The early afternoon air in Charlevoix still carried traces of the morning rush—roasted meats, spiced breads, and the ever-present tang of blacksmith forges. The streets hummed with energy, vendors hawking wares and children laughing. On another day, Albion might have savored the bustling life around him, but today the world felt muted, distant.
A woman's laugh drew his gaze toward a nearby fruit stand. She had dark hair, the curve of her cheek reminiscent of Adelaide. Albion's heart twisted painfully, the breath stolen from his chest until she turned, breaking the fragile illusion. It wasn't her. It was never her.
Three months. Three months of chasing ghosts, each promising lead dissolving into bitter disappointment. Three months since the djinn—shadows given form—had torn Adelaide from him. The worst wasn't her fear; it was her resolute silence, the trust in her eyes when she asked him to find her again.
That silence echoed relentlessly in Albion's mind, haunting every step he took through the lively streets of Charlevoix. Each dead end felt like another brick placed upon his chest, slowly crushing him beneath the weight of his own helplessness.
Even Excalibur, the legendary blade now bound to him, offered little comfort. He could barely summon it, let alone wield it confidently. The sword felt less like a weapon and more like a cruel reminder of how much he still had to learn.
Winston walked slightly ahead, his broad shoulders at ease amid the chaos of the market. Albion felt the older man's occasional glance, not judgmental exactly, but watchful. They had only met that morning at the guild, yet Winston seemed oddly attuned to Albion's internal struggle, despite his sparse words.
Finally, unable to bear the silence any longer, Albion spoke. "I'm looking for someone," he blurted, his voice sharper than he'd intended. "Her name's Adelaide. She was taken by djinn."
Winston paused mid-step, turning slowly, his expression guarded. "Djinn?" he asked cautiously, eyes narrowing slightly. "You're certain about that?"
Albion nodded, his jaw tightening. "I saw them myself. Shadowy flame creatures. They came in the dead of night and took her. I've been searching ever since."
Winston rubbed his chin thoughtfully, staring into the bustling crowd as if looking far beyond it. "Djinn serve the Empire. Stealth operatives—clean, quiet, efficient. No witnesses, no traces. If they took her..." Winston's voice lowered, a dark undertone seeping through his words. "It means someone important wants her. Badly."
"Why would the Empire want Adelaide?" Albion's heart quickened, dread seeping into his chest.
Winston's eyes narrowed slightly, thoughtful. "Could be a dozen reasons. Information she holds, leverage against someone. Or..." he hesitated, something else clearly troubling him. "Something bigger."
Albion swallowed hard. "Bigger?"
Winston nodded gravely. "If the Empire's behind this, there's only one place she'd end up—Camelot."
At that name, Albion's chest tightened further. Camelot—the ancient fortress-city embedded in Arthurian lore, a name Albion knew intimately from his life's studies. Now, here in Avalon itself, that legendary place loomed real and forbidding. Camelot wasn't a story anymore; it was a cold, impenetrable reality.
"You're saying they've imprisoned her in Camelot," Albion whispered, dread constricting his voice.
"Most likely," Winston replied, his tone heavy. "Camelot isn't just the Empire's capital. It's their stronghold. Walls enchanted and guarded day and night. No one walks into Camelot uninvited."
Albion's fists clenched tighter, nails biting into his palms. He struggled to keep his voice steady. "Then how do I get in?"
"You don't," Winston said bluntly. "At least, not yet. Not without more control over your magic and that sword of yours."
Frustration bubbled over in Albion's voice. "How am I supposed to do that when I can barely summon Excalibur at will?"
Winston studied him quietly, then tilted his head toward an alleyway off to their right. "That's exactly why we're here." A faint grin tugged at the corner of his lips. "I know someone who can help."
Albion followed Winston down the narrow alley, thoughts racing, each step heavier than the last. If Camelot truly was as formidable as Winston suggested, he needed all the help he could get—but time pressed against him. Every moment spent learning, every failed grasp at Excalibur's elusive magic, was another moment he imagined that Adelaide suffered in captivity.
At the end of the alley stood a small, shabby building with peeling paint and a crooked sign hanging loosely from rusted chains. The word Blacksmith had been hastily painted backward, as though whoever had put it there couldn't be bothered with trivial details like spelling or symmetry. Albion eyed the building skeptically, wondering if Winston had made a mistake. The noise of the market faded slightly as they approached the unassuming building tucked away from the main road. An odd shimmer caught Albion's eye around the edges of the worn wooden door—heat rising like a mirage from pavement. He blinked, dismissing it as fatigue.
"This is the place?" he asked, doubt clear in his voice.
Winston only chuckled quietly, pushing the door open. "Trust me. It's more than it seems."
As Albion stepped inside, he nearly stumbled from shock. The interior was a dazzling contradiction—glimmering weapons covered the walls, blades and axes shimmering beneath softly flickering enchantments. Ornate war hammers lay beside battle-worn daggers, while rows of elegantly carved wands sat beneath shelves filled with cloaks embroidered with arcane runes. The shop buzzed quietly with latent magic, like a sleeping beast awaiting a command.
"Well, damn," Albion murmured, his eyes wide.
Winston slammed his palm down onto a sturdy oak counter near the entrance, the sudden noise echoing loudly. "Becca!" he roared cheerfully. "Get your fine soot-streaked ass out here—company!"
From the back room, something crashed dramatically, accompanied by an emphatic stream of curses colorful enough to make Albion blush. Winston seemed utterly unfazed, grinning broadly as the thick curtain behind the counter flew aside.
A woman stormed through, fiery orange-red hair escaping wildly from a messy ponytail, green eyes blazing indignantly. Her skin was smeared generously with grease, as though she'd been wrestling with an engine—or perhaps something alive and equally stubborn. She wore a leather crop top, stained and well-worn, baring muscular, soot-streaked arms that spoke of countless hours working the forge. Heavy blue leather trousers hung from her hips, held up by sturdy suspenders. Albion blinked, half-expecting sparks to fly from her sheer energy.
"Winston, if you knock over my displays again, you're rebuilding 'em shirtless," Becca warned, a playful threat dancing in her eyes.
Winston grumbled unintelligibly, cheeks reddening just slightly. "Like you'd complain about the view."
Becca laughed—a bright, unapologetic sound that warmed the entire room. "Oh honey, your ego barely fits through the door as it is." Her attention shifted to Albion, eyebrows raising slightly. "And who's the stray you've picked up today?"
Winston's expression grew slightly more serious. "Albion Pendragon."
Becca paused, eyes briefly widening in surprise before she caught herself. The mischievous grin quickly returned. "Pendragon, huh? Well, ain't you two a pair of sad puppies," she teased, scrubbing her soot-covered cheek absentmindedly and smudging it further. "Lucky you've got me around to liven things up. Might even keep Winston here from turning full grizzly on you."
