Chapter 4: Echoes in the Dark

The city hummed around him—distant car horns, the occasional bark of a stray dog, the shuffle of someone locking their shop for the night. The wind carried the faint scent of rain on the horizon, mingled with the greasy aroma of a food truck that had just closed up for the evening. The world moved as it always did, people going about their lives, unaware that something in his had shifted.

Albion barely noticed any of it. His mind was tangled in the events of the day—the cryptic note in his office, the eerie precision with which his workspace had been cleaned, the feeling that something unseen was moving around him, nudging him toward… what?

"Coincidence," he muttered under his breath, but even he didn't believe it.

Coincidences didn't feel like this. Coincidences didn't sit in your chest like a weight, pressing down every time you tried to brush them off.

The autumn air nipped at his skin, crisp and unforgiving. He pulled his coat tighter, quickening his pace, suddenly aware of the way the night pressed in around him. The campus streets were mostly empty at this hour, aside from the occasional silhouette moving behind illuminated windows. Shadows stretched under flickering streetlights, and he had the odd, nagging feeling that he wasn't alone—though every time he glanced over his shoulder, there was nothing but empty pavement.

He wasn't used to feeling on edge.

Normally, his mind worked in patterns and logic. He could rationalize things, break them down, find the root of a problem and trace it back until the answer revealed itself. That's what he did—unravel mysteries, not become one.

But tonight? Tonight, everything felt… off.

Maybe it was exhaustion. He hadn't slept properly in days, running on caffeine, adrenaline, and the kind of restless energy that made long-term consequences feel like a problem for future Albion. Maybe it was his own damn paranoia, fueled by too many nights spent buried in ancient myths about fate and prophecy, about people being chosen by forces beyond their understanding.

Or maybe—maybe it was something else.

His fingers twitched at his sides, resisting the urge to reach for his phone. To call someone. To hear another voice. To confirm that he wasn't imagining this. But who would he even call?

"Hey, weird question, but do you ever get the sense that reality is about to tilt sideways?"

Yeah, that'd go over well.

Albion let out a slow breath, rubbing the tension from the back of his neck as he approached his apartment building. His steps echoed against the pavement, and for some reason, it made him feel too loud, like the night was listening.

The thought unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

Reaching his place, Albion ascended into the quiet stairwell, the solitude amplifying his introspection. His apartment was a mess—but it was his mess. The kind of mess that told a story.

Books were scattered across the floor, left exactly where he'd last needed them. A stack on the coffee table teetered precariously, one already sliding off the edge, as if it had given up. The sink held a half-hearted attempt at meal prep—a cutting board, a knife, a few wilted vegetables—evidence that at some point, he'd intended to cook before getting distracted. The intention was still there, preserved in time, waiting for him to finish something he knew he never would.

His suitcase from his last trip was still lying open by the door, a casualty of procrastination, its contents spilling onto the floor like a suitcase had simply collapsed from exhaustion alongside him. His laptop bag was slumped against the couch, its zipper still open, papers sticking out at odd angles—unfinished work, half-formed ideas, unanswered emails.

"Home sweet home," he muttered, dropping his keys on the counter. He rolled his shoulders, the stiffness in his neck a reminder of just how long he'd been running on fumes.

He stepped out of his sneakers, leaving them where they landed by the couch—where they would inevitably stay until he tripped over them in the dark one night and swore about it for five minutes. But that was a problem forfuture Albion.

Right now, he needed a drink.

He moved to the kitchenette and reached for the whiskey. He poured two fingers, neat—anything else took too much effort. Ice meant getting a glass from the cabinet, cracking open the freezer, waiting for the drink to dilute. A mixer? He didn't have one, unless cold coffee from this morning counted, and that would just be an insult to both the whiskey and himself.

He took the first sip, the warmth spreading through his chest, but it didn't settle him. If anything, it just made him more aware—of the silence, of the nagging unease in his gut, of the fact that something felt wrong, even though nothing had changed.

He wasn't used to this feeling. Being unsettled.

Albion was the one who solved things, put the pieces together, found the answers. But tonight, he was the question with no clear solution. A loose thread in his own life, pulling at the seams, waiting to unravel.

His fingers tapped idly against the glass, a slow, rhythmic sound filling the space. He exhaled, long and slow, before sinking onto the couch. His body ached—not just with tiredness, but with something deeper. The kind of exhaustion that wasn't just physical, but mental. The kind that settled into your bones.

