Albion staggered from the edge of the Enchanted Forest like a fugitive slipping from the jaws of a predator, his legs trembling, his heart pounding a relentless tattoo against his ribs. The oppressive canopy that had enclosed him for what felt like an eternity—five endless days of shadow, confusion, and dread—finally gave way to a sky he no longer recognized. The open air, vast and unsettling, whispered that the world itself had shifted in his absence, leaving him stranded between memory and a present he couldn't trust.
"Did you escape," Eleven's voice pressed in his mind, "or are you still in my playground?"
The wind held no scent he recognized.
The land ahead was not where he had been.
The world had shifted.
He had been running, hiding, and fighting for survival against Eleven in that twisted labyrinth of magic and malice. Yet, as he emerged, something far worse gnawed at his soul—a disruption that tugged at the very fabric of his being.
But the true horror was above.
He lifted his eyes—and froze.
The stars betrayed him.
Albion had learned to read the heavens as a child. The constellations were as familiar to him as the grooves of his palms. Becca taught him the one's of this world, how to read this sky. They told stories, marked seasons, whispered secrets to those who listened. But now? They were off. Tilted. Misaligned. The twin moons—a celestial compass always in sync with time—hung at unnatural angles.
He sank to his knees and pressed his fingers into the dry, cracked earth, seeking answers from a ground that now seemed as alien as the stars above. How far had the forest taken me? How much time had I lost?
A cold sweat trickled down his forehead as the chilling realization set in—he had traveled far more than a few hundred miles. If the celestial mechanics held true, the forest had displaced him thousands of miles north of his origin. His breath quickened as he pieced together the grim puzzle: the Enchanted Forest did not merely distort space—it warped time itself.
And then, the revelation struck him with the force of a sledgehammer. It had been a month since the raid on Charlevoix.
A month. The number rang in his skull like a bell tolling for the dead—a toll marking the passing of each lost day. A month since Becca's burial. A month since Winston's capture. A month during which every desperate breath he took within that cursed forest cost someone else a day of suffering. And he'd been chasing shadows.
A truth slamming into his chest.
Charlevoix.
A month.
Thirty days erased.
Each one echoing with ghosts. Becca's death, Winston's capture, the collapse of everything he had just began to learn. Every breath he'd taken in that forest had cost someone a day of pain. A week of mourning. A war. His heart clenched at the thought of Winston. The world, it seemed, had moved on without him while he had been imprisoned in time's twisted corridors.
Winston—his friend, his mentor—had been left to endure horrors while Albion fought spectral battles in a place where time was a capricious tyrant. With grim determination, Albion wiped his brow and pushed the panic and fatigue aside. He had to press forward, for every lost minute meant another moment that could be spent saving Winston.
And he'd been chasing phantoms.
In the distance, the ruins of Fellsemere emerged from the twilight like a scar on the land—a city once mighty in its magical splendor, now crumbled and decayed. The massive stone wall that had once proudly encircled the city now lay partially collapsed, its jagged fragments jutting from the earth like broken bones. And yet, the remnants still towered with a ghostly majesty, a final echo of a bygone era.
As he approached the ruins, his eyes caught the glimmer of innumerable campfires scattered among the debris. Smoke curled from hundreds of fires like ghostly fingers, and Celeste banners fluttered in the wind, each emblazoned with the golden symbol of Nimue's Eye.
The air vibrated with a distant, rhythmic chanting, interspersed with the sporadic clash of light-forged blades. Faint, agonized screams echoed from the depths of the ruins—brief, choked sounds that hinted at hidden torments. This was no mere campsite; this was the beating heart of the Celeste Empire, an empire that had razed Charlevoix and taken Winston in its merciless grip.
Campfires dotted the rubble like smoldering eyes.
He squinted.
Thousands of them.
Albion's pulse quickened as he realized the stakes. He had to blend in, gather intelligence, and find a way to save Winston before it was too late. Crouching low, he melted into the shadows, using the crumbled walls and fallen debris as cover. The camp was too well-guarded for a direct assault; his path demanded cunning rather than brute force.
Drawing closer to one of the flickering fires, he paused, straining his ears to catch snippets of conversation carried on the cool, night wind. Three voices—each distinct, each laden with the weariness of endless marching—drifted to him from a nearby cluster of soldiers.
Between the fires, soldiers marched, trained, ate. The cadence of drums reverberated faintly.
Above it, distant cries echoed—short, sharp, silenced.
Winston.
Albion's blood ran cold.
