Chapter 3: Eyes in the Fog

In the grand hall of the castle, the queen sat upon her throne, exuding an air of calm authority that commanded respect, unaware that the threads of Albion's fate would soon weave into her world. Her sharp, discerning eyes missed nothing, capturing every subtle nuance in the room. The hall itself was a masterpiece of architecture—high vaulted ceilings soared above, adorned with intricate stone carvings that depicted the rich tapestry of her lineage. Stained glass windows lined the walls, casting vibrant patterns of valor and wisdom onto the polished marble floor as sunlight filtered through.

Her throne, a formidable seat of power hewn from a single block of obsidian and embellished with gold filigree, stood like a monolith against the backdrop of her kingdom's history. She was the embodiment of elegance and strength. Her flowing robes, woven with threads of silver and midnight blue, draped gracefully over her form. Dark auburn hair cascaded in waves down her back, held in place by a simple yet regal diadem that rested upon her brow. She ruled with a firm yet fair hand, her judgments tempered with justice and compassion.

Under her guidance, the kingdom flourished—a testament to her wise leadership. The people adored her, and her court was filled with loyal subjects and advisors who held her wisdom in the highest esteem. Yet, beneath the surface of this idyllic realm, shadows began to stir. The queen was not oblivious to the whispers of discontent that occasionally reached her ears, nor was she unaware of the envy simmering within the heart of her sister.

Her sister had always been a complex figure. Equally as beautiful as the queen, she possessed a charm that was both alluring and dangerous. As children, they had been inseparable, their laughter echoing through the corridors of the castle. But as they grew, so did her sister's jealousy. The queen's ascension to the throne had deepened the rift between them, fueling a resentment that festered beneath a veneer of cordiality. Her sister's smile, once warm and effortless, had become too perfect, too polished—like a mirror reflecting the light just a bit too brightly.

At times, the queen would catch her sister staring at the throne with a distant gaze, as though she could almost feel the cold stone beneath her fingers. There was no open hostility, no direct challenge, but the queen knew her sister well enough to see the cracks in the mask. She noticed how her sister lingered longer in council meetings, how her laughter had grown sharper in court, her compliments laced with invisible barbs that pricked just beneath the surface.

The court, unaware of the subtleties, remained oblivious to the tension building like a slow storm. To them, the queen appeared unassailable—a paragon of virtue and strength. Yet in the solitude of her chambers, she allowed herself moments of vulnerability. Standing before a gilded mirror, she would gaze at her reflection, seeing not just a monarch but a woman bearing the weight of a nation upon her shoulders. The solitude of leadership was a heavy burden, and the constant vigilance required to maintain her kingdom's stability often left her feeling isolated.

Her most trusted advisor was Taliesin, an old mage whose wisdom was as deep as the ancient forests. His long white beard and piercing, starlit blue eyes lent him an aura of mystique. He had served her father before her and had been a steadfast presence throughout her life. His loyalty was unwavering, and his knowledge of arcane lore and ancient magic unparalleled. Yet, even he had begun to tread lightly around the queen's sister, his words carefully measured whenever she was near.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky with hues of fiery orange and soft purples, Taliesin approached the queen with a grave expression. They stood on a balcony overlooking the sprawling kingdom, the cool breeze carrying the delicate scent of blooming jasmine from the gardens below.

"My queen," Taliesin began, his voice weighted with concern. He cast a glance toward the shadows creeping along the castle walls. "The wind carries whispers. Whispers of things that slither in the dark—things that wear familiar faces. She gathers allies in the shadows—those who would see you unseated."

The queen's chest tightened, but her face remained composed. "I have long sensed this disquiet, Taliesin. My sister's jealousy has been a poison, seeping into the foundations of our bond. But to hear it spoken aloud makes it all the more real."

Taliesin's gaze shifted toward the distant horizon, his eyes reflecting the fading light of the sun. "We must act with caution. You are wise and just, but even the strongest rulers must prepare for the unexpected. Your safety, and that of the kingdom, must be our foremost concern."