Albion opened his mouth to respond, but Becca interrupted him immediately. "You hungry, Pendragon? Winston always forgets people gotta eat. Probably thinks you run on grunts and scowls, like him."
"I fed him," Winston protested mildly, sounding genuinely wounded.
"What, dry bread and cold stew? Gods save us." Becca rolled her eyes dramatically, propping a hand on her hip as she studied Albion. "I swear, the day Winston cooks a proper meal is the day magic stops existing."
Albion found himself smiling despite his tension. Becca's warmth was contagious, like stepping into sunlight after days of storm clouds. He glanced at Winston, who pretended not to hear, busy inspecting a nearby sword with sudden, profound interest.
Becca stepped closer, studying Albion more carefully. Her playful demeanor softened just enough to reveal genuine curiosity. "So, Pendragon—Winston says you're struggling with magic. Specifically, a certain legendary sword, hm?"
Albion hesitated, uncertainty resurfacing. "I... yes. I can barely summon Excalibur. And when I do, it's like trying to hold lightning."
Becca clicked her tongue sympathetically, green eyes thoughtful. "Typical Pendragon problem, always chosen by fate and then dropped in the deep end. Good thing you're here—I've never met magic I couldn't whip into shape." She winked confidently. "Even a legendary sword has gotta mind its manners in my shop."
Albion chuckled softly, feeling warmth seep through the numbness, even if only briefly. But reality clawed back in quickly, and a familiar chill settled around him again. Taking a deep breath, he focused inward. Summoning Excalibur had always been hit-or-miss for him, like grasping at smoke—always slipping just out of reach. With both Becca and Winston watching, however, retreat wasn't an option.
Closing his eyes, Albion traced the name in his mind, each rune glowing vividly behind his eyelids. He whispered, almost pleadingly, "Excalibur."
For a heartbeat, silence held the room. Then, with a hum that vibrated gently through the air, Excalibur erupted into existence. It surged outward in a blinding flash, its hilt slamming into Albion's waiting hand with such force he nearly stumbled. Raw, molten energy raced along his fingertips, up his arm, lighting every nerve with crackling power. Albion gasped sharply, gripping the hilt tighter, feeling Excalibur pulse like a wild heart, ancient and impatient, alive with a will of its own.
Weapons rattled violently on the shop walls, several blades clattering fearfully to the floor. Magic radiated outward from the sword in visible waves of pale blue light, casting strange shadows that twisted along the walls. The sword trembled fiercely, as if straining to break free from Albion's control.
For an instant, Albion felt himself bound to something immense—a power older than Avalon, older even than the worlds themselves. But the connection was overwhelming, staggering, an impossible weight on his soul. His vision blurred, and his breath caught painfully in his chest. He fought to steady himself, to contain the sword's fierce energy, but it was too much. His grip faltered, and panic surged through him.
"Easy, kid," Winston murmured quietly, placing a firm hand on Albion's shoulder. His voice was calm, grounding him. "Don't fight it—guide it."
With Winston's steadying presence, Albion exhaled shakily and gently laid Excalibur on the counter. As the blade settled, it floated just inches above the worn wooden surface, thin arcs of lightning rippling along its edge, barely restrained.
The scent of heated iron, leather, and ozone filled Albion's lungs—sharp yet oddly reassuring. He wiped sweat from his forehead, his heartbeat slowing. It was only now he realized how tense he had become.
Becca's eyes widened with pure delight, her face alight as she slipped thick-rimmed glasses onto her nose. "Oh, you beautiful, lively thing," she whispered reverently, leaning closer. Her fingertips hovered just above the sword, longing evident in every movement, though she clearly didn't dare touch it.
She glanced up at Albion, excitement gleaming behind her lenses. "Do you even know what you have here?"
Albion shook his head, breath still uneven. "I know it's Excalibur...but I don't really understand what that means."
Becca laughed warmly, shaking her head as if marveling at a child's innocence. "This ain't just some fancy blade. This sword is myth turned reality—the divine trinity forged into steel. The essence of the Goddess of Magic herself, God himself, and even Death pulses through this thing. Hell, it's like the scriptures themselves decided to stop over for tea."
Albion stared at the hovering sword, feeling both awe and dread curl inside his chest. "That's why can't I control it?"
Becca raised a teasing eyebrow, smirking knowingly. "Because it's not about controlling—it's about understanding. You can't control a sunset, or a sunrise. It's a natural phenomenon. Excalibur chose you, Albion, but you haven't chosen it yet. You'll learn. And while you're here, I intend to tinker with this masterpiece." Her grin widened conspiratorially. "Can't let you run off when the greatest artifact in Avalon's history walks into my parlor, now can I?"
She suddenly straightened, green eyes sparkling mischievously. "You know what, kid?" she said cheerfully. "Why don't you crash with us for a few weeks? You'll need proper training—and a decent bed after all this punishment."
"Hold on—" Winston interjected sharply, nearly choking. "Since when do we run an inn?"
Becca waved him off dramatically, grinning. "Since now, big guy. Unless you'd prefer kicking rocks and sleeping in the street?"
Winston sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Actually, I already offered him the spare room earlier."
Becca blinked, pleasantly surprised, then laughed heartily, slapping Winston playfully on the chest. "Well, ain't you thoughtful!" She brushed a smudge of soot gently from his collar, her voice softening into genuine affection. "Guess there's a heart under all that muscle after all."
Winston shifted sheepishly, unable to hide a quiet smile. "Yeah, yeah. Don't get used to it."
Becca jabbed a finger playfully into his chest again, eyes sparkling. "Don't get cocky, bear. There's plenty of easier men to love."
"None nearly as interesting," Winston countered smoothly, and Albion quickly turned his face aside, hiding his amused grin.
Becca hummed contentedly beside him, utterly engrossed in studying Excalibur's intricate runes. She looked like she'd just found divinity itself, her expression a mixture of reverence and pure, joyful mischief. Albion exhaled slowly, feeling, for the first time in what seemed like forever, a fragile but hopeful peace taking root inside him.
Excalibur disappeared into the runes.
Becca straightened abruptly, her energy surging again. "Right, crash-course time. Ever heard of the Bloom Tax?"
Albion stared blankly. "Bloom...what? Is it important?"
Becca gave Winston a weary glance. "Is it important, he asks."
Winston shrugged apologetically. "Fresh off the boat, Bec. Remember?"
"Oh, right," Becca said, eyes sparkling mischievously as she turned back to Albion. "Alright, Pendragon, pay attention. Magic's like cooking—you don't just toss random ingredients in a pot and pray for stew. You gotta know what you're doing."
