Chapter 12: Triskelion

My name is Albion Pendragon, and I wanted to die. The mountain peak loomed above me, a towering, indifferent sentinel mocking every labored breath I took. I clung to the rock face, each grasp a desperate plea and a relentless pull. The wind howled like banshees, slashing at my white coat and biting through the thin fabric until it felt as if shards of ice were embedded in my skin. Every muscle in my body screamed in protest, and for every few inches I clawed upward, the mountain seemed to whisper that I did not belong here.

Not in a loud, dramatic way—no final battle cry or glorious blaze of defiance. I simply wanted to slip away, as if shedding too-heavy armor. If only the mountain above me would grant me that release. Each labored breath felt like a concession to forces I couldn't master. Every moment clinging to that cliffside was a conversation with gravity, daring it to let me go.

Winston, several strides above me, climbed with the surety of someone who had long ago made peace with danger. He belonged to the stone—lean muscle and grim ease, half-man, half-mountain goat. His fingers pressed into the rock as if it were clay, his broad shoulders shifting the wind aside without apparent effort. I caught glimpses of him whenever I forced myself to look upward. Lean muscle, weatherworn face. Quiet eyes that sparkled with a challenge I was too weary to deny. I was crawling behind him, skin screaming, lungs burning, soul unraveling.

For my first attempt at scaling a cliff in gale-force winds, I could say confidently:

I was going to die.

"You're slowing down, Pendragon," he shouted over the howling gusts. His voice, maddeningly calm, drifted back to me like a taunt.

"Just… enjoying… the view," I gasped. But my words were more an attempt to cling to dignity than to explain my snail's pace.

High above, Winston's low chuckle faded into the wind. "You'll love what's at the top then."

If I ever reached it.

The mountain's skin was frigid and rough against my palms, each crevice a precarious lifeline. My white coat flapped around me, half-torn by the gale, and my boots slipped more than once on patches of ice. Time became meaningless—only my ragged heartbeat and trembling limbs mattered. I had no sense of how long we climbed before Winston reached the mouth of a cave and pulled himself inside. He glanced down, arms crossed, waiting.

I didn't remember the last few meters. Just the surge of raw will, the sheer hatred for gravity, the weight of something inside me refusing to let go. Somehow, by sheer desperate will, I managed to follow. My boots scraped over the final ledge, and I tumbled into the shelter of the cave with a graceless thump. The wind raged past the entrance, as if furious I'd slipped from its clutches. I lay there, chest heaving, welcoming the relative stillness.

The wind roared behind us, furious I'd escaped. My chest heaved. My gloves trembled as I tore them off. And then—plop—a freezing droplet nailed my forehead.

"Please don't let this be a mouth," I muttered, half-delirious, imagining the cave as some ancient creature's gullet.

"What was that?" Winston asked, lifting a brow.

"Nothing." I shoved myself to my feet and brushed flakes of ice from my coat. My legs trembled in protest, but I refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing me collapse again. Winston didn't gloat, which somehow made it worse.

He smirked. "Don't worry—I'm pretty sure the cave won't chew us up." Turning away, he stalked deeper into the passage, boots crunching on loose grit.

I followed, arms wrapped around myself for warmth. At first, the tunnel was as cold and unwelcoming as the cliff. But as we ventured deeper, the temperature rose. I felt a subtle vibration in the rock. A hum behind my eyes, beneath my skin, in every breath.

Magic.

I tasted it in the air: ancient, patient, potent. It coiled along the walls, lighting them with an otherworldly glow that gradually replaced the need for our lantern. Soon, the corridor opened onto a ledge—and I forgot how to breathe.

It was a valley hidden under the mountain, impossibly large and teeming with life. Towering trees glimmered with veins of soft green luminescence running through their trunks. Moss-carpeted ground rolled gently toward a crystal-clear lake, so perfectly still it was a mirror for the cavern's stalactites far overhead. A small, humble cabin stood by the lakeshore, complete with a dock stretching over the water. A lonely boat bobbed in place, its fishing lines swaying as though recently tended.

