The hall inside the Vanderbilt Guild buzzed with life, an odd mix of chaos and camaraderie. Albion's eyes swept across the space, still trying to comprehend the madness that surrounded him. Children were playing a game of tag—on the ceiling. Two men lounged on floating clouds, devouring a feast, while over by the bar, a woman with green hair served drinks to a swordswoman with three blades strapped to her back. In the center of the hall, fire and ice clashed violently as twin fighters sparred, their elemental magic tearing into the air, and yet no one seemed to notice the destruction. He paused at the threshold, jaw half-open as his eyes darted between the chaos. It felt like a fantasy MMO exploded. Ceiling tag? Floating clouds? Elemental brawls? It was like Hogwarts got drunk and passed out in a tavern.
"This is more my style," he muttered under his breath, the sheer absurdity oddly comforting after the storm last night.
He stepped toward the bar, raising a brow at the green-haired bartender. "Do you… have anything strong enough to make this make sense?"
The bartender flashed a knowing grin and slid him a glass filled with a liquid that fizzed energetically, shifting hues from brilliant emerald to electric blue. "First time here, huh?" she asked. The liquid bubbled, fizzed, and briefly floated above the rim before settling down, shimmering between blue and amber. She slid it toward him. "A Bleu Dot Faego—guaranteed to bend your mind into understanding this madhouse."
Albion eyed the drink warily, then lifted it cautiously to his lips. After a tentative sip, his eyes widened in surprise. "Okay, wow," he said, smacking his lips as his tongue briefly turned blue.
"That tastes like peppermint, sunshine, and regret." He laughed, genuinely amused. "This place is wild. I kinda love it."
"Thought you might," she said with a wink, returning to her task of mixing another impossible concoction. She laughed heartily, eyes sparkling. "Welcome to Charlevoix."
Before he could recover, a mage sidled up beside him, gaze trailing curiously along the glowing runes of his arm. "Those runes look intriguing," came a silky voice from his right. Albion turned, startled to see a mage lounging against the bar, dark eyes glinting mischievously as she examined his arm. "Do they go anywhere interesting?"
Albion flushed, caught off guard but intrigued by her confident smile. "Still figuring that out myself, honestly."
"Well," she leaned closer, voice low, "if you ever want some help decoding them, come find me. I'm pretty good with runes—and secrets."
She gave him a playful wink.
Before Albion could form a proper reply, a tug at his sleeve drew his attention downward. As he turned, a young girl clad in mismatched armor stepped forward shyly. In her outstretched palm burned a delicate flower of enchanted flame, petals flickering softly with golden light. "You're a Pendragon, right?" Her voice was barely above a whisper. "I read about you in school. You're supposed to break the world or save it."
Albion hesitated, suddenly aware of the weight behind her words, but managed a gentle smile. "I hope it's the saving part."
She nodded vigorously, eyes sparkling. "Me too."
Albion gently accepted the burning flower, warmth radiating pleasantly against his skin. His voice softened. "I'll do my best not to disappoint."
Nearby, a bard strummed his lute dramatically, voice ringing out over the din. "Gather 'round, friends, randonneurs, wanderers, misfits and I'll sing you a tale of Albion, the Boy Who Fell from the Sky!"
The bard strummed his lute dramatically, improvising loudly:
"Gather 'round now, don't be shy,
Here's the boy who fell through the sky!
Peppermint tongue and runes aglow,
Destined hero or fool—who knows?"
Laughter and applause erupted, sealing Albion's fate as the guild's favorite new punchline. Albion sighed dramatically, feigning annoyance but unable to suppress the growing grin as the ridiculous melody became an instant favorite among the guild members.
Finally, Albion's eyes swept across the space again, still trying—and pleasantly failing—to fully comprehend the madness that surrounded him.
Albion's mind still spun from the ordeal in the dungeon, memories raw and vivid. The cramped, torch-lit space had felt more like a tomb than a cell, its walls damp and slick with ancient moisture. Shadows danced ominously across stone carvings depicting forgotten heroes and mythical creatures locked in eternal combat. It was a place meant to intimidate, to humble, a stark contrast to the warmth and life of the guild hall.
He could still recall the chill that settled in his bones as he sat alone, wrists sore from the rune-inscribed bindings they'd briefly tested— "precautionary measures," they'd said. Albion remembered staring at those strange runes as they pulsed with soft, eerie light, echoing something deep and unknown within him.