Just a few minutes, he told himself.

Just long enough to let the noise in his head settle.

The whiskey glass rested loosely in his grip. The apartment around him blurred at the edges.

Then, before he could fight it, sleep took him.

The music came first—deep, low, resonant—not just sound, but sensation. It vibrated through his ribs, curled into the marrow of his bones, like a heartbeat that wasn't his own. Then came the golden glow, warm and flickering, moving like candlelight caught in a slow breeze, casting elongated shadows across polished mahogany and deep crimson upholstery. The scent of aged whiskey and something faintly floral—jasmine?—hung in the air, heady and intoxicating.

Albion turned, blinking against the haze. He knew this place.

Except he didn't.

The lounge stretched around him, elegant yet intimate, the kind of place where whispered secrets were worth more than the drinks served. Conversations hummed at the edges of his hearing, indistinct yet familiar, like words just out of reach. Reality felt softened, like the world had been dipped in amber—preserved, but not entirely real.

He glanced down.

A glass was in his hand.

Whiskey. No ice. The rich amber liquid caught the glow of the lights overhead. The weight of it was familiar, as if he had done this a thousand times before, though he was certain he never had. His fingers curled around the glass, the cool surface grounding him even as his surroundings shifted.

Then, the change.

It wasn't movement. It was something deeper.

A shift in gravity. A ripple through the air. Not a gust of wind, not a presence in the physical sense—something else. Like the universe had leaned in.

And then, she stepped into the room.

Albion's breath hitched, sharp and unbidden.

She didn't walk. She arrived.

Dark auburn hair cascaded over her shoulders in loose, effortless waves, catching the dim light like strands of polished copper. Emerald eyes flickered with something unreadable—depth, danger, knowing—but it wasn't just the way she looked. It was the way the room adjusted to her presence, the way she moved like she belonged to the world in ways no one else did.

Albion had no reason to react to her. And yet, he did.

A pull. A thread tightening between them, stretching across the space like an unseen current. Like recognition before memory.

"Good evening," she said, her voice rich, smooth—velvet wrapped around steel.

"Evening," he responded automatically, though his brain was still catching up.

Who was she?

More importantly—why did she feel like a memory he hadn't yet lived?

The room blurred at the edges, and yet she remained sharp, clear, vivid.

"What can I get for you?"

A flicker of something in her eyes, amusement, curiosity—as if she had been waiting for him to say exactly that.

"Surprise me," she murmured.

Albion exhaled slowly, his grip tightening around the glass in his hand. There was something about her—something inevitable.

And that terrified him.

He nodded, reaching for a bottle of aged Scotch. "A woman of mystery," he mused, measuring the amber liquid into a glass. "I hope this meets your approval."

As he set the drink before her, their fingers brushed—a fleeting touch that sent a subtle warmth coursing through him.

She raised the glass, her eyes never leaving his. "To new encounters," she toasted softly before taking a sip. "Smooth," she remarked, placing the glass down gently.

Albion leaned forward slightly. "I'm glad you approve. Albion, by the way."

"Adelaide," she replied, the name rolling off her tongue like a secret revealed.

"Adelaide," he echoed, tasting the name. "It suits you."

A delicate arch of her brow accompanied her smile. "You think so?"

He shrugged lightly, a hint of a grin playing on his lips. "There's an elegance about it. Timeless, much like yourself."

She regarded him thoughtfully. "You have a way with words, Albion. Is that something you practice, or does it come naturally?"

He chuckled softly. "A bit of both, I suppose. But truthfully, I'm not usually this forward."

"Perhaps it's the atmosphere," she suggested, her gaze drifting around the room before settling back on him. "Or perhaps there's something else at play."

"You seem familiar," Albion admitted, because she did. Not just her face, but her presence. The way the air seemed to shift around her, how the background noise of the lounge had softened the moment she walked in.

She tilted her head slightly, studying him like she already knew something he didn't. "Not in this lifetime," she murmured, the words slipping from her lips like a quiet secret.

Albion exhaled a quiet laugh, but his chest felt tight, like something inside him had just pulled taut.

"What does that even mean?" he asked, trying to keep his voice light, but there was a weight behind her words, an intentionality. It wasn't the answer itself that unnerved him—it was the way she said it, like she wasn't just playing with him, but reminding him of something.

She didn't answer right away. Instead, she lifted her glass, taking a slow sip, watching him over the rim.

"Do you think all of this—" she gestured subtly around them "—is just coincidence?"