Yet the showstopper was what hovered in the air above the lake: a spiral of golden light—shimmering, alive. It pulsed softly, like the heart of the world beating in slow, measured time. Each wave of radiance lit up the valley in warm flickers, dancing over the lake's surface.

"What… is this place?" I breathed.

Winston's hardened features softened, nostalgia kindling in his eyes. "This was my old home, years back, before life got complicated. Master Rahl led a group of us deserters here to rebuild, to heal. We learned to live without fear breathing down our necks. It's a haven in every sense of the word."

I turned in a slow circle, awed by the immensity. "Your old home… inside a mountain?"

His lips quirked. "Stranger things exist in Avalon. Trust me." He nodded toward the pulsing symbol overhead. "That's the Triskelion. Merlin's own conduit. The ley lines beneath Avalon converge here, fueling magic older than any empire. This place… it doesn't let you die. At least not easily."

"It's beautiful." Albion didn't hear him, while in awe.

"And it keeps you alive." Winston repeated.

I turned to him. "What?"

Winston glanced at me over his shoulder. "You can't die here. Not really. Not unless you try hard. The Triskelion heals you faster than death can take you. Pain still comes. But death? It waits."

I blinked. "Not… die?"

He shrugged. "You'll feel pain, bleed, fall—but the Triskelion's enchantment accelerates healing so fast you'd think death was on pause. It was made for magi to train in the wildest arts without fear of mortal injury." His gaze roamed across the valley. "We needed somewhere to practice—where we could push ourselves to the edge without tipping over."

My bruised lungs and aching arms suddenly felt lighter. We descended a craggy staircase carved into the mountainside, each step restoring me somehow. By the time we reached the bottom, I felt renewed, as though the day's fatigue had dissolved. The stone and magic mingled, forming a quiet promise in every footfall.

Winston approached a small rack by the cabin—dusty, worn, but still sturdy. He grabbed two wooden swords and tossed one to me. I caught it instinctively.

"We'll start here," he said. "Footwork, balance, the basics."

I frowned. "You know I have Excalibur, right?"

He gave me a withering look. "And a toddler wearing a crown is still a toddler, Pendragon. Learn to walk before you run."

I scowled. "You're calling me a child?"

"I'm calling you untrained. There's a difference."

A flash of anger rose, but I swallowed it. I glanced at the wooden blade, noticing faint dents and scratches from countless training sessions. Winston hefted his own with practiced ease.

"Ready?" he asked.

I nodded. "As I'll ever be."

Winston moved like the sword was part of him. I moved like I'd borrowed mine from someone taller. But his patience didn't break. Not once. He demonstrated a stance—feet planted, knees slightly bent, sword angled forward. I tried to mirror him, feeling self-conscious. My father had taught me the basics of swordplay when I was a boy, but that felt like lifetimes ago. Winston circled me like a hawk, tapping my ankles with his blade to correct my foot position, rapping my wrists to fix my grip.

When I dropped the sword the third time, he said, "That's improvement. You didn't fall with it."

By the tenth clash, my body responded on instinct. Not well, not fluently—but enough.

"Don't lock your elbows," he said. "You're not swinging a hammer, you're dancing with the blade."

I hissed as he nudged me in the ribs, forcing my posture upright. "Dancing, huh?"

His smirk was almost mischievous. "Trust me. Fighting with swords is a conversation. If you're too rigid, the conversation ends with you bleeding."

I tried to recall the simpler days—my father's patient instruction, the hush of the woods behind our old home. I remembered how he'd kneel down, eye to eye with me, a small wooden sword in his hand. How he'd say, "A knight isn't just someone who fights. A knight protects. A knight serves."

Even so, I stumbled over my feet more than once, and Winston's blade met mine with dull thwacks that rattled my arms. Sweat trickled down my spine. Still, there was a tiny spark of recognition in my body—dormant muscle memory from those afternoons with my father.