Albion's brow furrowed, genuinely lost. "So magic is...cooking?"
Winston laughed openly, earning a sharp glare from Becca. "I told you, slow down."
Becca huffed, eyes narrowing with exaggerated patience. "Forget cooking. Think of magic as a ladder, okay? Each rung's a deeper understanding. You're standing at the bottom rung, barely able to boil water. But climbing? That takes study and practice."
Albion shifted uncomfortably, glancing at the intricate runes on his arm. "And how exactly do I climb?"
"Trial and error," she said cheerfully. "Emphasis on error. Let's start small. Summon Excalibur again."
Albion hesitated, anxiety knotting his stomach. "You saw what happened last time—it nearly destroyed the place."
Becca scoffed dismissively. "Relax. That's why I'm here. Now, close your eyes, trace the runes. Physically."
Albion sighed, shutting his eyes. He traced the runes slowly with trembling fingers, whispering the sword's name. Immediately, a violent spark shot from his palm, sending a shield crashing loudly from the wall. Winston groaned audibly, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"See?" Albion snapped in frustration. "This keeps happening."
"Wrong rune, kid!" Becca laughed brightly, entirely undeterred. "You almost summoned a butter knife. Focus."
Albion flushed deeply, embarrassment mingling with frustration. Taking another deep breath, he traced the symbols again. "Excalibur," he whispered.
This time, the blade erupted into existence violently, rattling the shop's shelves. Weapons vibrated dangerously, a nearby axe nearly embedding itself in the wall. Becca quickly raised a hand, fingers sparking as she summoned a fiery barrier between Albion and the falling blades. Albion gasped, stumbling back. Then the sword vanished again.
"Easy!" she barked, eyes fierce yet amused. "Control your emotions, Albion. Magic's not brute force, it's harmony. Feel Excalibur. Let it guide you."
Albion steadied himself, feeling his heart thunder as sweat dripped from his brow. He traced the runes again—carefully, deliberately, this time allowing each rune's calligraphy to resonate deep within him. Power surged gently, building smoothly beneath his fingertips.
"Excalibur," he breathed.
The sword appeared effortlessly, its hilt landing securely in his grip. It pulsed calmly, radiating warmth and balance instead of chaos. Albion exhaled shakily, relief washing through him as he opened his eyes.
"Yes!" Becca shouted triumphantly, clapping her hands together. "Exactly that! Now you're cooking!"
Winston smiled quietly, pride warming his features. "Not bad, kid."
Albion let out a weak laugh, feeling exhaustion and satisfaction blend together. "That was...hard."
Becca nodded sympathetically, gently patting his shoulder. "Magic always is. Sorry if I got long-winded—I was just excited to teach again. Been a while since I met someone this green. You're practically a blank slate."
She turned abruptly, her fiery hair swinging as she raised a hand again, a soft flame flickering between her fingertips. "Watch closely. This is the Tax in action." The tiny spark suddenly erupted, blossoming into a mesmerizing sun hovering effortlessly above her palm. "Basic magic—small sparks. Advanced magic—firestorms. Right now, you're making static. But we'll fix that."
Albion nodded slowly, awed by her casual demonstration. "Got it. Sparks first."
"Exactly," Becca said, extinguishing the flame with a flick of her wrist. "Once you master the basics, you'll move to real application. But first, let's make sure you don't accidentally blow my shop sky-high every time you call your sword."
"Speaking of explosions," Winston interjected dryly, "can we dial back the dramatic demonstrations? My wallet's still recovering from last time."
"Oh, hush," Becca retorted fondly, stepping close to brush soot from Winston's collar. Her voice softened affectionately. "You love rebuilding it. Gives you an excuse to show off."
Winston chuckled quietly, catching her hand. "I never needed excuses."
Becca leaned in suddenly, pulling Winston into a fierce kiss. Winston stumbled back against the counter, surprised but amused as he laughed warmly against her lips.
Albion quickly looked away, face burning. "Jesus, could you two—uh—not do that right here?"
Becca broke away laughing, slapping Winston's chest playfully. "What's wrong, Pendragon? You shy?"
"Just wasn't expecting it," Albion muttered, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. "Whatever keeps you two close, I guess."
Winston smirked good-naturedly, ruffling Albion's hair roughly. "Relax, kid. This is tame."
Becca shook her head with exaggerated exasperation. "Next time, knock before kicking my door down. We've got guests."
"And miss seeing you fired up like this?" Winston teased gently. "Never."
Becca rolled her eyes affectionately, turning back toward Albion with renewed energy. "So, are you excited to be staying with us for a bit. Plenty of training ahead—and I'm dying to tinker with Excalibur."
Winston balked, coughing sharply.
She grinned softly, affection clear. "Maybe it'll remind us of what having family feels like."
Albion watched quietly, sensing something deeper beneath their easy banter. Winston met his gaze, his voice suddenly quiet, vulnerable. "Listen, kid—I get it. Losing someone doesn't get easier, you just learn to carry it differently."
Albion felt the ache tighten in his chest, recognizing shared grief in Winston's steady gaze. He nodded softly, appreciating the silent understanding passing between them.
Becca quickly filled the quiet, clapping her hands brightly. "Well, enough melancholy! You're officially my apprentice, Albion. First rule—don't s'plode the shop."
Albion chuckled despite himself, warmth finally reaching deep beneath his lingering grief. "I'll do my best."
She grinned mischievously but suddenly hesitated, flinching as she caught herself. "I mean, if the Mage Or—uh, I mean the local authorities—hear you're causing trouble, things could get awkward."
Albion raised a curious eyebrow. "The what?"
"Forget it!" Becca quickly waved it away, laughing nervously. "Not important. Anyway, Winston—go get Albion's room ready. Real bedding, please, not the straw you've been hoarding for gods-know-what."
Winston rolled his eyes good-naturedly, chuckling quietly as he walked past. "Yeah, yeah. Come on, Pendragon. Let's get you settled before she starts lecturing again."
Albion waved a quiet goodbye to Becca as Winston led him to the front door. With a last fond glance back, he stepped outside—and immediately froze, blinking in astonishment.
They weren't standing in Charlevoix anymore. Instead, the door had opened onto an impossibly beautiful field bathed in moonlight. Tall, silvery grasses rippled softly in the night breeze, rustling with a soothing whisper. A simple but striking home stood at the field's center, warmly lit from within, smoke curling lazily from its chimney.
Albion gaped, utterly speechless. "What...how?"
Winston chuckled, patting his shoulder gently. "Pocket dimension. Becca's got a flair for the dramatic. Come on, let's get you settled."