She turned to face Taliesin fully, the weight of her crown pressing heavier than it ever had before. The flames of the torches flickered wildly, casting long shadows across the chamber walls, as if the castle itself trembled at what was coming.

"I will not allow my sister to unravel all that we have built." Her voice was steady, but in her chest, an unfamiliar fear coiled tight. "Tell me, Taliesin—what course of action remains to us?"

The old mage hesitated, his gaze darting toward the heavy doors of the chamber. Still, he did not answer.

"Taliesin." Her voice was sharper now, commanding.

He met her gaze at last, his blue eyes clouded with something deeper than fear—something ancient. "You have seen the dreams, have you not?"

She stilled. The room felt colder.

She had told no one of the visions that had plagued her nights for moons now—of the boy standing in a world not her own, a sword in his hand, shadows clawing at his back. The sound of his name, half-formed in whispers she could never quite grasp.

"There is no time to speak of dreams." She said it, but her heart was hammering against her ribs.

"The time to speak of them has passed," Taliesin murmured. "The time to act is now."

A terrible pressure filled the air, thick with the weight of what he was about to say.

"There are things in those tomes… things that should never be found," he said at last, his voice barely above a whisper.

Her breath caught. "You speak of the portal between worlds."

Taliesin nodded, his fingers tightening around the staff in his hands. "Indeed. It is both wonder and peril, far beyond your sister's reach. There, you could gather strength, find allies without interference. And perhaps, more importantly, you could find him."

The words crashed over her like a wave.

"The boy." The words left her lips before she realized she had spoken them aloud.

Taliesin exhaled, relief flickering in his eyes. "You have seen him."

"In dreams. But dreams are not prophecy." Her voice wavered, the first crack in her composure since the night began.

"No," Taliesin agreed. "But this one is."

The weight of it all settled onto her bones. The Rift. The child. The future she had tried so hard to shape, now unraveling beneath her feet. Her sister's betrayal was not the only force at work here—there was something greater, something unseen, pulling the threads of fate tight.

And she was being given a choice.

"Even if I go, I will not return in time to save my people," she said softly, a confession wrapped in pain. "If I cross, I may never return at all."

"If you stay, you will die," Taliesin said simply. "And if you die, so too does any hope for what is to come."

She turned away from him, her pulse roaring in her ears.

The Rift had always been a legend—a tale of reckless sorcerers, lost souls who stepped into the unknown and never returned. But the dreams… the boy… the way fate had drawn her to this moment. It was no coincidence.

Perhaps it had never been a warning.

Perhaps it had been waiting for her.

She straightened, resolve hardening her spine.

"We will need time," she said at last. "To prepare, to secure the knowledge that must be kept from my sister."

"Then we begin tonight," Taliesin said, his voice filled with quiet conviction.

The weeks that followed were spent in careful secrecy. The queen and Taliesin worked in the dead of night, unraveling the ancient incantations buried within the deepest chambers of the royal archives. The tomes spoke of the portal as something alive, something that chose those it would allow passage.

She wondered if it had already chosen her.

Her most trusted guards were informed only of what was necessary—vigilance, secrecy, unwavering loyalty. In the end, even they would not know the truth of where she had gone.

There were moments, in the dark hours before dawn, when she stood before the gilded mirror in her chambers, staring at herself, wondering if she was already a ghost.

Would history remember her as the queen who abandoned her throne? Or would it forget her entirely?

Despite the growing tension, the queen maintained an exterior of serene composure. She fulfilled her royal duties with unwavering dedication—attending council meetings, mediating disputes among the nobility, and overseeing the affairs of the realm. Yet, her watchful eyes never strayed far from her sister.

Her sister's demeanor shifted subtly. Allies of questionable loyalty began to orbit her, their allegiances shifting like shadows in the fading light.

One night, as the moons cast a silver glow over the castle, the queen stood in her private chambers, a sense of unease settling over her. The air grew still, charged with an unseen energy. She turned to find Taliesin at the doorway, his expression grim.

"It is time," he said softly. "The coup is imminent. We must act."

Her heart quickened, but she remained steadfast. "Then we shall proceed as planned."