When we finished, hours later, I collapsed at the lake's edge, scooping up cold water in cupped hands. Winston ditched his boots and let his feet dangle in the shallows. The hush of the valley was so absolute I could hear the rhythmic pulse of the spiral overhead.

"This place doesn't feel real," I murmured, gazing at the reflection of that golden swirl on the lake's surface.

"It's real," Winston said quietly. "Just rare."

Silence gathered like a warm blanket. I stared at the wooden sword across my lap. Memories nudged at my heart, and before I could stop myself, I spoke:

"My father was a sword."

Winston glanced over, something thoughtful in his eyes. "A sword?"

"Not literally," I said, letting out a shaky breath. "In how he lived. Straight, rigid, sharp enough to hurt. Taught me power, precision, how to hide—but he never taught me how to feel. I don't think he knew how."

Winston nodded slowly, saying nothing yet. I pressed on.

"He was kind. I sensed it in how he looked at me. He loved me and was a knight in all but name: disciplined, warm, unwavering. And all I ever had—a father."

Winston's gaze was steady. "Love like that is rare."

I swallowed. "Yeah. It is."

A memory bloomed before I could bury it:

Afternoons in the woods, my father's favorite place.

He carried a small wooden sword he'd crafted himself, its hilt worn smooth. I followed him among tall oaks and tangled undergrowth, wide-eyed with wonder.

"Today," he said, kneeling so we were face-to-face, "I'll teach you how to be a knight."

"A real knight?" I asked, clutching my own wooden blade, carved to match his.

"A real knight," he confirmed, tapping his wire-rimmed glasses. "But remember, a knight isn't just someone who fights. A knight protects. A knight serves. Even if all he has is a pair of glasses and a wooden sword."

He taught me footwork—slow, deliberate steps that felt more like a dance than a battle. Every swing a lesson in balance, every breath a reminder that I was part of something bigger. "Keep your grip firm," he'd say, "but not so tight you lose control."

By the end of each lesson, we'd lie side by side in the grass, panting, staring at sunbeams flickering through the leaves. I'd hold my sword aloft. "I'll be the strongest knight ever," I'd declare.

He'd ruffle my hair and smile. "I have no doubt, son."

That was a world of innocence, warmth, and promise—a world I lost when war, destiny, and tragedy all collided.

"Is that how you are?" I asked. "With Becca?"

He smiled faintly. "I try to be. I mess up. I lose my temper. I forget birthdays. But I never walk away. And I never lie to her. Even when I should."

I picked up the wooden sword again, running my thumb along the grain.

"I wanted to die," I admitted, my voice catching. "Maybe still do, some days. Especially after I found Excalibur and realized everything it meant. I thought… if I died, maybe she would live."

Winston's brow furrowed slightly. "She?"

"Adelaide," I whispered. "She's gone. And every second that passes, I feel like I've failed her more." My hands clenched into fists. "Everyone else sees the Pendragon name, the legend. They don't see me."

"I see you," Winston said, matter-of-fact.

Winston nodded once. Not approval. Not judgment. Just a mark that the name mattered now.

"You haven't failed," Winston said. "You're still here. That counts."

Something broke open in my chest—not a collapse, but a crack. Like ice splitting under gentle warmth.

I nodded, unable to speak. The hush of the valley stretched, and Winston finally stood, brushing dirt from his pants as he tossed me the wooden sword again.

"That's enough heart-to-heart," he said, though not unkindly. "Let's see if you remember those moves after a night's rest."

We slept in the cabin: small, rustic, musty from disuse but still solid. I woke to Winston rummaging in a trunk, retrieving two real swords—sturdy steel, well-maintained, not the legendary Excalibur. Just honest, practical blades with a bit of scarring on the edges.

My pulse kicked up. "We're using real swords?"

He glanced back. "You can't hide behind wood forever, Pendragon. You'll need to feel the weight of real steel, know how it moves, how it sings."