Albion followed dazedly as Winston led him up the gently winding path toward the house. Inside, the warmth enveloped him immediately. Exposed wooden beams stretched across the ceiling, a fireplace crackled gently, and the faint scent of lavender and herbs lingered comfortingly.
"This is home," Winston said simply, gesturing around. "It's quiet. Safe."
He led Albion to a spacious room near the back of the house, pushing open the heavy wooden door. Moonlight spilled dramatically through a massive window, illuminating a room so large and beautiful that Albion couldn't quite process it at first. A modest straw bed lay in one corner, draped with simple sheets, but it was the saddle in the opposite corner that immediately caught his attention.
Albion stepped closer, awe prickling along his skin. It wasn't merely decorative. It was a Mongolian war saddle—authentic, centuries-old. His archaeological instincts sparked sharply. He'd studied these saddles; only a handful still existed, carefully preserved in museums or private collections. Seeing one casually tucked in the corner of a guest bedroom was utterly baffling.
He turned slowly to Winston, confusion etched plainly on his face. "This saddle... it's real, isn't it?"
Winston shifted slightly, avoiding Albion's gaze. "Yeah. It belonged to someone important."
Albion's confusion deepened, memories of Winston's earlier words about loss flashing through his mind. He hesitated before asking quietly, "Was it your kid's?"
Winston stiffened, jaw tight, his silence answering clearly enough. Albion immediately regretted asking.
"I'm sorry," Albion whispered quickly. "I didn't mean—"
"It's alright, kid," Winston interrupted softly, turning to face him with a strained but gentle smile. "You couldn't know. He... loved it."
The lie hung gently between them, comforting in its simplicity. Albion let it be, respecting the space Winston clearly needed. He turned again, looking out at the moonlit fields stretching endlessly outside the enormous window. The quiet, ethereal beauty felt surreal, like stepping into a storybook. "You'll be safe here," Winston promised softly, his voice rough with quiet emotion. "You're not alone."
Albion nodded quietly, feeling the truth in those simple words. He was exhausted—physically, emotionally—but a strange, comforting peace settled slowly around his heart. Winston moved silently to the door, pausing before leaving Albion alone in the moonlit silence.
"Rest, kid. Training starts early tomorrow."
Albion smiled faintly. "Thank you, Winston. For everything."
Winston merely nodded, slipping quietly from the room and closing the door behind him.
Left alone, Albion sank onto the bed, staring again at the ancient saddle, a million questions swirling silently in his mind. Outside, the gentle wind whispered through moonlit grass, calming his troubled thoughts. The weight of Excalibur lingered reassuringly in his runes.
Maybe he didn't have all the answers yet—but for the first time since arriving in Avalon, Albion felt he'd found something close to home.
Maybe it was peace. Maybe it was just exhaustion.
Either way, it didn't last.
Albion awoke to shouting.
"What do you mean you fed him?" Becca's voice thundered through the walls, muffled only slightly by thick wooden beams. "Have you seen that boy? He's practically skin and bones, Winston!"
Winston's reply came lower, a rumble Albion couldn't quite make out, but he imagined Winston's stubborn scowl.
"Breakfast," Becca's voice rose decisively, "is going to be a feast. Gods help you if you haven't even given him a decent meal."
Albion sat up groggily, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He felt surprisingly rested, yet hunger gnawed sharply at his stomach, as though his body had just remembered it hadn't eaten properly in days. Stretching slowly, he glanced around the room again, noticing the strange saddle in the corner. Its authenticity still intrigued him, but his curiosity waned quickly in the face of the tantalizing aroma drifting from beyond his door.
He slipped from the bed, noticing as he stretched that his clothes had changed again—clean, fresh, and impeccably fitting. Albion frowned, tugging at his sleeve. Magic. It had to be. Memories flickered briefly—finding clean clothing in his office back on Earth. He shook his head, dismissing the mystery. It felt like her touch, soft and thoughtful, an echo of warmth.
Albion showered quickly, grateful for hot water and soap that smelled faintly of cedar. Emerging fully refreshed, his hunger intensified as he followed the rich scent downstairs into a warm, sunlit kitchen. His eyes widened at the astonishing spread.
The table overflowed with platters of crispy bacon, sizzling sausages, golden pancakes piled high and steaming beneath melting pats of butter. Bowls brimmed with fresh fruit—plump blueberries, strawberries, peaches dripping juice—and beside them, thick cream whipped to perfection. Golden scrambled eggs lay nestled beside freshly baked bread rolls and pastries dusted with powdered sugar. The aroma of rich, dark coffee mingled enticingly with fresh orange juice.
Becca stood by the stove, wielding a spatula with fierce energy. Winston lounged nearby, sipping coffee and eyeing her with amusement.
Albion's stomach growled loudly.
"See?" Becca rounded on Winston, triumphant. "The poor boy's starving! Sit, Albion, eat before you faint!"
Albion gratefully took a seat, eyes wide. "This looks incredible."
Becca placed a plate stacked impossibly high in front of him. "Eat," she commanded sternly.
Albion didn't hesitate. Forkfuls of eggs, bites of bacon, mouthfuls of buttery pancakes—he ate with gusto, savoring each bite. "First real meal I've had since arriving in Avalon," he admitted around a mouthful.
Becca froze, turning slowly to Winston. "First meal?"
Albion, suddenly realizing his mistake, glanced guiltily at Winston, whose eyes narrowed dangerously.
"Winston," Becca said sweetly, her voice menacing. "You lied?"
"I fed him—" Winston started defensively.
"You liar!" She punched him hard in the shoulder, scowling. "I knew it! Poor thing looks like a stray dog!"
Albion couldn't suppress a smile, ducking his head as Winston shot him a deadly glare, a silent promise of revenge.
The breakfast continued amid laughter and occasional grumbling. Eventually, full and satisfied, Albion helped clear plates. As he stacked dishes, his expression grew somber. "Hey, Becca?"
She glanced up from the sink. "Hmm?"
"I'm sorry," Albion said hesitantly. "I didn't mean to intrude. Winston told me about your child—I didn't realize I'd taken their room."
Becca's brow furrowed. "Our child? What child?"
Albion blinked, confusion rising. "Winston said your five-year-old died from an illness. That saddle in the room—"
Becca turned slowly to Winston, eyes narrowing dangerously. "Winston, what nonsense did you tell the boy?"
Winston cleared his throat awkwardly. "About the saddle."
"The bloody horse." Becca groaned loudly. "Please tell me you didn't—"
"Your horse," Albion said weakly, realization dawning with profound embarrassment.
Becca's face twisted, and she punched Winston again—harder this time. "Your horse? You're still obsessed with that horse! You're lucky I let you bring it in the house!"