Yet as unsettling as the dungeon had been, the moments of solitude had allowed him clarity—a quiet space to gather his fragmented thoughts. From last night, Mako's cryptic advice had lingered heavily there, a haunting puzzle Albion had turned over endlessly in his mind.
Now, standing amid the raucous cheer of the guild hall, Albion couldn't help but marvel at the contrast. The dungeon's darkness had felt endless, oppressive, yet here was warmth, community, and laughter—humanity in all its messy glory. And somehow, both places belonged to the same bewildering world.
Albion shook himself from the memory, overhearing Mako speaking again, pulling him sharply back into the chaotic present.
Albion stood rigidly beside Mako, still trying to wrap his mind around the sprawling chaos of the guild hall. Lanterns hung low from ancient wooden beams, casting flickering shadows over the bustling room. The scent of roasted meats and spilled ale mingled with sweat and iron, a heady cocktail that left Albion feeling vaguely dizzy. Guild members filled the hall, laughing loudly, swapping stories, and occasionally shoving each other in playful skirmishes.
In the quieter corner, Chancellor Ian Leeds, Vicar Sebastian Tighe, and the old man from earlier—Guildmaster Mako Rahl—conversed intently, their low voices barely audible beneath the din.
Mako noticed Albion's confusion and gave him an amused glance, eyes twinkling knowingly beneath his grizzled brows. "You look lost, boy."
"Just trying to understand how any of this makes sense," Albion admitted quietly. "You know, flying statues, magical runes, cryptic old men—"
Mako's mouth twitched with something close to a smile. "Welcome to the Randonneurs guild. Sense isn't always part of the deal."
Before Albion could respond, Mako's expression turned serious, the lines around his eyes deepening. He stepped closer, voice dropping to a low, gravelly whisper. "Listen carefully, boy. You've got power—real power. And that means this entire town is at risk because of you. We don't have time for explanations or caution, not now. You need training, and quickly." His eyes flicked meaningfully across the hall. "And I know exactly the man for the job."
Albion's pulse quickened with anxiety. "Wait—what training? What man? What—"
But Mako ignored his stammered protests, already turning to shout across the crowded hall.
"Winston!"
Chains rattled from the ceiling, slithering downward like metallic serpents, coiling around a hulking figure sprawled limply across the wooden floorboards. Albion's breath froze, dread crawling up his spine. The man—broad as a mountain and scorched like he'd been struck by lightning—lay motionless, a gleaming sword embedded grotesquely through his chest. Albion's stomach twisted with revulsion, fascination flickering beneath.
Suddenly, a pulse of electric current surged through the chains with a violent crackle. The massive man let out a startled roar, eyes snapping open, wild and furious. With a sudden snap, the chains vanished, and he crashed unceremoniously to the floor, shaking the room with his weight.
Albion gaped, glancing around at the guild members. No one flinched. Conversations hummed casually; ale mugs clinked; laughter echoed undisturbed. Albion could hardly believe his eyes.
The man rose slowly to one knee, grumbling curses beneath his breath. His thick fingers grasped the hilt of the sword, and with a sickening squelch, he pulled it free as casually as someone removing a splinter. Blood steamed momentarily from the wound before it sealed itself shut, leaving only faintly glowing runes etched across his skin.
Albion winced, shuddering. "What in the absolute hell is wrong with this place?" he muttered under his breath, inching instinctively behind Mako.
A nearby guild member smirked, sipping from his mug. "You'll get used to it, kid."
A woman behind the bar wiped down a mug, smiling faintly. "Give it a week," she said, unfazed. "You'll hardly notice."
The man stood to his full height, towering above everyone else in the room. He was a spectacle of muscle and scars, with a fierce, tangled red beard and a mane of hair like molten copper. Runes pulsed faintly beneath charred skin, illuminating the darkened patches from his recent ordeal. He sniffed deeply, nostrils flaring, eyes suddenly alert. "Is that breakfast I smell?" he called hopefully, his voice booming through the hall. "Gods, please say yes."
"Winston!" Mako barked sharply, cutting through the air like a blade.
Winston groaned theatrically. "Can't a man die peacefully around here?" Leveling a familiar, begrudging glare at Mako. "Another stray, huh?"
Mako folded his arms, expression stern. "He's your responsibility now."
"Lucky me," Winston sighed, slowly lumbering towards Mako. His movements were deceptively graceful for someone his size, every motion exuding casual lethality. His gaze landed heavily on Albion, inspecting him with weary curiosity. "So, you're the kid everyone's been making such a damn fuss over?" Winston's voice held faint amusement, as though the absurdity of the moment had already faded into routine.