Albion snorted, leaning back slightly. "You're asking the wrong guy. I barely believe in my morning alarm, let alone fate."

But as he said it, something inside him twisted, a flicker of doubt. Because this didn't feel like coincidence. This felt arranged, like two puzzle pieces sliding together, fitting too well to be random.

"No?" She set her drink down, resting her chin lightly against her fingers as she regarded him. "Then what do you believe in?"

"Choices," he said without hesitation.

She smiled, as if she had been expecting that answer. "And yet, sometimes choices bring us to the same place, over and over again."

The way she said it made his skin prickle.

Albion leaned forward slightly, the air between them charged with something he couldn't name.

"Alright, I'll bite. What exactly do you think this is, then? Fate? Destiny?"

She didn't break eye contact. "A pattern."

A shiver ran through him, though the room was warm.

He searched her expression, looking for a tell—something that would ground this conversation in logic, in reality, in anything other than the quiet, impossible feeling that she was right.

"That's vague," he pointed out.

"Intentionally."

Albion let out a breath that was almost a laugh, shaking his head. "And I thought I was good at dodging questions."

"Oh, you are," she said, smiling now, but there was something behind it—like she could see through him, past the words, to the things he wasn't saying. "But you don't dodge all of them. Just the ones that matter."

That hit somewhere deep. Somewhere too real, too accurate.

He could have laughed it off. He should have.

But instead, he just watched her, his fingers tightening around the glass, trying to figure out if this was just a conversation or something bigger—something waiting for him to realize it had already begun.

"But sometimes, paths cross in ways that feel... meant to be."

She nodded, a hint of approval in her expression. "Wise words for someone so young."

He smirked. "You make me sound like a child."

"On the contrary," she said, her voice lowering. "I see a man who carries the weight of many lifetimes."

Albion felt a shiver run through him. "You speak as if you know me."

"In some ways, I do," Adelaide said, reaching out to lightly touch his hand. "And I think you feel it too."

The warmth of her touch was grounding yet electrifying. He looked down at their hands, her skin soft against his. "There's something about you," he confessed. "Something I can't explain."

"Then don't try to," she whispered. "Some things are beyond explanation."

She stepped closer, the space between them narrowing. Albion could feel her breath, the subtle scent of jasmine enveloping him.

"Adelaide..." he began, his voice barely audible.

She placed a finger against his lips, silencing him gently. "No words," she murmured. "Just this moment."

Her hand moved to his cheek; her touch tender yet filled with an unspoken intensity. Albion's heart pounded in his chest as he leaned into her palm. Time seemed to slow as she inclined her head, her lips hovering near his. With a hesitant breath, he closed the remaining distance. Their lips met softly at first, a tentative exploration that quickly deepened as mutual longing surfaced.

The kiss was profound, transcending mere physicality. It was as if their souls recognized one another, weaving together in an intricate dance. Adelaide's fingers threaded through his dark hair, pulling him closer, while Albion's arms encircled her waist, anchoring them in this shared reality.

Breaking the kiss, she rested her forehead against his, her eyes closed. "I've waited so long for this," she confessed, her voice tinged with emotion.

Albion's thumb brushed her cheek. "I don't understand," he admitted. "But I feel it too."

She pulled back slightly, her emerald eyes meeting his with a mix of urgency and sincerity. "There's so much you need to know, Albion. So much that has been hidden from you."

"Then tell me," he urged softly. "Help me understand."

"All in due time," she promised. "But for now, you must wake up."

He blinked, confusion knitting his brow. "Wake up?"

Adelaide stepped back, the warmth of her body leaving him. The surroundings began to blur, the vibrant colors fading into shades of gray.

"Find me," she said, her voice echoing as if from a distance. "Your journey is just beginning."

Albion's breath caught as she faded into mist. He reached for her, desperate, but the moment was already slipping through his fingers, dissolving like smoke in the wind.

"Wait—"

His voice echoed—through the dream, through the empty space where she had been—then everything shattered.

His eyes snapped open.

A sharp inhale—his own breath dragging him back into reality. His pulse pounded against his ribs, his skin too warm, too aware, like he had been pulled from something real.

And then, the light.

His apartment was lit up like a damn stadium—every lamp, every fixture burning bright. The glow was too harsh, too artificial, washing the room in an unnatural white that made his eyes ache. He winced, lifting a hand to shield his face, his breath still uneven, his chest tight with something he didn't have a name for.