Albion choked back a laugh. Winston reddened deeply, muttering beneath his breath, clearly embarrassed. Becca shook her head fondly, turning back to Albion.
"Sorry about him. No child, just Winston's obsession with his old warhorse," she explained, rolling her eyes. "Now come on, let's get to your lessons before he embarrasses himself further."
Outside, sunlight spilled across argentine grass, the yard sprawling endlessly into the pocket dimension. Winston wisely stayed by the back door, sipping coffee cautiously, safely distant. Becca stood before Albion, hands on hips, eyes blazing with excitement.
"Alright, apprentice, let's begin."
The weeks that followed blurred into relentless, exhausting days of magical chaos and physical torment. If there was any semblance of structure in their training, it existed only in Winston's sadistic morning punishments and Becca's unpredictable, wildly interpretive approach to teaching magic. Albion found himself at the mercy of both, flailing between grunts, groans, and glowing sigils with no time to catch his breath.
Becca's idea of magical instruction was an energetic mess of half-formed metaphors, peculiar sound effects, and the occasional dance move. One lesson began with her hurling a glowing orange orb at Albion's face while yelling, "Boomshakalaka!" Another involved her balancing atop a floating rune as she shouted, "Alright, this is what we call a protect barrier. It's like... pshew pshew—ping!"
"...What does ping mean?" Albion had asked, blinking up at her.
"It's the sound it makes when it deflects a fireball," she replied proudly, brushing ash from her singed eyebrows. "Obviously."
Yet despite the incoherence—and possibly because of it—Albion thrived. Her explanations were rarely logical, but his instincts filled in the gaps. He began reading the runes in her voice, interpreting the rhythm of her woosh-thump-zip!phrases as if they were coded instructions from a higher power. When Becca demonstrated a three-layered shield with an accidental fireball and an apology, Albion replicated it a few minutes later using only a visualized spiral and a whispered, "Protect."
Becca paused mid-snack, a sticky orange fruit dripping down her fingers. "That's... high-level magic, Albion. You shouldn't be doing that."
He turned, sweat glistening, genuinely puzzled. "I just followed your directions."
"My directions included interpretive finger dancing and yelling kachow," she muttered, clearly unnerved. "Which means you're either a prodigy or I'm the greatest teacher who ever lived."
"I don't think those are mutually exclusive," Albion offered with a small grin.
Becca gave a mock bow. "Thank you, your grace. Behold, Becca of the Blazing Boomshakalakas!"
Behind them, Winston snorted, leaning against a conjured pine tree that he'd grown from a single seed during one of Becca's more tranquil demonstrations. The pocket dimension—an isolated slice of silver, sun-warmed space nestled between folds of magic—had become their shared prison, training ground, and classroom. Though beautiful, it was as relentless as its caretakers. Trees shifted with thought, terrain bent to willpower, and Excalibur pulsed with silent power at Albion's side, forever humming in anticipation.
The sword refused to be wielded like a normal blade. Albion had long abandoned the idea of simply pulling it out. Instead, it lived in the runes etched on his arm, surfacing with a whisper of light whenever he traced the sequence for truthand command. Sometimes, it responded without a gesture at all—only a thought, a flicker of purpose. When it appeared, it did so with a shiver of magic that made Becca's hair frizz.
"Do it again," she said breathlessly one evening as Albion summoned it midair, not even blinking as the runes flared and twisted into shining steel.
Albion exhaled. "What... exactly do you want me to do again?"
"That," she said, pointing. "That thing where the sword just decides it wants to be here, like it's your over-eager boyfriend."
"It's not a person," Albion said dryly. "It's a sword."
"Swords can be clingy too, you know," Becca replied. "Just ask Winston about his old warhorse."
Winston, from behind a conjured boulder he was using as a bench press, grunted. "Her name was Marblehoof. She was brave, beautiful, and smarter than all three of us put together."
"You named your horse Marblehoof?" Albion asked, grinning.
"She was born in a quarry," Winston said, eyes distant. "And raised on stone. That beast once kicked a djinn so hard it dissolved into fog."
Becca snickered. "He used to call her his firstborn. Had a whole routine about being a single dad."
"I was a single dad," Winston snapped, then sighed. "Until the war took her."
Albion raised a brow. "Did she... fall in battle?"
"No," Winston admitted, voice solemn. "She tripped on a turnip."
Becca snorted so hard she dropped her apple.
Training days began with Winston's delightfully terrible physical punishments. As the sun arced through the pocket dimension's ever-warm skies, Albion was already panting through his third set of cliffside sprints.
"MOVE THOSE LEGS, PRETTY BOY!" Winston bellowed, arms crossed like a disappointed general.
"Where... are you even getting cliffs in a forest?" Albion wheezed.
"Wherever I want," Winston replied cheerfully. "It's my domain."
The terrain warped around them with Winston's will. Trees extended higher. Roots slithered underfoot. The cliff in question had not existed yesterday—but today, it loomed above a lake filled with rainbow-colored koi that Becca claimed were emotionally sensitive and liked to judge swimmers.
After a failed tree-climb that left him dangling upside down, Albion found himself face-to-face with one particularly judgy koi, who blinked at him with ancient disappointment.
"I get it, okay?" Albion groaned. "I'm bad at climbing."
The koi just sank lower, unimpressed.
Meanwhile, Winston stood at the top, smirking like a devil. "Better run on grunts and scowls, my boy! You want Excalibur to respect you? Prove those legs are more than decoration!"
Albion muttered something obscene in runespeak and launched himself upward again.
Back at the training circle—an ever-shifting ring of carved stones, pulsating trees, and glimmering mist—Becca was trying to explain elemental resonance.
"You've got to feel it in your bones," she said, tapping her sternum. "Like, if fire is like crack-a-kra-kra-KA, then air is like whhhzzsshhh-pah!"
Albion blinked. "What's earth then?"
Becca crouched, slapped the ground, and said, "ThuddathuddaBOOM."
"...That's not helpful."
"It's how I feel it!" she protested.
Albion watched her carefully, then closed his eyes. He imagined Becca's chaotic symphony—the sound effects, the bouncing footsteps, the whirling gestures—and tried to feel the pattern beneath the madness. Slowly, the runes glowed along his arms, forming three concentric circles, one inside the other.
A pulse of force burst from him, rippling the ground.
Becca dropped another apple. "Okay, I take it back. I am the greatest teacher who ever lived."
"I think I'm just good at decoding you," Albion said. "It's like... trying to speak squirrel, but the squirrel is casting spells."
"EXACTLY!" Becca shouted, then paused. "Wait—HEY!"
