Chapter 11: The Road Ahead

The market noise of Charlevoix faded like a dream too loud to be real—replaced by the rhythm of footfalls on dirt and the low murmur of the wind curling through tall grass. The smell of spice and sweat gave way to earth, pollen, and something wistful. Maybe lilac, maybe regret.

Albion walked in silence beside Winston, his hand brushing the hilt of Excalibur sheathed in his runes. Every step away from the town felt like a step deeper into something unknown, but strangely familiar. A memory he hadn't lived yet.

The land stretched out before them like the blank pages of a book waiting to be written. And in the distance—immense, weathered, and utterly unignorable—loomed the Triskelion.

Albion exhaled slowly. "This place is beautiful," he murmured, barely loud enough to rise above the breeze.

Winston gave a short nod, chewing absently on a twig he'd snagged from a hedge. "Yeah. Avalon's good at that. Beauty and death. Always dancing. You just hope you're not on the wrong end of the waltz."

"You always this poetic?"

"Only when no one's listening. Makes me seem wiser. You, though—you look like you swallowed a storm."

Albion shrugged. "Just… trying to take it all in."

Albion tilted his head. "You keep saying Avalon, the name of the world."

Winston raised an eyebrow.

"But…we're in Charlevoix."

"We are," Winston said, slowing his pace just slightly. "Charlevoix's a town. A lively one, full of farmers and freelancers and the occasional squirrel-breeder with delusions of nobility. But Avalon?" He swept a hand toward the horizon. "That's the realm. The world. The land under your feet and the sky over your head. Avalon's the stage. Charlevoix's just a scene."

Albion frowned. "So, are there other worlds besides here and where I came from?"

Winston laughed. Not mockingly—more like someone finally hearing a question they've waited years to answer. "You really are new, huh?"

Albion looked at him, eyes narrowing slightly. "Where are you from?" He didn't mean it like that. But the air changed anyway.

Winston was quiet for a moment, his mouth twitching into a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Celeste."

Albion stopped walking.

The breeze carried the word like a bell note, too clean in the open silence.

"You're from the Empire? I thought you were just a part of the religious sect."

Winston turned to face him, no heat in his voice. "I was. Long time ago."

Albion's hand drifted, almost subconsciously, toward the runes where Excalibur slept. He didn't unsheathe it. He didn't even want to. But the gesture was instinctive—like checking if a door was still locked.

"I thought they sent you here."

"They did. As a Vanguard," Winston said, tone flat. "I was young, armored, and convinced I was righteous. We all were. Thought Avalon was a godless waste of magic, and we were the hammer of discipline." He paused. "I thought that made me strong. Turns out it just made me loud."

"And now?"

"Now I plant vegetables and argue with my wife about how many cats is too many." He smiled faintly. "Four, by the way. That's the correct number. Don't let her tell you otherwise."

Albion didn't smile. "You fought against Avalon."

"I did worse than fight," Winston said, voice low. "I believed."

That settled like ash between them. A silence that could've cracked open if either pushed it too far.

But Winston didn't flinch. He just looked out over the fields, jaw working like he was chewing something old.

"I came here thinking it was a mission," he said. "But Avalon… Avalon got under my skin. It's wild. Uncontrolled. Messy. Beautiful. And it changes you, if you let it."

Albion finally spoke, voice guarded. "Why'd you stay?"

Winston didn't answer right away. Then he gave a slow exhale.

"Because Becca looked at me like I was someone worth saving. And I wanted to be that someone."

Albion's nerves loosened. He looked at the man beside him—scruffy, sunburnt, carrying too many regrets with too few words—and the sharp edge of distrust dulled. Just slightly.

"You ever think they'll come for you?" Albion asked.

"They already did," Winston said. "I killed the first. Buried the second. And the third ran back to the Empire with a limp and a story."

Albion raised an eyebrow. "You're not afraid?"

"I'm married to Becca," Winston said with a grin. "Fear's a muscle. She worked mine to exhaustion."

That finally drew a laugh from Albion, tired but real. The trail curved along a shallow rise, revealing a meadow brushed in gold by the waning sun. The grass here was taller, nearly waist-high, moving like a living sea with the wind. In the center of it all, near a crooked willow, a herd of long-necked deer stood half-shadowed in the light. Their fur shimmered in soft gradients—ashen brown streaked with silver veins, like something carved from moonlight and clay.

They were watching them. Not afraid. Just… aware.

Albion slowed, his breath catching slightly.