Gathering the necessary artifacts—a finely wrought chalice, the ancient tome, and her personal grimoire—the queen followed Taliesin to a secluded chamber atop the castle's tower. The room was illuminated by the soft glow of candles, their flames flickering by the breeze. Intricate runes adorned the stone walls and floor, pulsating faintly with latent magic.

At the chamber's center stood the altar, a masterpiece of craftsmanship carved from obsidian and inlaid with silver. The queen took her place before it, drawing a steadying breath as she began the ritual. Her voice rose in a melodic chant, weaving ancient words that resonated with power. The air thickened, and the runes around her ignited with ethereal light.

She lifted the chalice, filled with a shimmering elixir, and drank deeply. A surge of energy coursed through her veins, igniting every nerve with fire. The chalice slipped from her fingers, its contents spilling onto the altar and spreading like liquid starlight. The room vibrated with raw power—the very fabric of reality trembling.

Outside, the sky darkened as storm clouds gathered unnaturally fast. Thunder boomed, and lightning tore across the heavens. The heavy drapes were swept aside by a sudden gust, and the balcony doors flew open with a resounding crash. Before her, a rift began to form—a swirling vortex of light and shadow, tearing a seam in the world.

As it flickered with unstable light, the queen glimpsed more than just a boy. Shadows swirled around him, whispering secrets she could not yet decipher. The image wavered—one moment, he was only a child, eyes wide with innocence; the next, he stood with a sword in hand, blood streaked across his face, a kingdom burning at his back. But it was his eyes that held her still. Eyes filled with loss. With burden. With the weight of a throne not yet claimed.

A sharp pain lanced through her skull, and she staggered back. The Rift trembled violently, the vision unraveling before her. A warning? A promise? Fate did not offer clarity, only glimpses of what could be. But in that moment, she knew—if she stepped through this portal, she would become part of this boy's story, just as he would become part of hers.

Destiny had chosen them both. And she would not turn away.

The sounds of steel against steel filled the halls—the echoes of a kingdom unraveling. She gripped the grimoire tighter, her nails pressing into its worn leather cover. The weight of duty had always been heavy, but tonight, it was unbearable.

How had it come to this?

They had whispered to each other in the dark as children, two sisters dreaming of a future where they ruled together. When she ascended to the throne, they had sworn to lift each other up, to be different from the monarchs before them. But somewhere along the way, that promise had soured. First, it was the sharp glances across the council chamber. Then the veiled barbs hidden in conversation, like thorns wrapped in silk. And now, it was war.

Her sister had always craved more. More influence, more devotion, more power. The love in her heart had rotted long ago—replaced by something else. Something hungry. The crown had become a wedge between them, a chasm too deep to cross. But even now, part of her ached to believe this wasn't real. That the girl she had once shared a childhood with wasn't truly lost.

A crash from beyond the doors broke the thought. The barrier wouldn't hold for long.

"You must go, my queen!" Taliesin urged, urgency laced in his voice.

But she hesitated, casting one last glance toward the grand halls of her home. The place where she had laughed, ruled, loved. This was more than just a throne—it was a life, a past, a bond torn apart. And she would not be here to mend it. If she stepped through, she was leaving everything behind. Not just her kingdom, but the last remnants of the sister she had once known.

Her lips parted, but no words came. She had spent her life wielding wisdom like a blade, but there were no words sharp enough to cut through this grief. No spell strong enough to fix what had been broken.

"I will not beg," she murmured to the empty room. "I will not plead. You have made your choice, sister. And now, I make mine."

It trembled. The screams beyond the door grew louder. There was no more time for grief.

"Go!" Taliesin shouted, his magic flaring to hold back the enemy for a moment longer.

Casting one final glance at Taliesin—a silent promise that they would meet again.

She turned, resolve hardening. The past was gone. Only the future remained. Clutching her grimoire, she stepped into the unknown, her heart heavier than it had ever been.