Just a dream. Just a dream. Just—

His hands clenched the sheets.

Wait. The sheets.

His stomach dropped.

He wasn't on his couch.

His bed was beneath him. The sheets were crisp, untouched before now, smelling faintly of fabric softener and something sterile, something new. He ran a hand over the material, slow, deliberate. It was real.

But it shouldn't be.

He sat up, his breath shallower now, eyes flicking wildly across the room. Everything was wrong—not just the lights, not just the bed, but the stillness. The air had that charged, heavy quality, like a room that had been occupied just moments before but was now empty.

His gaze landed on the dresser, and his breath stalled.

A note.

Placed neatly beside the lamp. Crisp, folded, deliberate. Waiting for him.

He stared at it for a long moment, his mind lagging behind his body, the sensation in his chest turning from confusion to a deep, unsettling knowing.

His fingers closed around the paper, and as he unfolded it, his pulse roared in his ears.

"Albion, find me."

— Adelaide

The air in the room was still. Too still.

His own pulse was the loudest thing in the silence, hammering in his throat, in his wrists, like his body was reacting to something his mind hadn't caught up with yet.

He exhaled, slowly, rubbing a hand over his face, but the sensation wouldn't leave him.

The lingering warmth of her touch—the way her fingers had traced over his skin, the whisper of her lips against his.

The faintest taste of something he couldn't name still on his mouth.

Too real.

"Too real," he murmured, his own voice hoarse.

He sat there for a moment, the weight of it all pressing against him. Reality felt thinner now. Like it had been pulled apart, stitched back together, but not quite right.

He should have shaken it off. He should have rationalized it.

Instead, he swallowed hard, pushing himself to his feet.

He didn't know what the hell was happening.

But he knew one thing for certain.

He needed answers.

Quickly dressing, Albion grabbed his coat and keys. There was only one place he could think to go at this hour—his office at the university. If there were clues to be found, they would be there.

As he stepped into the quiet night, the crisp air filled his lungs, sharpening his senses. The city slept around him, unaware of the silent awakening happening within.

Adelaide's words echoed in his mind: "Find me."

And so, he set off into the darkness, guided by a newfound purpose and the lingering touch of a woman who seemed to transcend the boundaries of reality.

Back at Uni, the door to Albion's office stood slightly ajar, a thin band of moonlight spilling in, casting a pale glow across the worn wooden floor. He didn't remember leaving it open.

His chest tightened. Something was off.

The air was thick—too thick—as if the room itself was holding its breath, waiting. The scent of old books, parchment, and polished wood remained, but beneath it lurked something else, something strange. The kind of strange that didn't have a shape or a sound but still made the skin on his arms prickle.

He hesitated on the threshold. His instincts told him not to go in.

Shadows stretched unnaturally across the walls, longer than they should be, distorting and twisting like living things. They moved. Not much—just enough to be noticed in his peripheral vision, shifting as though the room itself was aware of him.

His pulse spiked.

He knew this room. Every creaking floorboard, every uneven shelf. He had spent years in this space, yet now… it felt foreign.

The hum of the city outside—the usual distant sound of cars and voices—had disappeared. The silence was unnatural, pressing in on him, as though he had stepped outside of time.

Then, he saw it.

A figure sat in his chair, back turned toward him, facing the window.

Albion's breath caught.

The posture was too familiar.

Slumped. Exhausted.

The exact way he sat after long nights of research, when exhaustion settled into his bones. The slight forward lean, one elbow likely resting on the desk, a position of weariness Albion had seen in himself too many times.

It was him.

Or something trying to be.

A wave of nausea rolled through him, his body reacting before his mind could catch up.

Then—heat.

A sharp sting burned into his forearm, making him flinch.

Albion yanked up his sleeve.

The runes were glowing.

The symbols—etched into his skin since childhood, unreadable yet undeniably his—flared to life, pulsing like a second heartbeat.

They had never done this before.

His breathing turned shallow. His office. His chair. His reflection—but not.

A whisper of air behind him.

A shift, a subtle presence.

He turned sharply—and there she was.

Adelaide.

Standing in the moonlight, her emerald eyes cutting through the dark like twin blades.

Watching him. Waiting.

And Albion, for the first time in a long time, felt like prey.

Her presence was almost playful, but it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end—not from fear, but from something else he couldn't quite name. His heart lurched as it filled the room, pressing against him like a wave of heat. The air seemed to shift around them, thickening with something unspoken, something he couldn't quite grasp.