Albion swallowed, forcing himself to meet Winston's probing gaze. He extended a hand tentatively. "Uh…yeah, I guess that's me."
Winston's massive palm enveloped Albion's, callused and rough like weathered stone. A wry grin tugged at his lips. "Well, you picked one hell of a time to show up." He released Albion's hand, turning his head toward Mako with exaggerated irritation. "This one's scrawnier than the last. You trying to make my life difficult?"
Mako gave a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. "Quit your whining."
Albion flinched slightly as Winston stretched, popping bones that sounded suspiciously like thunderclaps. He moved with the unhurried confidence of someone who'd long grown accustomed to violence and absurdity being everyday companions. Winston glanced toward the bar, shouting, "Nico, darlin', put some coffee on for me, would you? This 'dying heroically' stuff works up an appetite!"
Nicolette grinned knowingly from behind the bar, eyes rolling fondly. "Already brewing, love."
Winston felt Albion's confusion, snorting in amusement. "Oh, you've met Mako already, have you? He looks harmless, sure, but watch out—he's trickier than he lets on. Damn man's cryptic enough to drive anyone insane." Winston leaned in conspiratorially, voice dropping to a whisper loud enough to carry to Mako. "If you thought I was trouble, just wait until you spend more time with him. He's got cryptic advice for days."
Mako's glare was sharp enough to cut steel, but there was a playful gleam hidden behind the stern facade. "Keep it up, Winston. You're already on thin ice."
Winston shrugged dramatically, spreading his arms wide. "Story of my life." He turned back to Albion, offering a conspiratorial wink. "Welcome to Vanderbilt, kid. Try not to get yourself killed—at least not before breakfast."
Winston grumbles, "You really want me training him?"
Mako Rahl replies, "I trust you. And if you fail, at least you'll make the kid laugh."
Albion watches, surprised at the respect between them. It's the first time he realizes Winston isn't just a drunk or brute—he's a veteran with weight behind him.
As Albion turned to leave with Winston, two fighters—identical twins locked in a playful clash of fire and ice—paused mid-spell, flames and frost sizzling away into steam. One of them grinned and called out, "Hey, new guy! Fancy a quick round?"
Albion chuckled, holding up his hands defensively. "Maybe after I learn how to duck first."
The twins burst out laughing, nodding approvingly at his honesty. "We'll hold you to that!"
Stepping into the bustling streets of Charlevoix felt like entering a living fairytale. The morning air buzzed with life—street performers danced gracefully, weaving sparks of magic through their fingertips, and vendors proudly displayed wares that defied explanation.
Albion paused, captivated by a street artist who sketched intricate spell circles midair with glowing chalk. He leaned toward Winston, eyebrows raised. "This normal?"
Winston followed Albion's gaze and smirked. "Oh, that's just Dolla. She's completely nuts—but yeah, pretty normal for Charlevoix."
From a fruit stand adorned with sparkling apples and fruits that seemed to shimmer from within, a vendor called warmly, "Morning, Winston! Who's your new apprentice?"
Winston snorted good-naturedly, glancing at Albion. "Wouldn't go that far yet. This one's still a work in progress."
Nearby, a merchant leaned conspiratorially toward Albion, whispering loudly, "You the boy who fell through my cousin's roof?"
Albion felt heat rise to his cheeks. "Um—"
The merchant chuckled heartily. "She said you could've at least bought her breakfast first."
Albion flushed deeper, ducking his head as Winston shook with laughter.
As if fate conspired further embarrassment, the very woman whose bed Albion had unceremoniously crashed into appeared just around the corner. She leaned casually against a stall, a mischievous smile playing on her lips.
"Oh, it's you," she purred. "Back for round two?"
Albion's ears burned scarlet, words failing him entirely as Winston howled, practically doubling over with laughter.
"Careful," Winston warned through chuckles. "She'll eat you alive."
"Not opposed," the woman winked playfully, drawing amused glances from passersby.
Albion cleared his throat, face aflame. "Let's keep moving."
The market street stretched ahead, vibrant and alive with merchants calling greetings to Winston as though he were everyone's favorite uncle.
"Hey Winston, who's the new pet?" a jovial voice rang out.
Winston shrugged, eyes twinkling mischievously. "Guild's latest disaster."
Albion shot Winston a flat look. "Thanks for that."