Winston stopped beside him, squinting toward the herd. "Sunfall stags," he murmured. "Didn't think they wandered this far south."

"They don't run," Albion whispered. "Why aren't they afraid of us?"

"Because they know we're not a threat," Winston said. "Or I'm wrong, and we're about to be skewered by antlers made of starlight."

Albion glanced at him.

"Kidding," Winston added. "Mostly."

The herd moved slowly, hooves silent on the grass. One stag—larger than the rest, with a spiral of twisting ivory horns—stepped forward. Its eyes locked on Albion's, and for a heartbeat, the world fell still.

Albion felt it. A pressure behind his ribs. The same pull he felt when he traced the runes on Excalibur, or when Becca had whispered the truth about his bloodline. This… presence. Not thought. Not language. Just… acknowledgment. A truth shared across blood and breath.

Then, slowly, the stag bent its head.

A bow.

Even the wind seemed to hush. The grass stilled. Albion didn't dare move.

Winston exhaled, voice softer now. "They see what you are."

"What am I?"

Winston shook his head. "Something old. Something they remember, even if you don't."

The stag held the pose a moment longer, then turned. The herd followed without a sound, gliding through the grass like ghosts toward the far treeline. As they disappeared, the breeze shifted. The air smelled faintly of ozone, lavender, and lightning.

Albion let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"You okay?" Winston asked.

"Yeah. I just…" Albion looked down at his hands. "It's like I keep waking up inside someone else's story."

Winston nodded. "I know the feeling."

Albion looked at him. "Do you still feel like that?"

"No," Winston said after a moment. "Now it feels like I'm writing a new one. Line by line."

Albion smiled, faint but sincere. "You're a good man."

Winston shrugged. "I've done bad things. Doesn't mean I stay there."

They walked on. The hush that followed wasn't empty. It was full—with memory, and silence, and the kind of unspoken understanding that grows in long walks and honest pauses. And for a while, the weight of other worlds didn't feel so heavy.

The sun dipped lower behind them, setting the sky ablaze in color. Ahead, the Triskelion loomed larger than ever. But for now, there was only the wind, the grass, and two men carrying too much, side by side.

They walked a bit further before Winston broke the silence again, glancing sideways with a half-grin.

"Becca would've stopped at every flower by now," he said, voice light. "Told me each one's name, how to dry 'em for tea, and probably convinced me to eat one just to prove a point."

Albion chuckled despite himself. "She seems… chaotic."

"Oh, she's a menace," Winston said with a fond snort. "Smart as hell. Loves hard, teaches worse. Never met someone who could explain complex magical theory using sound effects and breadcrumbs—but somehow, she does."

"Sounds like you're still in awe of her."

"I am," Winston said. "And terrified. Deeply, profoundly terrified. You ever see a woman cleave a war golem in half with a ladle? I have."

Albion blinked. "No?"

"Then don't sass her cooking."

They rounded a bend in the trail. The sun slanted lower, gilding the path ahead. Albion spotted a cluster of butterflies spiraling in a thermal, dancing like sparks from an unseen flame. He almost smiled.

"She told me I had a zero," he said, touching the rune on his arm. "Said she'd never seen it before."

Winston's smile faded slightly. "Yeah, I remember that."

"What does it mean?"

"No one knows," Winston said, kicking a loose stone like it owed him an answer. "But Becca's been digging through old Magus Order records trying to match it. You've got her curious. Which, I should warn you, is worse than being cursed."

"Why?"

"Because once she's curious, she doesn't stop. Doesn't sleep. Doesn't eat. I've had to pry books out of her hands at three in the morning while she's arguing with a rune diagram. Then she starts making potions to stimulate theoretical recall and next thing you know, the chickens are glowing again."

"…Chickens?"

"Don't ask."

Albion laughed this time, loud and true. The kind that caught him off guard. "You love her."

Winston looked forward, jaw tight for a moment. "Yeah. Yeah, I do."

Albion smirked. "How do you even know she's doing some of that? We've been walking for hours."

Winston grinned, tapping his temple with two fingers. "Thal'hara. Old Avalon word. No clean translation, but it means something like the echo between souls. You don't hear voices—you feel presence. Intent. Emotion. If the bond's strong, it sharpens—becomes like a thread tugged between thoughts. You can whisper through it if you're careful, but it ain't like shouting across a canyon. It's more like… humming together across the same string. You have to be in tune."

"Thal'hara?"