I swallowed hard. Yesterday's practice had been humiliating enough with wooden blades. But I remembered the intense regret in my father's eyes whenever he thought he'd pushed me too far—and I remembered his quiet pride when I showed progress.

"All right," I said. "Let's do it."

A quick bite of breakfast—some cold jerky, a chunk of bread, and a few awkward sips of tea Winston had boiled in a dented kettle—and we stepped outside. The valley was awash in a gentle morning glow, that golden spiral overhead brightening the cavern with each slow pulse.

Winston handed me one sword. The metal felt cool against my palm, heavier than I expected. I tested the balance, adjusting my grip. Despite the tension in my gut, a strange thrill coursed through me. A real fight, even if it was only practice.

"Remember your stances," Winston said, strolling to an open patch of ground near the lake. "Don't rely on brute force. This is about precision and control."

I nodded, falling into the posture he'd drilled into me. Knees slightly bent, arms relaxed but ready. He mirrored me, sword raised, a small grin tugging at his lips.

"Begin," he murmured.

I struck first, stepping in with a diagonal slash. Winston deflected easily, steel ringing against steel. My arms trembled at the impact. He pivoted, returning a measured strike aimed at my right flank. I parried, wincing as the vibrations shot through my wrists.

We traded blows slowly at first. Each movement punctuated by the heavy clang of steel, echoing across the still waters. Winston corrected me mid-fight, calling out "Wider stance!" or "Don't lock your elbows!" in that same stern teacher's voice.

Despite the tension, I felt a flicker of hope. The real blade forced me to focus. The stakes were higher, the margin for error thinner. Each clang of steel hammered out the memory of my father's lessons, the swirl of old guilt, and the determination to be better than my fears.

"Good," Winston said after a few passes. "Your guard's solid—"

I lunged, surprising even myself with the speed of it. Winston's eyes widened, forced to parry closer to his body than he liked. Metal screeched against metal, and for the first time, he nearly lost his footing.

A spark of triumph flared in my chest. Then Winston retaliated, a graceful counterstrike that slipped through my defenses. The flat of his blade rapped my upper arm—painful but not damaging.

"Sloppy," he said, arching a brow. "You got cocky."

I bit back a curse. "I—"

He didn't let me finish, pressing forward with a flurry of attacks. Left, right, high slash, low thrust. I scrambled to parry, muscles burning, breath coming in short bursts. Each blow felt heavier, resonating up my arms.

"Focus," Winston barked. "Don't let frustration own you."

We fell into a ruthless exchange of strikes and blocks, boots scuffing across mossy ground. For all the valley's enchantments, for all the healing properties swirling in the air, the threat of a sharp blade demanded respect. My mind flicked to my father's voice: Keep your grip firm, but not so tight you lose control.

I tried to obey, letting my arms flow instead of flail. When Winston aimed a slash at my torso, I dropped my center of gravity, meeting his blade with a deflection that sent him off-balance. He stumbled a half-step, and I advanced, heart pounding.

Then he whirled, sword cutting the air in a precise arc. I threw mine up just in time. The impact jolted my wrists, nearly disarming me. Winston's face remained calm, though a trickle of sweat ran down his temple.

"Better," he admitted. "But—"

He pressed forward again, steel scraping across mine in a short, vicious parry. I felt my arms falter. Pain flared through my shoulders. I forced the ache aside, twisting free to deliver a riposte. Winston's eyes flicked wide in surprise. He barely blocked the blow, metal clashing with a sparks-kissed screech.

"Nicely done," he rasped.

For a moment, we locked blades, faces just inches apart. I could see the reflection of the Triskelion's golden glow in his eyes. My breath came in ragged bursts, adrenaline spiking. Pride, fear, and raw determination warred inside me.

Suddenly, a bright, stabbing pain detonated at the base of my skull. It was as if a heated spike had driven itself behind my eyes. My vision wavered; I staggered.

Winston, eyes widening, yanked back immediately to avoid hurting me. "Albion?"