Winston chuckled deeply, clapping his shoulder roughly. "Anytime, kid."
"Hey there, Albion! Missed you this morning," the now-infamous husband whose roof he'd crashed through waved enthusiastically. He groaned dramatically, adding, "Thanks for the sunroof, by the way. Your royal highness."
Albion covered his face with one hand as Winston exploded with genuine laughter again, clearly enjoying Albion's humiliation. "Didn't even make it one day without bed trouble, eh Pendragon?"
Albion groaned, half-smiling despite himself. "Please tell me people around here forget things quickly."
"Oh, no," Winston replied cheerfully, eyes glittering with mischief. "We remember forever. Better embrace it."
Albion sighed, embarrassment mingling with a strange warmth—the feeling of belonging slowly creeping in beneath the teasing and laughter.
As they continued through the streets, Albion's eyes caught sight of floating lanterns drifting lazily above, glowing softly without any visible support.
He pointed upward curiously. "How are those even floating?"
Winston shrugged dismissively. "Magic."
Albion rolled his eyes, exasperated yet amused. "That answer's getting old."
Winston laughed heartily, slapping Albion's back. "Better get used to it, kid. Avalon doesn't care about your logic."
Albion sighed dramatically, though his genuine smile revealed more than just a fleeting curiosity. "Fair enough."
He followed Winston quietly along the narrow path from the guild hall, each step heavy with thoughts he couldn't yet sort through. The morning sun warmed his back, and the air carried the distant, briny scent of the ocean. Gulls circled overhead, their cries echoing off rocky cliffs as the town's chatter faded behind them, leaving only the gentle murmur of the breeze.
He glanced sidelong at Winston. The older man moved with steady determination, shoulders squared, gaze forward—though Albion noticed a heaviness lingering beneath his confident posture. Winston was always in control, even when chaos erupted in the guild. But Albion sensed there was far more hidden beneath that composed exterior.
Winston stopped abruptly at the cliff's edge, overlooking a sprawling horizon of endless blue, the morning sunlight glittering off restless waves. He gestured toward a grassy patch and lowered himself to the ground with a tired sigh.
"Sit," Winston said, motioning beside him. His voice was softer now, stripped of the authoritative edge he used back in the guild.
Albion complied, sinking down beside Winston and pulling his knees close. He stared into the churning waters below, the rhythmic crash of waves against rock a soothing contrast to the turmoil in his mind.
"You've got a lot on your plate, kid," Winston began quietly, breaking the heavy silence. He gave Albion a sideways glance, eyes gentle. "And I don't envy you one bit."
Albion exhaled a bitter laugh, nodding faintly. "Yeah, you could say that. It's just…all this stuff—Excalibur, the Order of Pendragon, my mother. I didn't ask for any of it."
"Most people don't," Winston said quietly, watching the waves roll endlessly toward the shore.
"Power doesn't wait for you to be ready."
Albion frowned, sensing a deeper meaning behind Winston's words. He hesitated, uncertain how far he could push, but curiosity overrode caution. "What about you? You seem to know an awful lot about being thrown into things."
Winston stared hard at the ocean, eyes darkening slightly. A distant pain flickered across his face.
When he finally spoke, his voice was strained. "You could say that. I wasn't always with the guild, Albion. Before all this—" He gestured vaguely toward the town, the guild, the bustling morning. "I was part of something darker. Something I thought was right at the time."
Albion leaned forward slightly, interest piqued. "What was it?"
Winston hesitated, gaze distant, his jaw tightening. "The Cathedral of Magic."
Albion tilted his head, confused. "The Cathedral? What's that?"
Winston's mouth set in a hard line. "The religious arm of the Celeste Empire. They control magic—twist it, bend it. It's how they keep their power. Ruthless, bloody…they'll do anything to maintain their grip."
A chill ran down Albion's spine. "And you were part of that?"
Winston nodded solemnly. "For a long time, I thought we were doing the right thing. Believed their lies, bought into the propaganda. Until I finally saw what we'd become—executioners, oppressors. Magic was never supposed to be a weapon, but the Cathedral made it one."
"What made you leave?" Albion asked softly, his tone careful.
Winston's jaw tightened again, grief shadowing his features. "There are lines you can't uncross, kid. When I left, they marked me for death. That's the price you pay for walking away."
Albion stared at Winston, realizing the man beside him carried a burden heavier than he'd imagined. He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "Why are you telling me this?"