The boy's image flickered throughout her—one moment a child, the next a man carrying a sword too heavy for his years. Memories rushed forward unbidden. A hand slipping from hers in the dark. A name lost to time, whispered only in dreams. She had failed once before. She could not—would not—fail again.

A nameless boy, running through fire, a sword gleaming in his grasp. She had awoken time and time again with the echoes of his name on her lips—though she had never known it. And for the first time, she understood—he was not just the kingdom's hope. He was hers.

The world she had known would be lost to her. Her kingdom. Her people. Even Taliesin. She had spent a lifetime fighting to hold her throne. Now she was choosing to leave it. A cruel twist of fate. But fate had never been kind to queens.

"I am coming for you," she whispered, falling through the abyss.

The transition was a maelstrom of sensation. She was enveloped by a torrent of colors and sounds, pulled through the currents of space and time. When she emerged, she stumbled onto solid ground, the air crisp and imbued with unfamiliar scents.

She stood amidst a world unlike any she had known. The sky was a clear expanse of blue, dotted with wisps of white clouds. Towering structures of glass and steel surrounded her, reaching toward the heavens. The sun reflected off their surfaces, casting dazzling patterns of light. The sounds were overwhelming—the constant hum of engines, the murmur of countless voices, the distant wail of sirens.

The ground beneath her feet was too smooth, too unnatural. Cold stone, but not the kind shaped by time—this was something else entirely, too perfect, too precise. The air was thick, but not with the hum of magic or the pulse of an ancient world. It was something duller, heavier. The scent of steel, oil, and something acrid clung to her lungs. A world without magic.

She reached out instinctively, expecting to feel the familiar hum beneath her fingertips. Nothing. No energy shifting through the currents, no ancestral force guiding her movements. It was like reaching for the wind and grasping only silence. Her breath hitched. It was losing a sense she had never lived without. A hollow feeling settled in her chest.

A strange beast rumbled past her, its body sleek and shining, its form unnatural. She tensed, magic flickering at her fingertips in reflex before she realized—it was not alive. Not a beast, but a machine. A carriage without horses. She turned sharply, taking in more of the world around her. Towering structures of glass and steel loomed above, their surfaces catching the dying light of the sun. People bustled past her, their steps brisk, their expressions indifferent. None of them noticed her. No one stopped to stare at her cloak, her robes, her presence. She was invisible.

She clenched her fists. In Avalon, her name was spoken with reverence. Here, she was nothing more than a shadow in the crowd.

A group of men stood at a street corner, light from a glowing sign casting flickering neon across their faces. Their conversation was strange—words spoken too quickly, phrases that made no sense. She caught fragments of their exchange— "power outage," "traffic jam," "Wi-Fi's down again"—but they might as well have been speaking an ancient dialect lost to time. The cadence of their voices was too clipped, too hurried, lacking the deliberate elegance of Avalon's tongue.

Everything moved faster here. The people, the machines, even the air itself seemed restless. There was no weight of history pressing upon the streets, no whisper of the past threading through the stones. No ghosts, no magic. Just the relentless, forward march of progress.

She felt small. Small in a way she had never been before.

"Adapt." The word was a command to herself, not a plea. She had left behind everything—her throne, her kingdom, even her name. But she had not left behind her will.

The Rift had not just taken her from one world to another. It had stripped her of power, of place, of certainty. She did not know if Albion would ever feel like home. But she had not come here to belong.

She had come here for him.

Taking a moment to steady herself, the queen adjusted her cloak, pulling the hood low over her face. Determined to navigate this new realm, she began to walk, her senses alert. The streets were a mosaic of sights and sounds—vendors peddling exotic goods, aromas of unfamiliar foods wafting through the air, vibrant displays of technology beyond her imagination.

As she moved through the throngs of people, she observed them keenly. Their attire was strange, their mannerisms brisk and purposeful. There was an undercurrent of urgency in their movements, as if they were perpetually racing against time. She felt a pang of isolation, a longing for the familiar comforts of her own world, but she steeled herself. Her mission was too important to be swayed by uncertainty.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. The queen adapted swiftly. She learned the customs and language of this world, her keen intellect absorbing information like a sponge. Her magic, once so potent, was muted here, but she discovered new ways to harness it—subtle, discreet methods that went unnoticed amidst the city's frenetic pace.