I stumbled to my knees, the sword clattering from my grip. My hands flew up to clutch my head. The pain grew sharper with every heartbeat, roaring through my mind like a storm.

Winston dropped his blade and rushed to me. "Hey—what is it?"

"I don't know," I gasped, tears pricking my eyes. The edges of my vision darkened, replaced by a swirl of colors that pulsed in time with the Triskelion overhead. "Feels… like my skull's on fire."

Kneeling beside me, Winston pressed a calloused hand to my back. "Breathe. Slowly. Don't fight the pain—let it move through you."

The agony was deafening. My pulse hammered so fiercely I worried my heart would burst. Gasp by gasp, I followed Winston's command, struggling to slow the frantic rhythm in my chest. I could almost hear the valley's magic: a low thrum, as if confused by my sudden meltdown.

"Why?" I managed to rasp out. "Why is this happening?"

Winston's hand squeezed my shoulder. "You're pushing yourself on every level. The prophecy, your father's memory, your guilt over Adelaide—and the Triskelion's power amplifies everything here. It can heal your body, but the mind…"

He trailed off, letting the sentence speak for itself. The magic might have no limit on physical wounds, but emotional ones? That was a battlefield of a different kind.

My teeth ground together. Each breath felt like a stuttering flame in my lungs. The headache pounded behind my eyes in merciless waves, until I feared I'd black out. Still, I kept inhaling, exhaling, counting each shaky second. Gradually—painfully gradually—the storm receded, leaving a throbbing ache behind.

Winston's voice reached me like an echo. "Better?"

I nodded, not trusting my voice yet. My entire body trembled with the aftershock. The steel sword lay nearby, half-buried in the moss.

I slumped onto my side, letting out a tremulous breath. "I'm… sorry."

"Don't be," Winston said firmly, gathering me into a sitting position. "You're wrestling with too much. This is the place to do it, though. Here, you won't die from a cracked skull or a sliced artery. But your mind can still hurt."

A humorless laugh escaped me. "It hurts like hell."

"You'll learn to channel it," Winston promised. "Emotion is fuel—anger, sadness, longing—they can drive you if you learn discipline. Or they can break you if you ignore them."

I closed my eyes, tears leaking unbidden. My father's face surfaced in my mind—sad and proud, instructing me in the woods with that small wooden sword. Then Adelaide's eyes joined the memory, the way they sparkled when she teased me while being too mysterious. The illusions I'd built around my own strength had shattered on that day she vanished, and I still hadn't found a way to piece myself back together.

"C'mon," Winston said, gently supporting my arm. "Let's get you inside. You can lie down until your head stops feeling like a war drum."

He helped me to my feet, his own sword forgotten on the ground. One step at a time, we shuffled toward the cabin while the Triskelion's golden light pulsed overhead. It felt almost like a heartbeat—Avalon's reminder that magic was a double-edged sword, capable of both healing and overwhelming.

Each footfall jarred the echo of pain, but Winston's grip on my shoulder kept me steady. I forced in ragged breaths, focusing on the rhythmic sound of the lake's gentle lapping and the faint hum of the valley. The headache's fury had ebbed from a raging storm to a dull pounding, a bad reminder that I'd nearly been undone.

When we finally reached the cabin, he eased me onto a battered wooden chair. "Stay here," Winston said, stepping away for a moment. He rummaged through a corner chest, came back with a tin cup of water. "Drink."

I swallowed carefully. The cool liquid soothed my throat, though my entire body still trembled with lingering shock.

Winston exhaled, leaning against the cabin wall, arms folded. "I pushed you," he admitted. "Maybe too fast. But I needed to see how you'd handle real steel."

I managed a weak nod. "At least I… got a hit or two in."

A flicker of a grin touched his lips. "You did. Caught me off guard once or twice." Then his eyes hardened in that teacherly way. "But the next time we do this, you'll be more prepared. You'll understand that your mind can be the biggest threat."

I let out a shaky laugh, wiping sweat from my brow. "You say that like I can just fix it overnight."