She's too close. He could feel the warmth radiating from her body, the scent of jasmine and something earthy, intoxicating, filling the space between them. Each time she was near, the logic in his brain fizzled out, replaced by the undeniable pull of her.

She stood in the soft moonlight, her emerald eyes cutting through the dark like twin flames, illuminating the space between them. Her presence wasn't just striking—it was wrong in the way that beautiful things sometimes were, like the sharp edge of a blade glinting under candlelight.

"Albion."

His name slipped from her lips in a way that made his skin prickle, curling around him like an unseen force. It wasn't just the sound of it—it was the way she said it. Like she was tasting it, remembering it. Like she had been waiting to say it aloud.

His jaw tightened, masking the unease with something sharper, familiar—sarcasm. "Nice trick," he muttered, rolling his shoulders as if that would shake off the sensation of her voice settling into his bones. His own words sounded hollow in the thick air.

Adelaide took a step forward, slow, deliberate. The long cloak shifted around her legs, her movements too smooth, too controlled—like someone who had long since mastered the art of appearing where they shouldn't be. Like she belonged in the dark.

"Breaking into my office now?" he quipped, forcing a smirk, "Thought you preferred grander entrances."

"I didn't break in." She tilted her head slightly, watching him with an intensity that felt almost clinical, like she was studying him. Measuring him. "I walked in. Same as you."

Her voice carried something dangerous. Something undeniable.

A chill rolled down his spine, the same feeling he got when he stepped too close to the edge of something he couldn't see the bottom of.

"Right." He scoffed, shifting his weight to the side—casual, controlled—but even as he said it, even as the words left his lips, he knew she wasn't lying.

The problem was, she didn't need to lie.

Albion clenched his jaw, forcing himself to hold her gaze. She wasn't afraid of him. If anything, it was the opposite. There was no smugness, no arrogance—just that same steady, knowing look.

She wasn't sizing him up. She had already decided where he fit into all of this.

That realization unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

"What do you need?" His voice was sharper than he intended.

Adelaide's lips twitched—not quite a smirk, but something close. "You already know my answer."

Albion let out a short laugh, but there was no humor in it. "I really don't."

"Don't you?"

Her head tilted again, and something in the air between them crackled—not with sound, but with energy, like the moment before a thunderstorm.

The heat in his forearm flared again, the runes pulsing beneath his skin, reacting to her like iron pulled toward a magnet. He resisted the urge to rub at them, to acknowledge what his body already knew but his mind refused to process.

"You feel it," she said, almost casually, like she was stating a fact instead of upending his entire understanding of reality. "That pull. The weight in your chest. The way the air shifts when I step closer."

She took another step, and the sensation intensified—not painful, but pressure. Presence. Awareness.

Albion swallowed, throat dry. He didn't like this.

Didn't like that she was right.

Didn't like that she was standing too close, but he hadn't moved away.

Her voice dropped slightly, a lower register, something more dangerous. "You know who you are, Albion. Even if you don't want to admit it yet."

He exhaled slowly, trying to steady his breathing, his thoughts, anything. "If you're here to tell me I'm 'special,' you can save it. I'm a history professor. That's it."

"History professor." She echoed the words like they were an old joke. "And yet, your past follows you like a shadow, doesn't it? It calls to you in ways you can't explain. Why is that?"

His pulse jumped.

No.

No, she didn't get to say that.

Albion took a step back, breaking whatever invisible tether had tightened between them. "You don't know me."

"Don't I?"

Her emerald eyes gleamed in the dim light, unwavering.

For the first time since she had appeared in his office, Albion was the one who looked away first.

And he hated that.

She moved closer, the scent of jasmine and something older, something elemental brushing against him. Not overpowering, but there, curling into the air between them, settling in his lungs like something permanent.

His pulse quickened.

He hated this too.

Hated the way she made him question everything. Hated the way she stood too close, like she belonged there, like she had already decided something he hadn't. Hated the way his body reacted before his brain could shut it down.

Albion took a step back. Just enough to put space between them, but not enough to break the pull.

"You need to understand who you are," she said, her voice low. Not pleading. Not instructing. Stating.

His exhale was sharp, clipped. Like he was trying to force the conversation into something manageable. "And here I thought we were getting straight to the cryptic bullshit."

A smile tugged at the corner of her lips. Damn her.

That same knowing look. She had already seen exactly how this would play out.