"Telepathic bond," Winston said. "If you're bound close enough—blood, love, soul pact, whatever the flavor—you can send thoughts to each other. Sometimes whole feelings. Sometimes just a shove when you're being stupid."

"So, it's magic telepathy?"

"More like spiritual resonance. You don't speak. You remember. You feel. And it feels you back."

Albion blinked. "So… she's in your head?"

"Oh yeah. She's in my head, my dreams, my kitchen, and somehow in my damn sock drawer even when she's in another town."

"Is that… normal?"

Winston tilted his head. "For normal couples? Gods, no. For us? Practically foreplay."

"Most folks just call it Heartweave. Makes it sound prettier than it is. Two people get close enough—really close—and sometimes their souls thread together. It happens to lovers, twins, soldiers who've bled beside each other. You feel their moods like weather on your skin. Sometimes even hear their thoughts in flashes."

"Sounds… vulnerable." Albion paused. "Is it dangerous?"

"If you're stupid with it, yeah. You don't go poking around in someone's mind unless they open the door. It's built on trust. Break that, and the weave snaps… or worse, knots."

Albion choked on his laugh. "That sounds exhausting."

"It is," Winston said proudly. "She once sent me a ten-minute mental rant while she was brewing something and forgot to turn off the thought-stream. I was in the middle of a diplomatic mission. The Emperor's envoy was trying to threaten me, and I was just sitting there hearing her curse at a stuck jar lid and accuse a neighbor's goat of sabotage."

Albion looked sideways, eyebrows raised. "What did you do?"

"I agreed with the envoy just to get out of there before she started narrating her bowel movements and how the sewer portal wasn't working. Again."

Albion looked vaguely horrified. "That's… that's a thing that happens?"

"Oh, it happens," Winston belted. "And I was the one who had to explain to an ambassador why I suddenly muttered 'Clogged again?' mid-threat negotiation."

"Wait—does she know you can't turn it off?"

"Oh, she knows. She pretends she doesn't. Calls it ambient connection. I call it mind invasion."

He kicked another rock, softer this time.

"There are rules, of course," Winston added, voice shifting to something quieter. "You don't peek unless you're called. You don't dig. You don't push when they're hurting. You don't abuse the link."

"Sounds like trust."

"It is," Winston said, his smile fading to something more grounded. "The deepest kind. Like being handed the map of someone else's pain and choosing not to walk all the roads."

Albion let that settle.

"Can anyone do it?"

"No. You have to earn it. And hold it. And some bonds break. Some shatter. But when it's strong…" He exhaled, nostrils flaring. "When it's real, it's like your soul has company."

He stopped then, staring out toward the horizon.

Albion followed his gaze.

"I remember the first time it happened," Winston said. "I was on a mission. Still with the Empire. Still… lost. Becca was somewhere near the southern reefs, helping refugees after a magical breach. I hadn't seen her in weeks. And then, in the middle of a snow-covered battlefield, I hear her voice in my head—clear as bells. You're bleeding too much, idiot. Stop trying to be noble."

Albion raised his brows. "What'd you do?"

"I laughed. Got stabbed. Passed out."

"Very heroic."

"Thank you. I try."

They kept walking. The light began to slant further, gold turning orange, orange shading into a dusty red. A bird called overhead—three short notes, sharp like a flute.

"So," Albion said, nudging, "does she hear your thoughts too?"

"Only the good ones," Winston said, smirking.

"And who decides what's good?"

"Me. I curate my brain like a high-end bakery window." Winston laughed. "I'm like a carefully curated library of charm and wit. She doesn't need to know how often I fantasize about bread."

Albion narrowed his eyes. "Bread?"

"Fresh bread. Warm bread. Bread with butter. Bread you didn't have to make because someone else did it out of love or guilt. That's the good stuff." He paused. "Fresh, golden. Crackly crust. Smells like forgiveness."

"You need help."

"No, I need focaccia."

Albion laughed again, and this time it felt easier. Lighter. The road ahead was still long, still riddled with uncertainty and storm, but here—between the jokes, the memory-ghosts, and the wild grass—something else had started to bloom.

Trust.

And the Triskelion, looming ever closer, no longer looked like a grave waiting to happen.

It looked like a beginning.

Something hung in the air then. Heavy. Alive.

"She saved me," Winston said after a while, softer now. "Back when I didn't think I deserved it. Back when I was one of the bastards wearing the armor of the Empire. Deserted. Wounded. Full of poison and pride. She found me. Dragged me out of my own grave and stitched me back together with stubbornness and soup."

Albion was quiet, watching him now.