Winston looked directly at Albion, his eyes fierce yet vulnerable. "Because the Cathedral knows about you. They know who you are, what the Pendragon legacy means. They won't stop until they've erased it—until they've erased you. And you need to know exactly who you're dealing with."
Albion swallowed, a familiar dread pooling in his chest. "I'm no hero, Winston. I'm not my mother."
Winston's expression softened, his gaze distant again. "Nobody asks to be a hero, Albion. You think your mother wanted to leave you behind? Choices like that…they tear you apart. They haunt you."
Albion looked down, feeling the bitterness welling up inside. He drew a shaky breath, barely managing to voice what he'd buried for so long. "Maybe she shouldn't have made that choice. Maybe Avalon wasn't worth it."
The older man remained quiet for a moment, as if gathering his strength to speak. When he finally did, his voice carried the raw weight of memory. "You know…I had a kid once."
Albion's head snapped up, eyes wide with surprise. Winston's gaze remained fixed on the horizon, eyes glazed with unshed tears. "Didn't make it. Illness took her when she was just five. Took me years—years—to stop thinking I'd failed her somehow." Winston shook his head gently, bitterness etched deep into the lines around his mouth. "Truth is, sometimes what happens to our children ain't in our hands. Sometimes they leave you before you ever get a chance to say goodbye."
A beat of silence stretched between them, filled only with the mournful cries of seabirds and the distant roar of waves.
Albion's throat tightened, grief he barely understood mirrored in Winston's eyes. "I'm sorry," he whispered.
Winston's gaze softened, the intensity easing slightly. He reached out, resting a heavy, comforting hand on Albion's shoulder. "The past is the past. But parents always carry the hardest scars. Fate doesn't let us choose what to lose—only how we carry the loss."
Albion felt his eyes sting, emotion swelling in his chest. "Do you still blame yourself?"
Winston hesitated, the raw truth lingering before he answered. "Every damn day, Albion. But I learned something. We carry grief, but we don't have to carry it alone. Maybe that's why you're here now—to remind me of that."
Albion looked down at his hands, wrestling with emotion. "I don't even know how to face all this. It feels impossible."
Winston exhaled softly, squeezing Albion's shoulder reassuringly. "That's why you don't do it alone. Listen, you don't have to sleep in that dungeon again. I've got a spare room. It's small, humble—but it's better than iron bars."
Albion's gaze snapped up, disbelief flickering briefly across his features, quickly replaced by a quiet, vulnerable gratitude. "Are you sure? You barely know me."
Winston smiled faintly, warmth lighting his eyes. "Kid, I know enough. The world's already taken enough from you. Let's not let it take your rest too. Stay as long as you need. You're not alone in this."
The sincerity in Winston's voice hit Albion harder than he expected, piercing through layers of fear and anger. He nodded, blinking rapidly against the moisture in his eyes. "Thank you, Winston. Really."
They sat quietly for another moment, the sun rising steadily higher, warming their shoulders and brightening the vast expanse of sea below. Albion traced the faint runes on his arm, Excalibur's quiet hum vibrating beneath his fingertips. Somehow, despite everything, the sword felt lighter, less like a burden and more like a promise.
Winston stood finally, stretching with a groan. "Alright, kid. We've got work ahead of us. There's a rebellion brewing, and I've got a feeling you'll be right in the thick of it."
Albion rose beside him, gaze determined, heart a little lighter. "Guess there's no running from destiny."
Winston's expression softened again, eyes gentle yet firm. "Remember: you're not your mother, Albion. You're not me, either. Your choices are your own. Decide who you'll be."
Albion nodded thoughtfully, letting Winston's words settle deep inside him. Together, they turned from the cliff's edge, beginning to walk back toward the bustling guild below. Yet, after a few steps, Albion hesitated. Something inside urged him to stay a moment longer—to confront what still echoed unanswered within himself.
He stopped, murmuring quietly, "Give me a minute?"
Winston paused, understanding crossing his features. "Take all the time you need."
Albion watched Winston's figure retreat down the path, until he was alone again, standing on the precipice. Before him stretched the endless ocean, its waves shimmering beneath the sunlight. The salty air filled his lungs as he closed his eyes, absorbing the sound of the crashing waves against distant rocks below.
Slowly, he reached into his coat and drew out the sleek glasses, the subtle hum of their activation breaking the stillness. Fingers trembling slightly, he swiped through images, snapshots of a life he'd once lived. Faces blurred past, brief reminders of times he'd forgotten, until one settled firmly into view—a birthday party, faded yet vivid. His mother's laughter filled the quiet moment, radiant and alive. She looked young, carefree, untouched by shadows.