She watched over the boy from a distance, ensuring his safety as he navigated his own path. He was growing, each day bringing him closer to his destiny. She could sense the shadows that encroached upon him—the forces that sought to corrupt or destroy him. But she was vigilant, ready to intervene when necessary.

The boy did not know her name. Did not know she watched over him from the edges of his life, a ghost in a world that did not recognize her. Perhaps that was for the best. The weight of destiny was already heavy on his shoulders—what right did she have to make it heavier?

For years, she had lingered in the shadows of this realm, watching him. Studying him. Waiting for some sign that the prophecy had not been wrong. But he was… ordinary. No throne, no crown, no army at his command. Just a man navigating a world that did not demand kings.

She had expected something grander. Expected to see the echo of Avalon in him—the flicker of magic, the bearing of one destined for legend. But when she saw him rushing through crowded streets, laughing with strangers, standing beneath neon lights as if the world did not whisper his name in forgotten tongues… she faltered. Was he truly meant for more? Or had she thrown away her kingdom for nothing?

For the first time since stepping through the Rift, doubt coiled around her like a living thing. The prophecy had spoken of a Pendragon who would unite realms, who would wield a blade of fire and carve the path for the future. But what if fate had been mistaken? What if the boy she watched was never meant to be more than what he already was?

Her fingers twitched at her side, aching to reach for him. To reveal herself. To demand answers from destiny itself. But she hesitated. Once she stepped into his life, she would never be able to step out. Once he knew her, she could not undo that knowledge. And if she was wrong—if he was not the one Avalon had waited for—what then?

Her heart clenched. Albion had lived his whole life unburdened by the weight of kings and kingdoms. What right did she have to take that from him?

In Avalon, she had been a queen. Here, she was nothing. No crown. No power. No claim to his fate except for the whispers of an ancient prophecy that may have already been rewritten by time. Perhaps he was never meant to be a king. Perhaps she was never meant to be here at all.

The thought sent ice through her veins. Had she abandoned her throne for nothing? Had she doomed herself to wander this unfamiliar world, watching over a man who would never fulfill the future she had staked her life upon?

She exhaled sharply, forcing the doubt from her mind. She was not ready to answer those questions. Not yet.

For now, she would remain in the shadows. Watching. Waiting. But as she turned away from him once more, she could not ignore the growing unease inside her—the quiet voice whispering that perhaps, just perhaps, she was never meant to interfere at all.

One evening, she found herself standing on the edge of a magnificent bridge that spanned a vast expanse of water. The structure was a marvel of engineering, its sweeping arches and towering pylons bathed in the golden hues of the setting sun. The city skyline stretched out before her—a glittering array of lights that reflected off the tranquil waters below.

A gentle breeze carried the mingled scents of the sea and the rich aromas from nearby food stalls. The hum of the city was a constant backdrop—a symphony of life that was both chaotic and harmonious.

As she gazed out over the horizon, a sense of awe washed over her.

In this realm, she was no longer a queen draped in opulence and burdened by courtly duties. She was a guardian—a silent sentinel watching over the one who held the key to both their worlds' futures. The cloaked woman stood tall, her eyes reflecting the myriad lights of the city, a symbol of resilience and unwavering purpose.

As the stars began to emerge in the twilight sky, she felt a renewed determination. Whatever trials lay ahead, she would face them with courage and wisdom. The path was uncertain, but her resolve was unshakable. She stepped into the future, knowing that her path would soon cross with his. Somewhere ahead, the thread would tighten again—subtle, steady, in its own time.

Elsewhere, the University of Reading, nestled in the heart of England, was a picturesque blend of tradition and innovation. Medieval stone buildings draped in ivy stood alongside sleek, modern glass structures. Manicured lawns stretched out between them, dotted with ancient oaks and students immersed in study. It was the perfect backdrop for Albion's unique combination of scholarly intellect and intrepid exploration.