"I thought I'd die in a ditch," Winston went on. "Instead, I married a woman who tells lightning where to go and can't bake to save her life."

"She sounds like a hero."

"She is. But don't tell her. She'll get smug."

Albion shoved his hands into his coat pockets as they trudged along the dirt path. The wind tugged gently at the edge of his cloak, and the faint scent of wildflowers still lingered in the air. He glanced sideways at Winston, a half-smile forming.

"If she can't bake," he asked, "what about breakfast?"

Winston barked a laugh, the kind that made it clear he'd been waiting years for someone to ask.

"Oh, she can cook—brilliantly, sometimes. But she magicks the bread. Pancakes too. Anything baked, really. She gets distracted. Starts theorizing halfway through a recipe and suddenly forgets the oven was part of the plan."

Albion raised a brow. "So what happens?"

"She burns it. Every time. Once made muffins that turned into charcoal golems. They tried to escape. One made it to the roof before it collapsed into ash and shame."

Albion blinked. "That actually happened?"

"Do I look like the kind of man who would lie about war muffins?"

"…Maybe."

Winston rolled his eyes. "The point is breakfast at our place is a gamble. Some mornings you wake up to fresh eggs and toast floating serenely to your plate—enchanted to match your mood and taste preferences. Other mornings, the bacon's screaming because she tried to make it ethically sentient."

Albion stared at him.

Winston nodded solemnly. "It judged me."

He kicked a rock off the path and sighed in mock exhaustion.

"But yes," he continued, "she magicks the bread. Scones, croissants, even toast. She says ovens are outdated and that thermal conjuring is 'just more efficient.' I think she just hates waiting."

"So… she floats it to your plate?"

"Sometimes. Other times it hovers too long, and I have to swat it out of the air like a lazy bee. Once, the syrup tried to drown me."

Albion was laughing now, really laughing, and Winston wore the grin of a man who knew his madness was contagious.

"You love her cooking?" Albion asked, catching his breath.

"I love that it tastes like her," Winston said without hesitation. "Not just the seasoning. I mean, it's hers. Wild. Risky. Too clever for its own good. Sometimes there's lightning in the eggs and sometimes there's sorrow in the honey, but it's never dull. It's always… Becca."

Albion went quiet at that.

Winston glanced over, the humor in his voice softening. "It's a strange kind of comfort—knowing breakfast might explode, but love won't."

Albion looked ahead again. The Triskelion loomed ever larger in the distance, but for a moment, the world felt far smaller. More intimate. And behind him, in his memory, he imagined a kitchen full of floating scones, unstable enchantments, and a woman laughing while the laws of thermodynamics surrendered in shame.

He smiled to himself.

"I hope I get to try the scones one day."

Winston's reply was low, but clear.

"You will."

They walked for a while without speaking. The horizon loomed larger with every step. The Triskelion getting closer—they were becoming more aware of how massive it truly was.

"So," Winston said after a long pause, "you really want to do this?"

Albion didn't pretend to misunderstand. "I have to."

"There's always a choice, kid."

"Not for me."

Winston gave a slow nod, chewing the inside of his cheek. "Then I guess it's my job to make sure you survive it."

"You think I won't?"

"I think survival's just the first test," Winston said. "The real battle's the one inside your head. That sword you carry—Excalibur—it doesn't just cut enemies. It cuts truths out of lies. Cuts illusions from reality. And that kind of blade, it doesn't let you keep lying to yourself."

Albion's fingers brushed the runes again, and for a moment he thought he felt it pulse—just faintly. Like a heartbeat. A memory stirred. Adelaide's laughter in the meadow where he pulled Excalibur. Her eyes, bright and sharp. The smell of lavender on her hands. Gone now. Maybe forever. He didn't speak, but Winston must've seen something shift in his face.

"She's out there," Winston said. "And if she's half as stubborn as Becca, she's alive."

"You think so?"

"I know so," Winston said. "Because you haven't given up. And people like you… your hope's like fire in the dark. Someone, somewhere's seeing it."

The Triskelion was enormous now, a mountain of power rising out of the earth like the bones of a forgotten god. Its arches were shaped like blades. Its face like a mouth that had seen war.

Albion stopped walking.

Winston looked back. "Second thoughts?"

"No," Albion said. "Just… wondering if I'm enough."

Winston stepped up beside him. "You're not."

Albion blinked.

"But you will be," Winston said, clapping him on the shoulder. "And that's the whole point."

They walked the last stretch in silence.

And the Triskelion waited.