Later that evening, after training and torment, Albion sat near the firepit they conjured each night, watching Excalibur float slowly above his palm. He didn't summon it with grand gestures anymore. Now, it answered subtle intent, humming like a tuning fork. The runes etched across its blade were changing daily—responding to him, adapting, or perhaps revealing themselves in stages.
Winston sat across from him, chewing on a charred fish that Becca had flambéed with fire magic by yelling, "Sizzlecrunch!" too close to the flames.
"You're different," Winston said finally.
"Thanks?" Albion muttered.
"No," Winston continued, "I mean it. I've seen mages study for decades and never get near what you're doing. And you're casualabout it. Like it's breathing."
Albion looked at the blade. "I think it's... listening to me. Not just obeying, but listening. It's like the sword and I are both remembering something we forgot."
Winston grunted. "Dangerous talk. Swords that think too much tend to bite back."
Becca wandered in with a bottle of fermented honey-fruit juice and a twig stuck in her hair. "So do horses," she added. "Especially the ones Winston raises."
"Only had the one," Winston said mournfully.
"I miss Marblehoof," Becca said, dramatically raising the bottle to the sky.
"You never met her."
"I still miss her," she insisted.
On the final day of the second week, Albion accidentally split a boulder in half by whispering a single word—Shatter.
The rune had burned itself into the air. Becca screamed. Winston dropped his fish. The entire clearing held its breath as the stone crumbled like paper.
"...Was that me?" Albion whispered.
"No," Becca said. "It was the otherAlbion with the glowing rune arm and the living Excalibur. Of course it was you!"
Winston stood, serious now. "You're not just a quick study. You're a conduit. That magic didn't pass through you. It became you."
Albion felt the weight of the moment. The laughter, the chaos, the wild training—it all suddenly felt very small against the tremor of what had just happened. He hadn't used strength. He hadn't used force. He had spoken—lightly, like a wish—and the world had obeyed.
That night, the sword didn't vanish when he willed it. It stayed beside him, glowing faintly as if unwilling to leave.
Becca poked it with a stick. "Do you think it likes you?"
"I think it's afraid I'll stop needing it," Albion replied.
Winston frowned. "Then don't let it control you. Even loyal blades have sharp edges."
Becca yawned and curled up next to the fire. "Well, if it gets out of line, I'll hit it with a Boomshakalaka and teach it manners."
Albion smiled, listening to the breeze shift through the conjured trees.
For all the madness, exhaustion, and bruises, something had changed inside him. The pocket dimension wasn't just a place of training. It was becoming a crucible. And in the fire, Albion was forging into something more than human—more than heir, or warrior, or prince.
He was becoming the sword.
And the sword, in return, was becoming him.
Despite Becca's fumbling explanations, Albion thrived. He quickly mastered casting spells wordlessly, often surprising even himself. His affinity for rune magic—runescaping, as Becca called it—was uncanny. Usually, mages carefully drew runes in the air or earth, but Albion merely visualized the shape clearly and spoke its intent, invoking protective barriers effortlessly.
The sky was painfully clear. Not a single cloud dared show up. It was the kind of blue that made poets jealous and swordsmen nervous.
Becca stood barefoot in the grass, holding a clipboard like it was a divine relic and wearing her battle apron—patched, smudged, singed. The apron had seen wars. The woman wearing it caused most of them.
"Alright," she said, serious for once. "Today's test—summon Excalibur. Forty-two times."
Albion raised an eyebrow. "Why forty-two?"
"Because it's the answer to everything," she said nonchalantly. "And because I think that's your limit."
"I feel like I should be insulted."
"You should. But if you die, I'd like to have plausible deniability."
Winston stood in the background with a satchel of emergency healing tinctures and a long-suffering look on his face. He was already chewing on jerky, having accepted this was going to be a long morning.
Albion exhaled and rolled his shoulders. He traced the runes on his forearm—deliberate, like carving his name into time itself. The air around his hand bent inward, light snapped, and a blade appeared in his hand with a soft hum.
Excalibur. Whole. Ready.
He swung it once. The air cracked.
Then it burst into flames.
"Holy sh—" Albion dropped it. The blade hit the grass and hissed like a dying dragon.
Becca clapped once, delighted. "Brilliant! Sword of the Sun!"
"More like Sword of My Singed Eyebrows!" Albion snapped, shaking his hand.
Winston didn't look up. "You still have forty-one to go. You might want to pace your sarcasm."
Round two. This time, the sword emerged quiet and cold. Crystalline. Frozen, even the hilt rimed in ice. Albion hesitated before grabbing it.
It didn't burn. It bit.
"Okay," he muttered, holding it with both hands. His breath fogged. "So now it's the Sword of Regret."
"You're projecting again," Becca noted, scribbling on her clipboard.
He dismissed the blade with a breath and summoned again. The third form crackled with lightning. Bolts darted across his knuckles and sizzled into the air.
Albion swung—and promptly zapped himself.
"Ow!"
Winston chuckled under his breath. Becca grinned. "That one's good for breaking into parties. Or kingdoms."
He kept going. Excalibur appeared next as a soft-glowing orb, then as a massive two-handed claymore, then a slim rapier. It wept fire, oozed mist, roared like a storm. Each summon brought something new—some bizarre aspect of himself reflected back through the steel. Some part of his soul caught in the forge work of fate.
Sometimes the sword came out normal. Plain. But even that, in a way, felt heavier.
By the tenth summon, he was sweating just a bit.
"Need a break?" Becca asked.
Albion shook his head. "I need to know what it is. What I am, when I call it."
Becca didn't smile at that. Just nodded once. "Good. Now we're making sense."
He summoned again. This time, the sword was made entirely of birds.
Albion stared.
The birds flapped away.
Becca dropped her clipboard. "What was that?!"
"I don't really know! I think I sneezed!"
One summon later, he produced a sword made of shimmering cloud stuff, light as fog, smelling faintly of honey and ozone. He swung it and left a rainbow trail in the air.
"Wow," Becca whispered. "That one's... pretty."
Winston shrugged. "Does it stab?"
"No," Albion said, smiling. "But it forgives."
After that, it got weirder.
The sword turned into a floating question mark that beeped when touched. Another time it summoned a small table with a dagger on it—Becca called it the Sword of Delegation.
Then came the infamous invisible sword.
Albion summoned, swung—and missed.
He frowned. "I felt it. I had it."
Becca cocked her head. "It's there. I see the air bending. That's... invisible. It's fully cloaked."
"Great. What happens if I drop it?"
Winston answered, "Some farmer three towns over will lose a sheep. Or a barn."
Albion turned slowly, blade pointed downward.
"Don't move," Becca warned. "You're now holding a philosophical weapon. If you lose it, it might become a metaphor."