If the rumors were true, the Empire had him.
And time was bleeding away.
He dropped low, moving like a shadow between slabs of crumbled stone. The walls of Fellsemere, once spell-fortified, now served as cover for a man slipping through enemy ranks. His boots made no sound on the broken earth. Every motion was precise. If he was seen, he'd die—or worse.
A cluster of soldiers huddled around a fire near a collapsed gate. Albion crept closer, the wind carrying scraps of their conversation to his ears.
"You think a month's bad?" said a gruff voice—older, iron in his throat. "My cousin wandered in that forest when I was a lad. Came back twenty years later. Skin white as snow. Couldn't speak no more. Just... looked through you."
A younger, nervous voice replied, laden with a breathless wonder tinged by fear: "I heard it bends your soul. Like… it rearranges what you are inside. I mean, one minute you're yourself, and the next, you're a stranger."
Then, almost reverently, a third soldier added, "May Nimue forgive our trespass, for better a cursed march than a cursed mind."
Albion's jaw clenched. These men spoke of the forest like a legend. They had no idea how close they were to truth. And none knew what it had cost him. Or what it would cost them.
He turned away, moving back into the ruins, breath shallow.
If he had lost a month, then Winston's life was on a knife's edge.
The revelation of lost time—the month that had slipped away while Albion was lost to the forest—hit him with renewed force. Every second wasted in that mystical snare had cost him dearly, and his mind raced with grim calculations. A month. A whole month lost while the world carried on, while Winston's fate hung in the balance. His heart pounded with the urgency of a man who knew that the sands of time were running out.
He retreated into the shadows, his mind ablaze with the stakes of his mission. He needed to secure supplies, acquire a reliable map, and, most crucially, find a way to infiltrate the very heart of this monstrous force. If he stayed with the march, he might eventually decipher a path to Camelot, where Winston was rumored to be held. But he couldn't do it alone—not yet.
A shout cracked the night. Orders, barked. Patrol shift rotation. Albion ducked behind a shattered statue, his heartbeat steadying as he considered his options. No weapons. No map. No identity.
Then Excalibur stirred.
A warmth flared beneath his coat.
Then, as if in response to his desperate thoughts, a faint warmth pulsed against his side. He glanced down, startled, as his ragged, dirt-stained clothing shimmered and transformed before his eyes. The rough-spun traveler's garb gave way to the dark, militarized uniform of a Celeste soldier. The transformation was sudden, magical—a gift from Adelaide…or maybe Excalibur itself.
He looked down at himself—no longer Albion Bell, no longer the scrappy archeologist from Earth. In an instant, he had become just another foot soldier in an enemy army, a living disguise in a theater of war. His hands trembled as he ran them over the new fabric, feeling the weight of the armor and the cool metal at his wrists. The change was not merely physical; it echoed deep within him. If Becca were to see him now, garbed in the guise of those who had burned his world, would she even recognize the man he once was? The thought gnawed at his conscience, and he swallowed hard.
Albion hesitated. This uniform bore the mark of the men who torched Charlevoix. Who called Winston traitor. Who served Nimue not as goddess, but as doctrine. Wearing it made his skin crawl.
Excalibur's runes buzzed softly at his side, its light dim and uneasy—a silent, sentient judgment that spoke of ancient disapproval. It was as if the sword, imbued with a noble spirit, sensed the moral peril of this disguise, warning him in a language older than words. Albion felt the weight of its silent rebuke, a reminder that even as he donned the enemy's skin, his heart still beat with the fire of his true self.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, Albion pulled his hood low over his face and moved toward the center of the camp. The Celeste soldiers, weary yet driven by their brutal orders, marched in measured disarray under the banner of their empire. Their march was a forced display of discipline—their every step marked by magic and drugs alike, pushing their bodies beyond natural limits. The camp itself was a grim tableau of exhaustion: tents haphazardly arranged, soldiers in ragged uniforms, and the ever-present hum of suppressed agony.
The runes buzzed low, disapproving. Excalibur's light dimmed. It knew. It remembered. Albion wasn't sure who it mourned more—Winston, or him.
No one stopped him.
Dozens of soldiers passed, heads down, marching from tent to tent. Albion moved with them, shoulders hunched in the posture of exhaustion. The disguise didn't just fool the eyes—it projected fatigue, weariness, the weight of long campaigns. To the world, he was one more cog in the machine.
