his mind raced. They would kill him if he didn't give them something. They wouldn't care if he was just Albion, a runaway orphan with no claim to any throne. But if they believed…
"My name…" he began, swallowing hard. His voice wavered. "My name is Albion Pendragon."
The words tasted bitter, but they slid from his lips like an offering.
The first rock flew.
Albion barely had time to move before it sailed past his ear, clipping his hair as it spiraled into the crowd.
The second one didn't miss.
Pain exploded along his cheekbone, a sharp, jarring impact that sent a shock through his skull. The force snapped his head to the side, his vision blurring for a fraction of a second before reality slammed back into place.
The crowd had shifted.
It wasn't just suspicion now.
It was rage.
Pure, raw, undiluted rage.
"LIAR!"
"DEFILER!"
A third rock struck his shoulder, knocking him off balance. Albion caught himself before he could hit the ground, his breathing ragged. His pulse roared in his ears.
Someone grabbed his sleeve, yanking him forward.
"You dare claim her name?!"
Albion tore himself free, stumbling back toward the base of the statue. His mother's stone gaze loomed over him—proud, defiant, untouchable.
He was none of those things.
His fingers curled into fists, his nails digging into his palms. This was spiraling too fast.
"Burn the traitor!" a voice screeched, sharp and unrelenting.
Albion's breath silenced.
No.
Another shove. Hands grabbed at him.
The weight of the mob bore down. He was just a step away from being dragged under—from being swallowed whole.
His body locked.
For one terrifying moment, he felt six years old again—helpless, frozen in fire, unable to stop what was coming.
"Enough."
The voice cut through the chaos like a blade.
Deep. Commanding.
Chancellor Ian Leeds.
The hands-on Albion hesitated. The crowd's fever pitch wavered, just for a second.
Albion sucked in a ragged breath, his cheek throbbing, his ribs aching, his mind still spinning.
The storm above rumbled again.
The air crackled. The runes on his arm burned beneath his sleeves.
And Albion knew, with terrifying certainty—
If they came for him again, he wouldn't hold back.
For a moment, the world held its breath.
The only sound was the slow crackle of lightning rolling across the sky, illuminating the faces of the gathered crowd in flickering, unnatural light. Their expressions shifted in real-time—doubt, anger, curiosity, disbelief—all colliding like a storm trapped inside the bodies of men.
Albion's ears tingling from the cold. He wasn't sure what he expected—mockery, laughter, another stone hurled at his head. But what came next was far worse.
Vicar Tighe stepped forward, his white robes damp from the rain, though he moved as if the storm dared not touch him. His piercing gaze locked onto Albion, sharp as a blade pressed against flesh.
"Oh, you claim to be the son of Queen Elaine," he said, his voice carrying the weight of a judge about to pass sentence. "The Savior of Avalon."
His eyes flickered, scanning Albion from head to toe, as if searching for the flaw in the lie. His lips curled, cold and contemptuous.
"Where is your proof?"
A pit opened in Albion's stomach.
Proof?
He had nothing. No documents, no relics, no grand proclamation from the heavens. He had spent his whole life running from this legacy, shoving it into the dark corners of his mind where it couldn't touch him. And yet, now—in this moment—it was the only thing that could keep him alive.
His fingers twitched at his sides. His sleeves were soaked through, the fabric clinging to his arms.
He had always hidden the runes.
The marks that set him apart. That made him different.
The marks his father told him never to show anyone.
The weight of the crowd pressed in, their stares turning into silent demands. He had seconds to decide.
Slowly, deliberately, Albion reached for the buttons on his sleeve. He worked through them with methodical precision, his fingers trembling—not from the cold, but from something deeper.
The moment stretched thin.
As he peeled back the fabric, revealing the intricate web of runes carved into his forearm, the crowd inhaled as one. The symbols pulsed, faintly illuminated in the storm light, an eerie glow spreading like veins beneath his skin.
The hush that followed was deafening.
Albion raised his arm, not as an offering, but as a statement.
"This," he said, voice steady despite the twisting in his gut, "is my proof."
Vicar Tighe's expression faltered. Just for a second.
"These…." The priest took a step closer, his breath visible in the chill. His fingers twitched as if he wanted to reach out, but he stopped himself. "These are not mere sigils. They are ancient—older than this city."
His voice dipped lower, almost reverent. "Pendragon."
A ripple of murmurs tore through the crowd. Suspicion mixed with awe, voices barely restrained in their fervor. Albion felt the shift in energy. They weren't just looking at him anymore—they were believing.
He clenched his jaw. He had spent years hating these marks. Loathing the weight they carried.
Now, they were his only shield.
"I am Albion Bell Pendragon," he said again, firmer this time. "And I will prove it to anyone who doubts me."
It wasn't just for them. It was for himself.
Chancellor Leeds was the next to speak, his deep voice cutting through the rising storm.
"Those runes…" His gaze was sharp, calculating. "You know they are not just any markings."
He turned his full attention on Albion.
"They belong to the Order of Pendragon."
The words landed like an iron weight against Albion's ribs.
He had not heard the name before. At least not before today.
Albion swallowed hard. "The Order?"
Leeds stepped closer, his presence imposing, the rain casting his face in hard shadows.
"Your mother," he stated, "was its greatest champion."
The storm roared behind them, wind whipping at Albion's damp sleeves.
"She wielded the sword of kings," Leeds continued. "Restored balance to Avalon. United the fractured kingdoms." His eyes darkened. "And you carry her mark."
Albion's stomach twisted.
His mother had never been a legend to him. She had been a silhouette at the edge of his memories. A ghost. A name barely spoken by strangers.
Not his mother.
Not the woman who left.
He blinked rain from his lashes, his voice quieter now. "She never told me any of this."
And she never did. She never prepared him for this.
Vicar Tighe's sneer returned, sharp and cutting. "Yet here you stand," he said, stepping forward, "claiming her name and her power."
Albion's nails dug into his palms. The words struck something raw inside him.
"I never wanted her power," he shot back, his voice rough, unpolished, real. "I just… I just wanted to understand why she left."
The words felt too small, too fragile.
But they were the truth.
Tighe's nostrils flared. "She must have left to save this world, boy." His voice was not kind. "And now, you will face the same destiny."
Albion shook his head.
"No."
His hands dropped to his sides, fingers curling. The weight of expectation pressed into his ribs like a vice. He was not her. He never would be.
Guildmaster Rahl, who had remained silent until now, finally stepped forward.
The old man from before wasn't just any leader.
His presence was different from the others. Leeds spoke of duty. Tighe spoke of fate. But Rahl… Rahl studied him.
When he spoke, his voice was even. Low. Steady. Measured.
"No one is asking you to be her," he said.
Albion's breath caught.
"But you carry her blood." Rahl's gaze didn't waver. "And this world needs you."
Albion's stomach churned.
They didn't need him. They needed her. His mother. A hero. A savior.
Not him.
Not Albion, the orphan. The runaway.
He looked at the glowing runes on his arm. The proof that tied him to something he barely understood. The crowd was waiting. The storm was waiting.
What was he supposed to say?
His lips parted, and the words slipped out before he could stop them.
"I have no idea where to begin."
And that?
That was the first honest thing he had said all night.