Albion grimaced. "I can feel it hum. It's heavy."
He tapped the tip against the ground—shoomp. A three-foot crater opened where it touched.
"Okay," he whispered. "I hate this one."
Becca laughed until she hiccupped. "Ten out of ten. Would summon again."
Winston stayed behind a tree until the sword faded back into the ether.
There were others, each more unhinged than the last.
One sword summoned played a song when swung—somewhere between battle chant and bardic jig. It made Winston start dancing. He cursed the whole time.
Another one was made of spinning gears and humming with raw potential. When Albion swung it, time slowed for half a heartbeat. Becca watched, speechless.
"That one," she said quietly, "was dangerous."
Albion sat down after that, breathing hard.
Becca hadn't expected this. She'd planned for a few surprises—some fire, maybe a gravity shift—but birds?
She scribbled wildly, then paused, watching him grunt through another summon.
He was learning fast. Not just how to summon—but how to respond. That mattered more. Magic didn't reward brute force; it rewarded surrender. Adaptation. Humor.
She narrowed her eyes. His stance had changed. Less tense now. He was moving like someone who trusted the blade wouldn't betray him. That kind of muscle memory didn't come from training. It came from instinct. From having nothing left to lose.
Becca tucked the clipboard under one arm and just watchedfor a moment.
Most mages exploded their way through self-discovery. Albion laughed through it. Cursed, yes—but unbroken.
That was rare.
The sword of birds? That was grief with wings. The cloud blade? That was hope. He was unconsciously pulling from his inner world, ripping up the carpet and letting the memories run wild through the summoning glyph.
He didn't even know what he was showing them.
Which meant his magic was still pure. Untamed.
And a little bit terrifying.
She grinned like a fox in a bakery.
"He's going to shake this whole damn realm."
He'd made it to twenty-six.
Becca handed him water. "You good?"
"I feel like I've been emotionally dissected by an eldritch hardware store."
Winston gave him jerky. "That's how training should feel."
Albion laughed through the exhaustion. "I'm starting to understand it. The sword changes depending on how I feel."
"No," Becca corrected, crouching beside him. "The sword reveals how you feel. You don't make the form. The form isyou."
Albion looked at his hands.
"Why the birds, then?"
"You needed to let something go."
He looked away, quiet.
When he stood again, the grass had darkened with the shadow of afternoon.
He summoned again.
This time, the sword came out simple. Silver. Balanced. A heartbeat's worth of weight. It didn't shimmer or hum. It waited.
Albion didn't swing it.
He just held it.
Becca nodded slowly. "That's the one you summon when you feel whole."
He stared at it.
Winston, watching, said, "That one scares me more than the lightning one."
Albion didn't answer. He dismissed it and kept going.
One sword came out entirely upside down—the hilt was a blade, and the blade was a handle.
Becca shouted, "Oh my gods, the Sword of Rebellion!"
Albion cursed. "It stabbed my hand!"
Winston was on the ground, laughing harder than he had in a decade.
There was a sword that summoned another Albion—a projection, translucent, who mocked him with a bad impersonation and then saluted Becca before vanishing.
There was one that flopped onto the ground like a fish.
Becca named it Mood.
And then came the bleeding blade.
Albion summoned it instinctively, halfway through a yawn.
The blade emerged slick and red, viscous. Thick drops fell to the ground.
He froze. The grass hissed.
Winston stepped back.
Becca went pale.
"Is that blood?" Albion asked.
He sniffed it.
"No," he said slowly. "Tomato soup."
"Why?" Becca asked.
"I don't know!" Albion flailed. "I just thought of my father's kitchen—his stew pot always steaming by the window—"
Becca interrupted. "You made a nostalgia blade!"
Winston groaned. "Someone killme."
Albion dropped it, and the soup blade seeped into the earth, vanishing.
He didn't summon for a while after that.
When he resumed, the blades became calmer. Quieter. Refined.The energy shifted.
One blade shimmered like pearl, another was obsidian and whispered ancient lullabies when swung. One was just a wooden branch—but he felt peace when holding it.
And then came the forty-second.
He stood on shaky legs. The sun dipped toward the horizon, its orange rays catching in his sweat.
He etched the runes with trembling hands.
He called the name of the sword.
It came out still. Balanced. Steel and light. No sound. No flourish. Sapphire.
Just... right.
Albion gripped it, and it didn't fight him. It didn't explode or shift or vanish.
It pulsed once. Like a heart.
He looked up.
"I could keep going."
Becca stepped forward, brushing dirt off his tunic.
"But you don't need to," she said.
Albion groaned. "I'm retiring."
"You're still young."
"Exactly."
They all laughed.
And for the first time since crossing into Avalon, Albion laughed without grief in his throat.
After the forty-second summoning, she halted him abruptly. "Stop. Shirt off."
Albion blinked, puzzled but obeyed automatically, pulling off his shirt.
Winston sputtered protest from his distant post. "Becca, what—?"
"Shush," she hissed, examining Albion's exposed skin. His torso was etched with intricate tattoos from various cultures, swirling elegantly over his muscles. On his bicep, she found the peculiar mark she sought: a triangle inscribed with a zero.
Albion frowned. "I don't remember that one."
Becca pulled up her sleeve, revealing a similar tattoo—but hers had a small five inscribed. "Winston!" she called urgently.
Winston approached cautiously, still dubious about the shirtless demand. But his skepticism faded quickly as he noticed Albion's tattoo.
"What the hell is that?" he breathed.
Becca whispered urgently to Winston, their words rapid and anxious. Albion strained to listen but caught only fragments. Winston grew silent, his expression sobering.
Finally, Becca turned to Albion, her playful demeanor gone, replaced by a quiet solemnity that he'd never seen on her before.. She stood still for a long moment, as if weighing what she was about to say against everything she'd already seen from him.
"Pendragon," she said, her voice steadier than her eyes. "Everyone born in Avalon carries a mark. It's not just some fancy birthmark. It's a classification—magic levels, etched into your being. One through six. Most folks fall somewhere in the middle. Rare to be a six. Rarer still to rise beyond what you're born with once you reach adulthood. For most, it's fixed."
Albion's brows drew together, a knot forming in his gut. He looked down at his arm, at the faintly glowing triangle inscribed with a perfect zero. "And mine?"
Becca hesitated, and that hesitation said more than her words. When she finally spoke, her voice was softer, and even she seemed unsure if she wanted him to hear it. "I've never seen a zero."
Albion stood straighter, trying to brace himself.
"I don't know what it means. And that scares the hell out of me."
"Albion," she continued, her gaze locking with his. "Your magic doesn't follow the rules. Spellcasting without training. Casting without incantations. Runes that should take weeks to memorize, you speak them like you were born to it. You're not even drawing them, just... thinking them. That's level five—maybe six—and you're doing it as naturally as breathing."