As Albion drew nearer, he slipped into the maze of the encampment. The ruins of Fellsemere loomed around him like the skeletal remains of a giant, the fallen stones whispering of ancient glories now shattered. Celestial banners snapped in the wind, and faint sounds of incantations mingled with the metallic clank of weapons. The atmosphere was charged with an electric tension, a palpable sense of foreboding that hinted at unspeakable deeds performed in the dark hours of the night.
His eyes caught movement near a large tent that served as the mess hall—a makeshift sanctuary where the soldiers momentarily shed the burdens of their relentless march. The air around the tent was thick with the smells of cooking meat, stale bread, and the sweat of men who had long forgotten the taste of rest. Albion slipped inside, keeping to the dimmest corners as he found an empty table tucked away at the back.
Seconds passed before someone sat across from him.
He sank into a creaking chair, the weight of his mission pressing down on him. Across the room, a broad-shouldered soldier with a patch over one eye regarded him with quiet curiosity. The soldier's tone was sharp yet measured as he broke the silence.
"Where you from?" the soldier asked, his voice low, edged with the harsh cadence of someone who had seen too much.
"Down south," Albion muttered, careful to keep his voice low and his expression neutral. "Just got transferred up here."
The soldier raised an eyebrow, his gaze narrowing for a fleeting moment before he offered a wry nod. "Lucky you missed the worst of it. We've been marching non-stop for weeks—can't imagine the toll it's taken. Hundreds of miles a day, they say. Magic, stimulants, blood pills—they'll keep you moving until your legs shatter."
Albion's stomach churned at the mention of such a feat—a feat made possible only by the brutal combination of acceleration magic and the relentless flow of drugs. "Yeah. Heard about that," he replied, his voice barely concealing the simmering dread beneath.
The conversation, laden with the weight of their shared suffering, confirmed what Albion had already feared—time was both his enemy and his judge. A month had vanished, leaving him stranded in a nightmare of lost days, while Winston's fate dangled precariously on the edge of oblivion.
As the soldiers around him resumed their banter—grumbling about sore feet, weary complaints about the relentless pace, and jokes that belied the ever-present specter of death—Albion's attention remained fixed on the grim reality of his mission. He couldn't afford to reveal his true identity, not when every moment might be his last chance to change destiny.
A subtle danger prickled at the back of his neck. Across the table, a one-eyed soldier's gaze lingered too long, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. "You talk like an Avalonia," the soldier murmured, his tone half-accusing, half-intrigued. "Must have been born here, but you don't eat like one."
Albion froze mid-bite, his pulse racing. What did that mean? Was it merely idle banter, or a probing test to see if he might slip up on the Celeste terminology? The moment hung heavy in the air, and Albion forced a nervous laugh. "My stomach hasn't caught up to the march yet," he offered, hoping the feigned nonchalance would defuse the tension.
Albion exhaled.
Across the table, younger voices traded rumors.
"Execution's in Camelot," one whispered. "Whole army's gotta be there. In a month's time. High-ranking traitor. Public spectacle."
"They say he used to command one of the Vanguards," another added. "Deserted. Lied to the Queen. He'll burn slow for that."
"May Nimue guide us," said a third, crossing himself.
Winston.
Still alive. But not for long.
His mind churned with the implications. Winston was to be executed—a high-ranking traitor made an example of for all to witness. The thought of his mentor and friend meeting such a gruesome end ignited a fire within him. In a month. A whole month to save Winston, he thought bitterly. But time waits for no one.
Albion's grip tightened under the table. He couldn't betray his presence. Couldn't leap across the firelight and scream at these men to wake up. He had to play the part—until he could unravel the empire from the inside.
Even as he sat there, every sense alert, runes pulsed softly—a quiet reminder of the moral weight of his disguise. Its runes, etched in ancient language, buzzed in a low, uneasy murmur. The light from the sword was dim, as if it mourned the necessity of his deception, warning him silently that each step taken in enemy garb came at a cost.
After the brief exchange, the older soldier stood up and stretched, his movements slow and deliberate. "Better get some rest while you can," he muttered, almost to himself as he ambled away. "We've got another long march tomorrow." His parting words, though mundane, resonated with the gravity of their shared plight.
Alone again in the dim light of the mess hall, Albion's mind reeled with the mounting pressures. He had to remain inconspicuous, gather every scrap of information, and chart a course toward Camelot—before the execution of Winston turned his world irrevocably dark. The silence of the tent was punctuated by the soft murmur of soldiers dozing fitfully, the dull clatter of utensils, and the whisper of fabric shifting as men slumped in their seats. Each sound was a reminder of the ceaseless trek toward an uncertain fate.