The memory struck Albion deeply, aching and comforting all at once. It was a strange, bittersweet blend. He remembered that day: balloons drifting lazily toward the ceiling, the scent of homemade cake, her voice playful, teasing. It seemed impossibly distant now, another lifetime altogether.
His throat tightened, his vision blurring around the edges. Her laughter, ringing through the recording, seemed to mock the silence that had filled his days since she'd gone. Albion had spent so long chasing her ghost, aching for her approval, her acknowledgment. But standing here now, something shifted inside him.
"You left me," he whispered softly to the ocean, voice thick with emotion. "But I'm not gone. Not yet."
The wind caught his words, scattering them across the expanse. He knew they were just words—empty air against an indifferent world—but they felt significant, heavy with the weight of promise. He swallowed hard, his pulse steadying with each breath.
Winston's voice echoed softly through his mind again: You're not your mother.
For the first time, Albion truly understood what Winston meant. His mother's shadow loomed large, her legacy pressing down on him relentlessly, yet standing at the cliff's edge, Albion felt a strange freedom. Maybe he didn't have to be defined by her triumphs or failures, her joys or sorrows. Maybe, just maybe, he could carve his own path.
His thoughts turned inward, the sea becoming nothing more than a distant blur as he reflected on everything that had brought him to this moment. Avalon, Winston, the guild below—all of it was new, foreign, yet strangely comforting. It wasn't the world he'd known, but perhaps it could be a world where he belonged. Albion realized with startling clarity that he wasn't merely surviving anymore; he was beginning to live.
He stood straighter, shoulders back, the weight of uncertainty less oppressive. Whatever came next, he could face it. He wouldn't run, wouldn't hide behind the shadows of those who came before. Instead, he'd embrace this chance to forge a new legacy—his own legacy.
"Maybe I'll never forgive you," he spoke aloud again, clearer now, addressing the waves, the memory, the mother he missed and resented in equal measure. "But maybe I can start understanding."
He ripped the glasses from his face, a single tear slipping down his cheek. He wiped it away on his sleeve, then stared at the frames like they might shatter from the weight of everything they'd seen.
"I need to keep these safe," he murmured.
The words hung in the air, fragile yet strong—truthful, like a thread stitching shut a wound that had been bleeding in silence for years.
Albion slid the glasses into his coat pocket with care, and for the first time in a long while, he felt lighter, as if he'd finally set down a burden he hadn't known he was carrying.
Turning back toward the path Winston had taken, Albion felt a sense of resolve settle deep within his chest. Each step toward Winston, toward the town below, was purposeful, deliberate. Albion knew the future was uncertain, full of challenges, battles, victories, and losses yet unknown, but he felt ready. Prepared to meet whatever awaited him head-on, eyes open, heart unguarded.
Descending slowly, he glimpsed Winston ahead, standing patiently, watching the waves with quiet contemplation. Their eyes met, and Albion saw something in the older man's expression—a recognition, a shared understanding of the strength found in vulnerability. Winston gave a small, approving nod, a subtle acknowledgment of Albion's quiet transformation.
Albion returned the gesture, a silent promise forming between them. It was an unspoken agreement that no matter what storms came, they wouldn't face them alone. The bonds he'd formed here felt genuine, rooted deeply in trust, camaraderie, and mutual respect.
As they resumed their journey toward the lively town, sounds of laughter, chatter, and life drifted up from below, a comforting reminder of the community ready to welcome him. Each sound was a reassurance, a gentle push forward, urging him toward the unknown with courage rather than fear.
For the first time since stepping foot on Avalon, Albion felt genuinely hopeful. He wasn't just a Pendragon, wasn't merely the son of a vanished legend—he was Albion, a person capable of growth, change, mistakes, and redemption. A person who had found purpose in a world that had first seemed so alien. And as he moved toward that future, the weight he'd carried since childhood finally shifted. It was still present, still significant, but it had become bearable. Manageable. He wasn't alone anymore.
Winston glanced at him again, offering a gentle smile, a small gesture of encouragement as they continued onward. Albion smiled back, genuine warmth filling his chest. The path ahead was long and uncertain, but it no longer frightened him. He'd chosen to stop running. He'd chosen to face it—on his own terms.
Albion Pendragon walked forward, ready for whatever came next.