She circled him.
"I don't understand," Albion muttered.
She turned back to face him. "Albion, simply put your magic doesn't behave like anything I've studied. You summon Excalibur with no fatigue. You're runescaping on instinct. You cast spells you've never been taught—without a wand, without incantation. Some mages spend decades trying to master that."
She stepped forward, touching the mark on his bicep gently, like it might burn her. "And the sword. Excalibur answers you like it remembers you. Like it's been waiting. Do you understand how rare that is? How dangerous?"
He opened his mouth to speak, but she raised a hand. "And before you say it, this isn't praise. This is a warning. You are operating outside the bounds of known magical laws—and that makes you a risk."
Albion swallowed, throat dry. "So, what do I do?"
Becca looked past him at Winston, her expression shifting. There was trust in her eyes—but also a weight of responsibility she seemed reluctant to pass off. "He needs someone stronger than me," she said. "A proper mage. Level six. The kind of teacher who's trained prodigies without getting them—and everyone around them—killed."
"I thought it was just bedtime horror. A boogeyman for overachieving runeweavers," she said, rubbing her arms. "Now I'm not so sure."
Becca's eyes softened. "You need to train somewhere safe. Somewhere structured. Somewhere with people who know how to monitor magic that could level towns by accident. Atlantis, maybe."
"There used to be rumors," Becca added quietly, "of a mark that wasn't on the scale. This zero. It was theoretical. Just something to scare students. Like a magical black hole. A power that couldn't be charted."
Winston gave a small nod, jaw set. "Then we go to the Triskelion for now till we can find someone."
Albion blinked. "The Triskelion?"
Winston nodded. "It's safer than here. It's where people like you go to be contained. And trained. Where you can learn to use Excalibur without setting half a forest on fire or making it rain knives."
Becca looked down at the floor, then back at Albion. "This isn't just about danger to yourself. It's about the people around you. The power in that sword? It's not just reacting to you—it's resonating with you. You summoned it over forty times in a row and didn't so much as break a sweat. Then there's that mark."
Albion frowned. "That's not normal?"
Winston scoffed. "Even I get tired using my own sword—and it doesn't glow, crackle, or bleed when I draw it."
Becca exhaled hard. "I thought I could train you. Thought I could guide you through this... but I was wrong. You need someone who understands this level of magic. A level six mage. I'm a five—but this?" She gestured to the triangle on his arm. "This is beyond me."
Albion felt the words settle in his chest, cold and hard. He didn't feel more powerful than anyone. If anything, he felt like a boy chasing shadows, grasping at magic he barely understood. And now he was too much for the only teacher who ever believed in him?
Becca must've seen the flicker of doubt on his face, because her tone shifted. She stepped forward again, gripping his shoulder.
"But listen to me, Pendragon," she said fiercely. "You're not dangerous because of your power. You're dangerous because you care. Because you'll try, no matter what it costs you. That's why I believe in you—and that's why you have to go."
Albion said nothing as he pulled his shirt back over his head, the cloth clinging briefly to the sweat on his skin. His movements were slower now, the joy of the morning drained by uncertainty. Still, there was no fear in his eyes—only questions. Becca could see it. And she didn't like what those questions might lead to.
He grabbed his satchel, now lightly packed with food and a waterskin, his only real possessions in this new world. As he stepped toward the door, Becca reached out suddenly and grabbed his wrist, stopping him.
"Wait."
He turned, surprised.
Becca stared at him, really stared at him—as if trying to memorize him. "You're not just powerful, Albion. You're kind. And curious. You listen. You ask questions that matter. That's rarer than the magic. And more dangerous in the wrong hands."
She took a deep breath, blinking back something she didn't want to name. "I know I come off loud and bossy and... okay, maybe a little terrifying." A weak smile broke through. "But teaching you these past few weeks? It reminded me what it feels like to believe in someone. To watch them grow. To hope."
Albion's mouth opened, but no words came.
Becca stood in the same place, arms crossed tightly, mouth drawn in a firm line.
He stepped forward. "I wanted to say thank you."
Her expression cracked. She pulled him into a hug so suddenly he barely had time to return it. Her arms wrapped tight around his back, grounding him more than any lesson ever could.
"You remind me why I started teaching," she whispered. "And why I stopped."
Albion pulled back. "I'll come back."
Becca gave a half-smile. "You better. I've got a dozen more lessons to yell at you about. And you still owe me after the breakfast snafu."
He smirked. "I regret nothing."
She laughed, brushing a bit of soot off his collar, her usual sparkle dimmed but not gone. "Take care of yourself. And if you see a mage with too many robes and not enough sense, punch them for me."
"I'll keep it in mind."
Winston gave her a nod, then motioned toward the door. "We've got a long walk."
Becca followed them out onto the porch. The pocket dimension unfolded before them—fields rolling with mist, the sky blushing with morning hues. Birds chirped from unseen branches, and a lazy breeze moved the tall grass like waves.
"So," she said, stepping forward and wrapping her arms around him in a sudden, warm embrace, "take care of that big stupid heart of yours, Pendragon. You're going to need it more than that sword."
Albion returned the hug, arms hesitant at first, then firm. "Thank you again," he said into her shoulder. "For everything."
She pulled back, ruffled his hair one last time, then quickly turned to Winston. "And you—if he gets killed because you pushed him too hard, I will drag your sorry hide back from the afterlife and strangle you myself."
Winston smirked. "He'll be fine. He's stubborn. Learns quick."
Becca's face hardened again, but her voice trembled at the edges. "You'd better be right."
As they stepped toward the front door of the forge, Albion turned for one last look. Becca stood at the threshold, arms crossed over her chest to hide the emotion threatening to surface. The forge behind her glowed warm orange with firelight. It looked like home.
"I'll come back," Albion said quietly.
"You better," she called after him. "I've still got things to yell at you about."
Becca stood in the doorway, arms folded again, blinking at the rising sun. "And Pendragon?"
"Yeah?"
She raised one hand, steady. "Don't die."
He smiled. "I'll try."
Winston clapped a hand on his back. "Time to go."
They walked. And then the door closed behind them, and the pocket dimension melted into open sunlight and silver fields stretching far beneath a brilliant sky.
And somewhere behind it, Becca finally let herself cry.
The road ahead twisted into unknown places. Mystery, danger, power—all of it waiting. But for the first time, Albion didn't feel like he was walking alone.
He had magic now. He had a name.
And more than anything, he had people who believed in him.
Magic had brought him here.
But faith—hers, Winston's, Adelaide's—
That would guide him forward.