"Magic, destiny—whatever this is, it doesn't fix anything," he muttered, raking a hand through his hair. He was unraveling. He could hear it in his own voice, feel it in the weight pressing against his ribs. "It doesn't bring anyone back."

Something flickered in Adelaide's expression.

Just for a second.

A crack in her composure, a moment where she understood exactly what he meant.

"No, it doesn't." Her voice softened, but it didn't waver. "But it can stop more from being lost."

The words hit harder than they should have.

Albion's jaw clenched, his throat tightened—because that wasn't fair. That wasn't fair.

"Stop more from being lost." Like the universe worked that way. Like magic had ever been a fair trade.

He looked away, jaw flexing as he swallowed back a dozen things he wasn't ready to say.

She couldn't know what it was like.

To have everything you knew, everyone you loved, slip through your fingers before you even had the chance to hold on.

To be six years old, staring at the flames that had swallowed his childhood home, knowing that everything inside it—his father, his mother's last letters, every piece of his life—was turning to ash.

To be told later that it was an accident, that he was lucky to be alive.

To grow up wondering if that was true.

His fingers curled into fists at his sides, his breath uneven, but Adelaide wasn't looking at him like she pitied him.

She was watching him.

Letting him feel it.

Letting him fight it.

A moment stretched between them, charged with something neither of them spoke aloud.

Then, she moved.

It was subtle—the slight lift of her hand, fingers barely brushing forward, reaching toward his arm, toward the runes still pulsing beneath his skin.

She hesitated.

Her fingertips hovered just inches from him, as if she had done this before, as if she had memorized the shape of his presence, the way energy moved around him.

Albion saw it.

Saw the way she almost touched him but didn't.

And somehow, that was worse.

Because he felt it anyway.

Felt the pull, the warmth, the quiet weight of what it would mean if she actually made contact.

But she didn't.

She pulled back.

Her fingers curled into a loose fist, and her expression hardened just slightly, as if she was reminding herself why she shouldn't.

Albion swallowed against the pressure in his throat, pretending he hadn't noticed, pretending it hadn't meant anything.

"You talk like you know me," he muttered, his voice rougher than before. "Like you know anything about me."

"I know enough," she said simply.

"Then you should know I don't want this."

He gestured vaguely, to the space between them, to the magic simmering under his skin, to the pull he refused to acknowledge.

"What you want doesn't matter."

The words weren't cruel. They weren't even sharp. They just were.

Albion let out a dry laugh, running a hand down his face. "Fantastic. Thanks for that. Truly profound."

Her expression didn't change. She let him have his sarcasm, but it didn't break through her certainty.

"You don't have to believe me, Albion," she said, tilting her head slightly. "But you feel it. That much, I know."

Albion exhaled sharply through his nose, turning away from her, dragging a hand through his curls. He didn't have an answer for that.

Because she wasn't wrong.

And that terrified him.

He took a deep breath, the weight of her words pressing down on him. Albion's voice cracked slightly, frustration rising with every word. "I didn't ask for this. I didn't ask for magic, or destiny, or… whatever this is. I just wanted to be left alone," Albion snapped, his voice sharp, but even as the words left his mouth, he knew they rang hollow.

Adelaide took another step forward, her presence both reassuring and commanding. Her voice bore into his thoughts. "Trust isn't something you get to wait for, Albion. Not here, not now. You either leap, or you fall."

He met her eyes, searching for any hint of deceit. "And what if I refuse?"

"Then you'll continue living in ignorance, unable to unlock your true potential. The truth will remain hidden, and so will your purpose."

Albion felt the runes on his arm pulse with a gentle warmth, the symbols resonating with a silent energy. Albion exhaled sharply, his gaze flicking to the door, then back to Adelaide. "You act like I'm supposed to be some kind of hero, but all I feel is… lost."

"You will," she insisted, reaching out to place a hand on his shoulder. Her touch was lighter than he expected, but it sent a ripple through him, a warmth that spread across his chest and settled low in his stomach. Her fingers lingered, tracing the edge of his collarbone for just a second longer than necessary. Albion tensed, unsure if the pull he felt was from magic or something else entirely.

"I'm asking you to trust yourself—because you must. Every second we waste, someone else pays the price."

Albion could feel the heat of her body, the soft brush of her cloak against his arm as she inched closer, her presence like a weight he couldn't shake. His every nerve in his body suddenly hyper-aware of how close she was.

How can I trust myself when I can't even trust what I feel right now?

