Albion's head throbbed, the steady rumble of the train pressing against his skull like a dull knife, its vibration rattling through his bones. The low hum of conversation from other passengers faded in and out, their voices blending with the rhythmic clatter of wheels against steel.
His limbs felt heavy, exhaustion wrapping around him like a chain, dragging him under, deeper into a weight that pressed against his chest. His muscles ached, his shoulders locked in a perpetual hunch from too many nights sleeping in the wrong places, on the wrong surfaces, never quite resting—only pausing, waiting for the next moment he had to run again.
His fingers twitched where they rested on his lap, clenching once, then releasing—a nervous habit, one he hadn't noticed until now.
It had been days since he'd really slept.
Not the shallow, fitful kind of rest he managed in hotel rooms, train stations, and stolen moments between exhaustion and adrenaline. Not the kind that healed.
Real sleep. The kind that didn't come with consequences.
His eyelids grew heavier, his mind slipping into that hazy middle ground—not awake, not asleep, just floating. He let his head rest against the cold glass of the train window, but the second his vision blurred, the second the world around him softened—
Flames.
Heat curling around his skin, thick smoke choking his lungs. Screaming—his own or someone else's, he couldn't tell.
The window was no longer cold beneath his temple. It was hot, burning. He was trapped. The air thickened, pressing against him.
Albion jerked upright, sucking in a sharp breath.
His heart pounded against his chest, his skin damp with a cold sweat. He clenched his hands into fists, trying to steady the shaking, but his fingers refused to stay still.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw fire.
Heard the screams.
It was like he was burning from the inside out.
He dragged a trembling hand down his face, trying to chase away the ghosts clinging to him. But they were always there. Waiting.
The train's dim lights flickered overhead, washing everything in a sickly yellow hue. The air was too dry, the faint scent of engine oil clinging to the metal surfaces.
Even the seat beneath him felt too stiff, too unfamiliar.
His own skin itched, like it didn't belong to him.
He needed rest.
But rest meant dreams.
And dreams meant going back.
Albion blinked slowly, the clattering of train tracks blending into the heavy rhythm of his heartbeat. His head drooped, and soon, consciousness slipped away into a realm he couldn't control. Sleep brought no peace, only memories—vivid, uninvited, sharp. The past and present folded together, leaving him stranded between, with a spark that refused to die.
The sun hung low in the sky, its golden light warming the earth beneath Albion's bare feet. His mother's laughter drifted through the air, light and melodic, as she spread a blanket across the grass. The scent of freshly cut flowers and the tang of lemonade filled the air, suspending time itself. Albion sat beside her, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her skin, her breathing soft and rhythmic. The moment felt like forever.
"Mum," his small voice broke the quiet. "Do you think we'll always be together?"
His mother stilled, her hands pausing mid-fold, her smile faltering for the briefest second. Albion didn't notice—his eyes were locked on the sun dipping low, casting the sky in hues of orange and pink. Her hand smoothed a lock of hair from his forehead, her touch gentle, yet there was distance in her voice.
"As long as we can, my love," she replied softly. "I'll always be with you—in your heart."
The answer satisfied him. They returned to their picnic, his laughter like music, filling the garden as twilight bled into night. Fireflies emerged, dancing like stars.
But time slips, turning moments into memories before you can grasp them. The days grew shorter. His mother's voice, once a constant, faded like a song nearing its end. She tucked him into bed, wrapping him in a quilt she had sewn when he was a baby. Lavender clung to the fabric, a scent of safety.
Tonight was different.
Albion wrapped his arms around her neck, squeezing tightly, as if to hold her in that moment forever. "I love you, Mum."
Her hand trembled as she stroked his hair. "I love you too." Her voice cracked, filled with a weight he didn't understand.
That night, she stayed longer by his bedside, watching his small chest rise and fall. Shadows stretched across the walls, dancing in ways that seemed almost alive. The room hummed with a tension they didn't acknowledge.
Then came the fire.
Albion awoke to the choking smell of smoke, the air thick and acrid. Heat pressed in from all sides, the flames too close. His body was paralyzed with terror, his mind wide awake. The room seemed to warp, the walls bending and melting like wax under the relentless blaze. He couldn't move. He couldn't scream.
His mother burst into the room, her face streaked with soot, her eyes wild with fear. Even in the chaos, her voice was steady, a lifeline in the growing darkness. "Albion!" She rushed to him.
"We have to go!"
Scooping him up, she wrapped him in the quilt, her arms trembling as she carried him toward the window. The room pulsed with the heat, the flames pressing closer. Albion blinked, barely conscious.
"M-Mum?" His throat burned. "What's happening?"
She managed a smile, fragile and strained. "It's okay," she whispered, though the walls groaned under the weight of the fire.
A crash came from below, the chandelier falling with a shattering boom. His mother's expression shifted, her resolve hardening. With a final, desperate push, she hurled Albion through the window, sending him tumbling into the cool night air.
He saw her silhouette framed in flames, fading into the fire.
Like an invisible thread yanking him out of his body, through the fire, through the smoke—
Through time itself.
The roaring flames dimmed, shrinking into golden embers.
The embers became falling leaves.
Leaves became floating tassels.
And then—
The world tilted.
Albion stood now in an open field, clad in a graduation gown, the fabric swaying gently in the breeze. His cap tassel flicked against his cheek. A stage loomed ahead, its black curtains rippling as if alive, beckoning him forward.
His legs felt heavy, the weight of the moment pressing down. This was it. The chance to leave it all behind. To step forward. No longer the boy without parents, no longer haunted by the past.