Albion's office was a disaster, but in his mind, it was organized chaos. Books on ancient civilizations, mythology, and unsolved mysteries were stacked like forgotten ruins. A half-eaten sandwich from God-knows-when teetered dangerously on top of a journal labeled "Hypothetical Curses and Their Logical Explanations." Empty coffee cups formed a small empire near the window, while a stained map of Mesopotamia was pinned to the wall with a knife—mostly because he'd lost all his push pins.

He sighed, running a hand through his tangled curls. How long had he been in here? His brain felt like it had been marinating in caffeine and unsolved riddles for the past three days.

"You're turning into one of those reclusive professors people write conspiracy theories about," he muttered to himself, rubbing his tired eyes.

He caught his reflection in the window, using the glass as a makeshift mirror. His blue eyes, usually bright with curiosity, were dimmed by exhaustion. Damn. He looked like an overworked librarian who moonlighted as a cryptid. His beard had crossed the line from rugged to "has he been living in a cave?", and his dark skin had lost its usual glow.

"Right. Time to rejoin civilization."

His gaze dropped to his sneakers—once-pristine white Air Jordans, now scuffed and dusty from his last adventure in the Peruvian jungle. That wouldn't do for his first official lecture. He rummaged through his belongings and pulled out a classic pair of limited-edition Nike Air Force Ones, his Uptowns, still in their box.

"Saved for a special occasion," he mused with a satisfied grin.

Realizing he hadn't showered in days, Albion gathered a clean set of clothes: his glasses, a crisp white shirt, tailored dark jeans, and the new sneakers. He headed to the faculty bathroom, which, to his relief, included a private shower.

He stripped off his worn-out hoodie and stepped into the faculty bathroom, sighing in relief as the hot water hit his back. The tension melted away, but his mind—his annoyingly restless mind—kept working.

"The Lost City of Z, the Labyrinth, the damn Voynich Manuscript, but I still can't figure out where my other sock disappears to every morning," he muttered.

His thoughts drifted as he lathered shampoo into his curls, absentmindedly humming a tune he barely remembered. Showers were one of the only places his brain slowed down. The only time when he wasn't chasing a mystery or uncovering a forgotten secret. But then again, what was the fun in slowing down?

Stepping out, he wiped the fogged-up mirror with his hand and assessed the damage. Better. Less cryptid, more human.He grabbed his razor and carefully cleaned up the edges—sharp, clean, professorial with just enough rogue adventurer to keep things interesting.

"Looking sharp," he muttered with approval, tossing on his glasses.

As he reached for his phone, it buzzed with a notification. A message from an unknown number flashed across the screen.

"Nice to meet you. You really should be more organized, you know."

Albion's stomach did an uneasy flip. He squinted at the text, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. Weird.

His first instinct was a prank. Then again, people usually pranked him by stuffing fake relics in his desk, not by sending cryptic messages. He stared at it for a second longer before deleting it with a shrug.

"Well, that's unsettling."

Grabbing his bag, he headed back to his office—unaware that the day was only going to get stranger.

The first thing he noticed was that the door to his office—the locked door—was slightly ajar. He pushed it open and froze.

The room was spotless. Not just "a little tidied up" spotless—museum-level clean. His books, which had been scattered in chaotic piles, were now arranged perfectly on the shelves. His artifacts were dusted, papers stacked neatly, and the empire of coffee cups? Gone. Even the knife in the map had been replaced with a proper push pin.

Albion slowly set his bag down, his brows furrowing. Someone had been here.

"Okay," he muttered, rubbing his temples. "Either I finally lost it, or I have a ghost with OCD."

He scanned the room, looking for anything missing or out of place—aside from the fact that everything was too in place. Then his gaze landed on his desk. Sitting there, impossibly pristine, was a brand-new outfit—a perfectly pressed navy blazer, a fresh white shirt, tailored trousers, and black leather boots.

"Alright. That's new."

Albion picked up the blazer, turning it over in his hands. Who the hell left this? His gut told him it wasn't just a friendly gesture from the cleaning staff. It was deliberate. A message.