He stepped back, breaking the contact. The space felt colder now, emptier, but it gave him a second to breathe. He needed to keep his distance, needed to keep his mind clear, but she had a way of making that impossible.

He moved toward the door.

It should have been easy.

One step.

Then two.

But something shifted.

The atmosphere pressed—not like a gust of wind, not like an unseen force slamming into him, but something more insidious, more deliberate. A slow, creeping resistance that curled into his limbs, pressing against his skin like a hand flattening against his chest, holding him in place.

His breath hitched.

No.

He pushed forward—or tried to.

Something pushed back.

It wasn't forceful. That was the worst part. It was soft, like water thickening around him, like the weight of a tide pulling at his legs, slowing him incrementally, inch by inch.

His fingers flexed. His pulse hammered.

This wasn't right.

His body was fighting against the weight of nothing, his muscles tensed as if they were bound by chains that weren't there.

"You're wasting your energy," Adelaide murmured.

Her voice was too calm, too assured.

His teeth clenched.

"Let me guess. Magic?"

"You say it like it's something separate from you,"she said, studying him, measuring him.

"It is," Albion exhaled sharply, frustration curling into his ribs. "That's cheating."

"Survival isn't fair, Albion."

He turned toward her, every breath a little sharper now, the air around them too still, too charged.

Moonlight pooled along the angles of her face, highlighting the sharp cut of her cheekbones, the soft curve of her lips. But it was her eyes that held him still—watching, waiting, patient as a predator.

A slow burn crawled up his forearm.

Albion's stomach twisted as he looked down.

The runes were pulsing.

Like a heartbeat that wasn't his.

Like a thing waking up.

Adelaide's gaze flickered to them, but she didn't look surprised.

She looked expectant.

"You feel it, don't you?" she asked, voice steady. "Like something waking up inside you?"

Albion swallowed hard.

Of course he felt it.

He had always felt it.

The fire under his skin. The weight in his chest. The way his own body reacted before his mind could shut it down.

But he had never let himself acknowledge it.

And now, he didn't have a choice.

The room felt too small. Not physically—something deeper than that. Like the walls themselves were pushing in, like he was on the verge of slipping into something irreversible.

"No." The word came out sharper than he meant.

Adelaide raised a brow. "No?"

"I don't care what this is supposed to mean." His jaw tightened, his voice gaining ground even as his breath felt unsteady. "I don't care about magic. Or fate. Or runes that burn when you show up and start talking like you know me."

A flicker of something passed over her face.

Not anger. Not amusement. Something else.

"You think I want this?" His voice was lower now, rougher. "Do you have any idea how much I've built to keep this kind of shit out of my life? You don't get to just—just walk in here and decide it's time for me to be someone else."

The moment stretched.

And then—she moved.

Not toward him.

Past him.

She circled him slowly, and the way she did it made something in him go tight. She wasn't threatening. She wasn't angry.

She was assessing.

Like she had seen a thousand versions of this conversation before.

"You're right about one thing," she said at last. "I don't get to decide this for you."

His breath stalled.

"But neither do you."

The weight of the words hit like a fist.

Albion didn't realize he had been clenching his teeth until his jaw ached.

His entire life—every decision, every careful, deliberate step he had taken—was because of one thing.

Control.

And now, this woman—this stranger who knew too much and spoke like she had seen inside his head—was telling him it wasn't his to hold.

He let out a sharp laugh, raw and humorless.

"That's bullshit."

"Is it?"

Adelaide stopped in front of him again. Her hands were loose at her sides. Not defensive, not combative.

Waiting. Still waiting.

For him to understand something he wasn't ready to.

He let out a slow breath, shaking his head, running a hand down his face.

"If I walk away, what happens?" His voice was quieter now, edged with something that tasted too much like doubt.

Adelaide studied him, then nodded toward the door.

"Try."

His stomach knotted.

He turned toward it again, forcing his legs to move.

One step.

Two.

Three.

The air closed in.

Like the room itself was bracing against him, pushing back.

His muscles locked, his breath hitching.

No.

No, this was—

He pushed forward. Harder.

His hands pressed against the door.

And it wouldn't open.

Wouldn't even move.

His throat went tight.

"Magic," he told himself, pressing harder, shoulders tense.

"Then break it."

Adelaide's voice was quiet.

He turned back to her, pulse hammering.

She didn't gloat. She didn't smirk.

She just watched.

"You can't, can you?"