A soft touch grazed his hand. Adelaide stood beside him, her emerald eyes glinting beneath the surreal sky. Her presence tugged at something deep within him, a mix of longing and fear. She smiled softly, her hand slipping into his.
But her smile faded. "It's your fault," she whispered. The words cut through him.
Before he could react, she vanished.
The scene shifted. Albion stood on the stage, a crowd of faceless figures watching, their eyes glowing faintly with unspoken judgment.
A soft rain began to fall, drenching his gown. The stage darkened, fog swirling around him. In the distance, a massive willow tree burned with an otherworldly fire. Bodies lay in a circle around it.
A shadowed figure emerged from the fog, silent, pointing toward the tree.
"Find it," the figure whispered. "Or they'll find you."
Albion jolted awake, the steady rhythm of the train grounding him. His heart raced, the dream still clinging to him. Glancing at his arm, the runes pulsed softly. Stonehenge was waiting.
The rain had stopped when Albion reached the towering stones. Stonehenge loomed against the grey sky, a monument of mystery and timelessness. Albion stood before it, drenched, but the chill did not touch him. A deep warmth radiated from his arm, the runes casting faint, shifting shadows across the ground.
The air thrummed with magic, thick and heavy. The stones themselves seemed to breathe, their surfaces alive with ancient symbols that pulsed in harmony with his own. The atmosphere crackled with energy.
The wind whipped through the standing stones, carrying a chill that burrowed into Albion's bones. His breath fogged in the cold air, but the shiver running through him wasn't from the temperature.
It was from the weight pressing in on his chest.
Magic.
Thick, ancient, waiting.
This wasn't just a monument.
It was watching him.
Expecting him.
The stones hummed. Not with sound, but with something deeper, older—something that resonated in his ribs, vibrating in time with the runes seared into his arm.
Albion clenched his fists. His nails dug into his palms, grounding him, anchoring him in the present.
His body wanted to move forward. The magic was calling to him.
But his mind?
His mind screamed to run.
"I'm just a man."
The thought hit like a punch to the gut.
He had spent his whole life being ordinary.
A professor. A scholar. A man who read about legends—never lived them.
And now?
He was standing here, in the middle of something too vast to understand, expected to do what? Summon Excalibur? Open a gateway between worlds?
Like he was supposed to become one of the myths he used to read about?
It was a joke.
The problem was—no one was laughing.
The stones shuddered, a faint shift in the air, as if they were breathing.
His arm burned.
The runes flared to life, searing hot, sending sparks of white-gold light skittering up his skin.
He gritted his teeth, sucking in a sharp breath.
It was inside him. The magic. The expectation. The pull.
"You are the key."
The words didn't come from his mind.
They came from somewhere deeper.
Somewhere that wasn't just him.
His lips parted, the word spilling out before he even realized he was speaking.
"Excalibur."
And the world answered.
The moment the word left his lips, the ground lurched.
Not a tremor.
Not a simple vibration.
The earth beneath him exhaled, like something massive had been sleeping beneath Stonehenge, waiting for this moment to wake.
Albion's knees buckled, his breath ripping from his lungs as a pulse of energy exploded outward.
The stones reacted violently.
Runes ignited, golden threads of magic weaving between them like they were connected by invisible veins. The wind roared, howling through the monument, dragging at his clothes.
His body arched back as pain lanced through his arm, the runes burning like molten metal.
He couldn't move.
Couldn't breathe.
It felt like something was reaching inside him, pulling at his ribs, peeling away at his very essence.
The power was too much.
Too vast.
Albion clenched his teeth, but a thought tore through his mind, fast and unbidden—
"Stop. This is a mistake."
But it was too late.
His voice echoed through the ancient stones, reverberating off the silent monument. The ground trembled, the stones groaning as they realigned themselves. Albion felt the power building, the energy rising like a storm.
The air crackled with electricity, the stones rotating, spinning as a brilliant beam of light shot into the sky, cutting through the clouds. The rain froze in place, the magic reaching its peak.
The stones spun faster, dust and energy swirling in a vortex. Albion's heart pounded, each beat syncing with the pulsing energy. He didn't falter.
The world twisted.
The sky above him blurred, the clouds stretching, bending, warping as if time itself was unraveling.
The runes on the stones shifting like they were alive, their symbols twisting in ways his mind couldn't comprehend.
The wind turned to a force, slamming into his chest, knocking him a step back.
Albion gasped, his fingers clawing at the air as his vision fractured—
Flashes.
A city of impossible towers, silver and gold, drowning in mist.
A battlefield, bodies strewn across stone and fire, Excalibur planted in the ground.
A throne, empty. Waiting.
His pulse screamed.
His vision snapped back to reality just as the runes reached their peak.
A deafening crack split the sky—
And then everything was light.
With the deafening crack, the light flared. Albion shielded his eyes. When he opened them, an archway stood before him, glowing with an ethereal light. The gateway to Avalon.
Albion stepped forward, his heart steady. The runes on his arm pulsed in time with the energy around him, light intertwining with the beams from the archway.
He was no longer searching for the door.
He was the door.
And with that, Albion crossed the threshold.
The moment his foot touched the portal, everything collapsed inward.
Not light, not darkness—something else.
It felt like he was being stretched and folded at the same time, his body existing and not existing all at once.
His breath caught, his limbs locked in place as whispers swarmed his ears.
Not words.
Not voices.
But something older than language, threading through his bones, filling his skull with a pressure that made his teeth grind.
The runes on his arm blazed, and he swore he heard a voice—
"Pendragon."
His stomach dropped.
He wanted to turn back.
But there was nothing behind him anymore.
Only forward.
Only Avalon.