[Avalon]

The air seemed to still as those words left Claude's lips. He had scoured the town library for any mention of Avalon, yet his search had yielded nothing.

While he had anticipated the absence of historical records after Evelyn's words, the complete lack of even a passing mention struck him like a silent condemnation.

No legends. No poems. No children's tales.

It was as though Avalon had been excised from history, erased with such thoroughness that it made him question whether it had ever existed at all.

To an unknowing observer, this absence would be proof enough that Avalon was nothing more than a fabrication, a story spun by idle dreamers and lost to time.

But Claude knew better.

Thus, he had been forced to resort to other methods… Even now, as he studied his would-be mentor, he saw the telltale signs of an internal battle waging behind Alfred's eyes. Confusion twisted into doubt, doubt into something sharper—alertness, wariness, calculation.

'What a fascinating reaction to such a simple question.' Claude's curiosity deepened. His instincts whispered that Alfred knew more than he let on—perhaps far more than Claude had initially expected.

On the other hand, Alfred soon broke free of his reverie, his gaze darting about the room before locking onto Claude.

"Why...?" The word reluctantly slipped from Alfred's lips. "Why would you want to know more about a mere fairytale? Especially one conjured by either a child's whimsy or a drunkard's ramblings."

Despite the feigned scepticism in Alfred's tone, Claude caught the flicker of something else beneath his words.

A hesitance. A fear, perhaps.

And that, more than anything, intrigued him.

"Just a fleeting interest," Claude replied, his voice light, his expression unreadable. "I recently passed through town and happened upon a travelling bard who spoke of a long-forgotten empire called Avalon."

"Travelling bard..." Alfred repeated under his breath. Then, almost imperceptibly, his jaw tightened. "Is it him?" The latter half of his words were forced through gritted teeth. Claude narrowed his eyes as he saw this, noting this in the back of his head.

Alfred, realizing his slip, let out a slow breath and straightened his posture, his expression smoothing into a polite but distant smile. "I apologise, Master Claude. I do not know enough about the legend to educate you."

Claude merely waved a hand, offering a disarming chuckle as he leaned forward. "No need for apologies. Just tell me what you do know—no matter how small."

For a moment, Alfred remained still, his lips pressed together. Then, finally, with a soft nod, he relented.

"Of course," he murmured and after a brief pause he exhaled deeply, tilting his head upward.

"Avalon..." he began, his voice quieter now. "Legends speak of it as an ancient empire, one whose name was once spoken with reverence and awe. It was said to be ruled by an order of monks— the Machina Sacra—who devoted themselves entirely to their god—"

A shadow passed over his features.

"Cogus."

The name lingered in the air, heavier than it should have been. Claude did not miss the brief hesitation in Alfred's voice, nor the flicker of something unreadable in his expression.

"However," Alfred continued, "hearsay claims that this mighty empire met its end at the hands of traitors within the Sacra Machina itself..."

And just like that, a door had been cracked open. Claude intended to step through it.

-----

----------

----------------

Knock-Knock!

The sound of a rapping knuckle echoed through the desolate corridor, rattling the dust that clung stubbornly to the warped wooden door. The hinges, rusted with age and neglect, groaned under the weight of time.

"Come in..." A weary voice drifted from within, barely more than a whisper, swallowed by the stagnant air of the room beyond.

Nevertheless, the guest did not seem to have heard the weary voice. Or, perhaps they did.

Whoosh!

A violent kick forced the door open, its motion disturbing the dust-laden air. Following the disruption, a figure strode in, the brim of his weathered hat tilting slightly as he stepped into the dim glow of a flickering oil lamp.

Shadows stretched across his roguish face that remained half-obscured beneath the hat's brim.

It was William.

"I knew it..." The voice's owner—a frail, cloaked woman—lifted her head, her cloudy eyes locking onto him. She was seated on the floor, curled inward like a wounded beast, her thin cloak draped around her skeletal frame. The dim light caught on strands of silver hair, dishevelled and tangled with time. "…you have come."

"Of course I have!" A smile tugged at William's lips, but it lacked warmth, a cruel mockery of amusement. "After all, what meaning would my life hold if I did not come to seek you vermin?"

He took a slow step forward, the floorboards creaking beneath his weight.

"Tell me, traitor..." His smirk faded, replaced by something colder, more calculated. "Why did you do it? Even after all these years, I cannot fathom your decision."

Thump!

With a sudden, merciless kick, William sent the frail woman skidding across the rough wooden floor. The force of the impact sent a metallic screech reverberating through the hollow room as she scraped against the splintered boards.