Albion exhaled sharply, hands dragging through his hair. "What do you want from me?"

"I want you to listen."

Her voice was even. Steady.

"Because whether you fight it or not, Albion—fate has already caught up to you."

And the worst part?

It already had.

He hesitated, the underlying tension between them making it difficult to pull away or fully engage. His outward facade of defiance masked the tumultuous emotions brewing inside him. Albion's eyes flicked to the floor before meeting hers again, uncertainty threading his voice.

"What if you're wrong?"

Albion's voice was quiet now, almost raw. The sharp edges had been chipped away, leaving something more vulnerable beneath.

"What if trusting you gets me killed?"

Adelaide's gaze didn't waver. She didn't try to convince him.

"Then don't trust me."

She lifted a hand, and the world shifted.

The door behind her—the one that had always led to his office, to normalcy, to everything he thought he understood—changed.

Runes carved themselves into the wood, curling and twisting, forming symbols Albion had never been able to read but had always known.

He stiffened.

Something inside him stirred, something that recognized what his mind had spent years rejecting.

Then, the portal rippled into existence.

It wasn't just light—not the kind of sterile, divine glow depicted in mythology. It wasn't just shadow, either. It was both—interwoven, tangled, flickering like a living thing. It breathed, pulsing in rhythm with something unseen, something ancient.

Albion's breath stilled in his chest.

He felt it.

The pull.

Like standing at the edge of a storm, knowing it would swallow him the moment he stepped forward.

Adelaide turned to him, her expression unreadable.

She didn't beckon. She didn't demand.

She simply stepped aside.

"This is your moment, Albion."

His stomach twisted.

It should have been easy. A rational choice. Weigh the risks, calculate the outcome, decide.

But for the first time in his life, logic wasn't enough.

Because logic told him to turn back.

To return to the life he had built—to his office, to his lectures, to his whiskey-drenched evenings where the past didn't claw at him the way it did now.

If he walked away, he could pretend this night never happened.

Could pretend he didn't feel his own blood singing in response to the runes on the door.

Could pretend he wasn't already caught in something too big to escape.

Albion's hands clenched at his sides.

This isn't real. It can't be real.

But deep down—somewhere primal, somewhere he had spent years burying beneath books and rational explanations—he knew.

It was.

He exhaled, long and slow, his heartbeat drumming against his ribs, loud enough that he was certain Adelaide could hear it.

"Fine." His voice came out steadier than he expected, but there was a slight tremor at the edges, the kind only someone listening closely would catch.

"But don't expect me to like it."

A slow quirk of Adelaide's lips.

"Wouldn't dream of it."

Together, they stepped toward the door.

Albion hesitated, just for a second. One last chance to turn back.

The portal loomed before him, churning, whispering.

The symbols flared, pulsing in time with the runes on his skin—not just responding to him but waiting for him.

His fingers twitched at his sides. He didn't have to do this.

And yet, he knew he already had.

The moment he let himself entertain the possibility, the moment he let himself believe—he had already stepped through.

His breath hitched as he reached out.

The moment his fingers grazed the glowing runes, a rush of energy slammed into him—not pain, not force, but momentum.

Like falling forward into something inevitable.

Like answering a call that had been echoing through his bones since the moment he was born.

The coolness of the symbols contrasted with the warmth of Adelaide's hand in his, creating a sensation that was both grounding and exhilarating.

The portal swirled before him, light and shadow twisting together, a storm contained in a doorway.

It felt alive. Waiting. Watching.

Albion stood at the edge, his pulse hammering in his ears. This was it. The moment before the leap.

Adelaide had already stepped forward, standing just beyond the threshold, her form slightly distorted by the shifting energy around her. She turned back, her emerald eyes steady, expectant.

"Albion."

His name tugged at something deep inside him, but his feet stayed rooted in place.

His breath came shallow, his fingers curling into fists.

Adelaide tilted her head slightly, watching him with that unreadable expression. She wasn't going to convince him.

This was his moment.

His choice.

Albion swallowed hard, his throat dry.

He took one step back.

Then one step forward.

Would stepping through unravel everything?

Would he lose himself?

Adelaide lifted a hand, not reaching for him, but offering something in the weight of her gaze.

Trust. Not in her. In himself.

His jaw tightened.

The doubt didn't disappear, but he carried it with him as he stepped forward, crossing the threshold.

His last thought before the world twisted out of focus was not of regret, but of fate.

And then, he was gone.