In that moment, Albion made a silent vow to himself. He would not allow the ravages of lost time to define him. Instead, he would use every ounce of cunning and resolve to undo the cruel trick that had been played with time and destiny. Winston, his mentor, deserved nothing less. With every beat of his heart, Albion resolved that he would find a way to disrupt the Celeste march, to slip through the cracks of their seemingly invincible order, and to reclaim the minutes that had been stolen from him in that damned forest.
Drawing in a long, steady breath, Albion rose from his seat, his eyes scanning the mess hall for any signs of further danger. He slipped out of the tent into the cold embrace of the night, where the ruins of Fellsemere stretched out before him like the battlefield of a fallen empire. The campfires glowed in the distance, each a small beacon in a sea of darkness, and the murmur of incantations and clashing steel set the rhythm for his next move.
Under the cover of darkness, Albion moved with deliberate stealth, his footsteps muffled by the soft earth and the scattered remnants of ancient stone. The ghostly banners of the Celeste Empire flapped in the breeze, their sigils shimmering with an almost hypnotic allure. He paused a moment to watch as distant drumbeats and whispered chants wove a tapestry of impending dread. In the far recesses of the ruins, he could even make out faint, anguished screams—brief, choked outbursts of pain that vanished as quickly as they appeared. It was a symphony of despair, each note underscoring the cruelty of an empire unbound by mercy.
As he crept through the labyrinthine ruins, Albion's mind replayed the overheard conversations—the tired voices of soldiers burdened by an impossible pace, the grim humor of those who had witnessed too much, and the reverent whispers invoking Nimue. Each word fueled his determination. He would not be another lost soul, swallowed by time or forgotten by fate.
Navigating between crumbling archways and the skeletal remains of once-grand buildings, Albion finally reached the edge of a sprawling encampment. Here, within the vestiges of Fellsemere, the Celeste army had set up temporary barracks, complete with makeshift command posts and guarded perimeters. The air was thick with tension, the combined weight of countless footsteps and whispered secrets. Here, amid the ruins of magic and power, the machinery of oppression churned relentlessly.
Albion knew that to infiltrate this enemy bastion, he would have to play the role of a soldier flawlessly. The transformation bestowed by Excalibur was his only advantage—a cloak of invisibility that masked his true identity with the enemy's guise. And yet, each time he felt the cold metal of the armor and the weight of the enemy's insignia on his chest, a small part of him rebelled. The internal conflict was a constant companion—a reminder that every step taken in this borrowed skin was a betrayal of all he once stood for.
Excalibur pulsed faintly as he passed makeshift prisons carved into the collapsed foundations of Fellsemere. Screams whispered up through the stones.
He didn't flinch.
In the distance, training fields shimmered with artificial light as Celeste mages practiced silence spells and phantasmal illusions. Albion watched as recruits struck at shadows with blades forged from glowing runes—techniques designed to intimidate as much as kill.
He noted every detail.
Every weakness.
As the night deepened, Albion made his way to a secluded corner of the camp where he could observe the soldiers without drawing undue attention. His eyes, hardened by loss and tempered by resolve, scanned the horizon. Somewhere amidst these dismal tents and flickering campfires lay the key to Winston's whereabouts—a clue, a map, any fragment of intelligence that could guide him to the doomed soul he vowed to save.
Time was both his ally and his enemy now. With each tick of the clock, they advanced inexorably toward Camelot, where the fate of Winston—and perhaps the destiny of their shattered world—would be decided in a spectacle of cruelty and tradition. Albion's heart pounded with a mixture of dread and fierce determination. He would have to outmaneuver an entire empire, using the stealth of a spy and the courage of a warrior, all while grappling with the haunting memories of lost time.
Before the first light of dawn, Albion slipped away from the encampment, every movement calculated and precise. He knew that the path ahead was fraught with peril. Yet, the thought of Winston's impending execution spurred him onward, igniting a fire within that no amount of time-warping magic could extinguish.
The night was thick with the scent of damp earth and charred wood, a bitter reminder of the campfires and the sacrifices that had been made. Albion's mind drifted back to the Enchanted Forest, where time itself had become an enemy—a warden that had stolen precious moments and left scars upon his soul. Now, every step in this ruined landscape was a defiant stand against that loss, a promise that he would reclaim the time that was rightfully his, and with it, save the man he held dear.