His extended leg—gleaming steel where flesh should have been—caught the dim glow of the flickering lamp hanging from above.

Cough!

She sputtered, crimson speckling the floor as she clutched her ribs. Her thin frame trembled from the impact, but when she lifted her head, her expression was not one of fear. It was resolve.

"I have never wavered in my decision… not then, not now," she rasped, her breath ragged but unwavering. Her robe slowly slipped off her, revealing a single deep brown eye darkened with time and sorrow, that bore into William with unshaken conviction. "You know full well that what you worship is not Him!"

With a trembling push, she forced herself upright. Her cloak now completely slid from her shoulders, pooled around her feet in a heap of tattered fabric.

The woman's true visage was laid bare. Age had hunched her back, her once-strong frame now gaunt with the weight of time. Wisps of silver hair framed a face weathered by hardship, deep lines carved into her pale skin.

But the most striking feature was her left eye—a mechanical prosthetic, its inner gears clicking softly as the lens adjusted, locking onto William.

Her left hand, twisted metal in place of flesh, curled into a fist. Both of her legs, mechanical from knee to toe, gleamed dully in the dim light and creaked with her every move.

"Cease this foolish endeavour of yours. My decision, faith and ambition... they will not waver." A sardonic smile crept onto William's face. "And, you know full well what that means. For both you and this accursed world."

The woman maintained her silence. Her metal eye whirred and narrowed as frustration flickered through its artificial lens.

Whoosh!

The air howled as William's foot carved through it, smashing down towards his foe, but the elder was already moving.

With a nimbleness that belied her years, she twisted to the side, narrowly evading the crushing force of his kick.

Crack!

Aged wooden planks splintered beneath the impact, jagged shards erupting from the floor like shattered bones.

Dust spiralled into the stagnant air, catching in the dim light as William slowly lowered his leg, his metallic foot now buried in the ruined boards.

"Tsk! You sure can move for a woman your age," William muttered, rolling his shoulders as if stretching out a minor inconvenience. His tone was almost wistful, an echo of respect twisted by disdain. "As expected of someone who was once one of us."

The woman's expression twisted into something venomous.

"Don't you dare lump me in with vermin like you!" she spat. Even before William could react, she moved.

With a mechanical whirr, her left arm snapped into motion. Metal plates along her forearm shifted and realigned, gears grinding against one another as pistons hissed with released pressure.

The flesh-like covering along her wrist peeled back in segmented layers, revealing the dark iron beneath—a skeletal framework of brass and steel, lined with faintly glowing etchings.

Click!

William's pupils shrunk to the size of pinpricks as a soft sound waded into his ears.

What had once been the woman's hand collapsed inward, fingers folding away like a clockwork puzzle.

In their place, a series of barrel-like tubes emerged, each hissing with built-up steam as gears within the forearm spun at blurring speeds.

Then—

Bang! Bang! Bang!

A hailstorm of bullets erupted from her arm, tearing through the stale air like a swarm of hornets.

The sheer force of the shots shattered wooden beams and punched ragged holes into the surrounding walls. The acrid scent of gunpowder filled the room.

Soon, the sound died down as she lowered her arm. Her eyes locked onto the scarlet puddle that sat before her.

"Why... Why can you not give up?!" she sighed, staring at the empty and damaged space before. "You and that wretched husk you hail as Exarch—"

Yet, her words were cut short.

Schlick!

A thin blood-red blade pierced through her artificial eye, slicing through gears, wires, and bone alike. For a moment, she stood frozen, her remaining organic eye wide with shock.

Then, a violent shudder wracked her frame. Her fingers twitched. A strangled breath left her lips.

Thud!

Her body hit the floor, her limbs twitching—once, twice—before finally falling still. A thin trickle of crimson seeped from the wound, mingling with the dust that coated the floorboards.

The once motionless puddle of blood twitched and writhed as William soon reformed himself in the room. 

Wasting little time, he hopped to one side of the room and quickly found his leg which he had discarded in the midst of the chaos.

Clink!

As he reattached his limb, he stumbled over to the woman. William stared down at the lifeless form, his expression blank.

"Tsk! Pitiful worm…" he murmured, voice laced with disdain. "How can you even begin to comprehend His glory?"

His gaze drifted toward the boarded-up windows. Thin beams of sunlight bled through the cracks, weak and fragmented.

Dust motes danced in the golden light, indifferent to the violence that had just unfolded. William exhaled.

"This world…" he muttered, his voice barely more than a whisper, "can only end in destruction."