"Wait—where the hell are my Uptowns?" Albion muttered, scanning the bench. His sneakers were nowhere in sight, replaced by the polished leather boots. He frowned, lifting one as if it might give him an answer.

"Did the cleaning staff decide I needed a style intervention?"

He glanced around, half-expecting to find a passive-aggressive note about "dressing like a professor, not an adventurer." But there was nothing—just the eerily pristine room and an outfit that wasn't his.

As he strode into the lecture hall, he could feel eyes on him. Whispers followed his steps.

"That's him, right?"

"Albion Bell?"

"Wait—the Albion Bell? The guy who found the Labyrinth?"

He smirked slightly. He'd never get used to that.

The usual murmur of disinterest filled the room—students half-listening, scrolling through their phones, waiting for him to say something forgettable. He set his notes aside and leaned against the podium casually.

"Let's play a game," he announced. "Who here believes in lost cities?"

The students exchanged glances. A few raised hands. Others snickered.

"Okay, let's make it harder—who believes in lost cities that are actually real?"

A voice in the back scoffed. "Like Atlantis?Please."

Albion grinned. Hook, line, and sinker.

"Atlantis is a fun story," he admitted. "But let's talk about something real. Who here has heard of the Lost City of Z?"

The class quieted. A few heads tilted, curiosity sparking.

"Wasn't that the city Percy Fawcett searched for?" someone called out.

"Exactly," Albion said, snapping his fingers. "A legendary city, hidden in the Amazon. Many believed it was a myth—until two years ago, when my team and I found evidence of its existence."

Silence. Then a ripple of excitement spread through the room.

"Wait, you're Albion Bell?" a student near the back blurted.

"The guy who found the tomb of the Warrior Queen?" another added.

"And deciphered the Voynich Manuscript?"

"Didn't you also uncover the lost Labyrinth of Crete?"

Albion chuckled, lifting his hands in surrender. "Alright, alright—before you start asking if I found El Dorado, let's get back to the point."

He saw them now—leaning forward, engaged. This was why he loved teaching.

Each story was rich with danger, intrigue, and the thrill of discovery. The students listened, captivated. Albion described how myths and legends often held grains of truth, guiding him to real world discoveries that challenged historical understanding.

"The world is full of mysteries waiting to be uncovered," he told them. "Archaeology isn't just about studying the past—it's about connecting with the stories that make us who we are."

Midway through, the lecture hall door opened quietly. A woman entered, her presence commanding yet understated. She wore a long black cloak adorned with intricate Celtic patterns. Her dark auburn hair framed her face, and her emerald, green eyes scanned the room before settling on Albion. She moved gracefully to a seat by the window in the front row, her boots echoing softly against the floor.

Albion's gaze met hers briefly—a flicker of recognition, though he couldn't place from where. He continued his lecture, but her presence lingered in his thoughts.

As the class progressed, the students became increasingly engaged, asking insightful questions and discussing theories. The energy in the room was electric.

Nearing the end of the session, Albion decided to address the mysterious newcomer.

"I see I am not the only new addition today," he said, looking directly at her. "Would you like to introduce yourself?"

She met his gaze steadily, her emerald eyes unreadable. "No, thank you," she replied softly.

The students exchanged glances, intrigued by her enigmatic response.

"Very well," Albion said, his curiosity deepening. "You're welcome anytime."

As the lecture concluded, students gathered their things, many lingering to speak with Albion or snap a quick photo. He answered their questions graciously, but his thoughts kept returning to the woman.

After the hall had mostly cleared, he noticed she was gone. Glancing out the window, he caught a glimpse of her cloak disappearing around a corner.

"Who exactly are you?" he wondered aloud. He packed his satchel and headed back to his office. The day's strange occurrences weighed on him—the unexpected text message, the cleaned office, the new clothes, the stolen Uptowns, and now this mysterious woman.

Unlocking his office door, he found a small note placed on his desk. In elegant handwriting, it read: "See you soon."

Albion sat down heavily, the note trembling slightly in his hands.

"Looks like the adventure isn't over yet," he murmured.