In the solitude of the ruins, Albion's thoughts turned introspective. He recalled the faces of those he had lost, the silent eyes of his comrades, and the gentle smile of Becca—a smile that once shone with hope and promise. The weight of responsibility pressed upon him, but so did the strength of conviction. Each heartbeat was a call to action, a reminder that even in the darkest nights, the spark of defiance could ignite a revolution.
Shuttering as he trekked onward through the desolate corridors of Fellsemere, Albion's resolve crystallized. He would infiltrate the Celeste ranks, gather intelligence, and find a path to Camelot—no matter the cost. His every step was both a stride toward redemption and a rebellion against the forces that had robbed him of a month, of priceless time.
The ruins, once a proud city of magic and wonder, now bore silent witness to the cruelty of empire. And in that silence, Albion heard the distant, mournful echo of a world that had lost its way—a world where time was malleable, and destinies could be rewritten only by those brave enough to defy fate.
Thus, under the indifferent gaze of a warped sky and misaligned stars, Albion ventured deeper into the night, a lone soldier in a sea of enemies, a hidden agent in a grand espionage of survival. Every shadow held secrets, every whisper was a clue, and every step was a silent testament to his unyielding will to save Winston—and, perhaps, to reclaim the very essence of time itself.
In that frozen, fateful night, where the boundary between friend and foe blurred under the cloak of deception, Albion's journey had only just begun. The mission was clear: infiltrate the Celeste ranks, find the intelligence that could lead him to Winston, and unravel the twisted timeline that had stolen a month of his life. For in the heart of this crumbling empire, amidst ruined battlements and haunted whispers, lay the key to a future not yet written—a future that he, alone, could reshape.
With Excalibur's silent admonition echoing through the runes and the ghostly banners of the Celeste Empire fluttering overhead, Albion pressed on. Each footstep was measured and deliberate, each breath a quiet prayer for redemption in a world gone mad. His path was treacherous, fraught with hidden dangers and the ever-present threat of discovery. But the stakes were too high, and the enemy too formidable, for hesitation.
The night grew colder, the stars above bearing witness. Yet, within that relentless darkness, Albion found a strange comfort—a reminder that even in the deepest shadows, a single light could blaze a trail to salvation. And so, he moved forward, a solitary figure against the vast tapestry of ruined dreams and broken time, determined to reclaim what had been stolen and to restore hope where only despair now reigned.
The ruins of Fellsemere, with their jagged remnants of a glorious past, became both his battleground and his sanctuary. In the silence between the campfires, in the echoes of lost voices, and in the quiet pulse of Excalibur, Albion forged a plan—a daring gambit that would pit his wits against an empire built on cruelty and sacrifice.
As dawn's pale light began to creep over the horizon, Albion paused at the edge of the encampment. In that fleeting moment, he allowed himself a brief reflection—a silent vow whispered to the awakening sky. He would not let the stolen time, the grim march toward Camelot, or the fate of Winston define him. Instead, he would use every fragment of his reclaimed moments to wage a covert war from within, to disrupt the enemy's plans and ignite a spark of rebellion that could one day restore order to a shattered world. Albion stood at the ruins' edge, his silhouette cast long against the ash-scarred soil. He didn't look back at the tents. The whispers. The smoke. The banners. They were all part of the same illusion.
The day ahead promised no respite, only further challenges and the constant threat of exposure. Yet, as Albion stepped away from the ruins, his mind steeled against the uncertainties of the future, he felt a surge of resolve. He was not merely a lost wanderer rescued from a magical prison; he was a soldier of destiny, a covert agent in a grand espionage thriller whose every move could alter the course of history.
And so, with the ghosts of lost time whispering behind him and the future uncertain before him, Albion melted into the waking world—a man reborn in the guise of the enemy, determined to defy fate, reclaim every stolen moment, and save the soul of a friend whose life hung in the balance. In the ruins, in the shadows, and in the silent vigil of the stars, his story continued—each step a chapter in a clandestine saga of espionage, betrayal, and the unyielding fight for redemption.
His mind returned to the face of Winston—stern, loyal, flawed, and too damn human to die for an empire that had discarded him. Albion had no army. No allies. No guarantee he would even reach Camelot in time.
But he had the one thing the Empire feared more than a weapon.
He had clarity.
He would walk in their shadow, learn their steps, echo their chants—and when the time came, he would strike not with fury, but with purpose. A knife in the dark. A ghost in the ranks.
He walked forward, blending into the column of soldiers beginning another forced march. No one noticed him. No one asked.
He was part of the machine now.
But not forever. Because the stars were still wrong.
And Albion Pendragon was not.