"You can't," Winston said softly. "But you can start. One breath at a time, one strike at a time. Slow, patient. Like your father taught you."

My father. The memory of him ruffling my hair after we'd collapsed on the grass, wooden swords strewn around us. "I have no doubt, son." He'd said that with total conviction. The memory tugged at my heart, bringing fresh tears that I quickly blinked away.

Outside, the golden spiral continued its steady pulse, a heartbeat that underpinned the hush of the hidden valley. The threat of the Empire, the weight of prophecy, the sorrow of Adelaide's absence—none of it vanished, but in this moment, I wasn't drowning. The headache still throbbed, but I was upright. Alive.

And then I heard it.

"Albion…" The voice was soft, barely a whisper, but it sent a chill down my spine. I stumbled, lowering the sword, my breath hitching in my throat.

"Albion, it's me…"

The voice was faint, distant, but unmistakable. Adelaide. I could hear her, feel her, even though she wasn't there.

"Albion, I'm in Camelot… They've been holding me for three years. They're draining me, using my magic to search for you…"

My heart clenched in my chest. Three years? It had only been months since she disappeared—how could that be?

"Time moves differently here… Months on Earth are years in Avalon… I don't have much time… You need to warn the town of Charlevoix. They're planning an attack…"

The connection faded, her voice slipping away like a dream. I stood frozen, my mind racing with the revelation. My entire body stilled as the enormity of her words sank in, mingling with the heavy magic of the valley.

Winston came back with a refill of water, watching me with narrowed eyes. "What's wrong?"

I swallowed hard, the weight of what I had just heard crashing down on me. "Adelaide. She's alive… but she's in Camelot. And they're planning an attack on Charlevoix."

Winston's expression darkened, and he nodded slowly. "Then we've got to go."

For a long, heavy moment, the silence in the valley pressed upon us. The gentle pulsing of the Triskelion above seemed to mirror the turmoil in our hearts. I could still feel the echo of Adelaide's desperate warning and the bitter taste of guilt and regret that had clung to me since she vanished. It was in that charged pause that Winston's voice, gruff yet protective, cut through the tension.

"Listen, Albion," he said firmly, locking eyes with me. "We need to act now, but you must stay put for a moment. I know your heart is racing and your mind is full of questions, but I'll slow down if we try to move together. You're burdened by the past, and if we rush—if I take you along, you'll only hold us back. I need to go ahead. Trust me on this."

I looked at him, confused yet understanding the weight of his words. There was a tenderness in his tone—a silent acknowledgment of my inner turmoil. "Stay put," he repeated, his voice low and insistent.

In that moment, his voice shifted, betraying a rare vulnerability. "And there's something else… I can't help but worry about Becca." His eyes, usually so steady and unyielding, now flashed with a storm of concern. "I know you carry your own burdens, but Becca—she's the one who keeps me grounded. I won't allow her or Charlevoix to burn."

The raw urgency in his words struck me harder than any blow in our sparring. I could sense the duality in his mission: not only was Adelaide in peril, but someone he cared for deeply—Becca—was in jeopardy as well. The gravity of our undertaking deepened, transforming from a matter of personal legacy into one of duty and salvation for those we held dear.

My mind churned with conflicting emotions—remorse for Adelaide, worry for Becca, and a desperate need to mend the fractured parts of myself. Yet Winston's steadfast command provided a strange comfort amid the chaos. I nodded slowly, the internal storm within me momentarily abated by his pragmatic resolve.

"Alright," I murmured, voice thick with determination. "I'll stay here and regroup. Go on, Winston. Warn Charlevoix—and take care of Becca. I'll catch up once I can clear my head."

Winston gave a curt nod. "I won't be long, but if you feel overwhelmed, remember: your strength lies in steady steps, not in reckless leaps. I'll find my way, and when I return, we will face the next chapter together."

He slung his pack over his shoulder. In that wordless exchange of understanding and responsibility, I sensed that we were both at a crossroads—a moment when personal pain intertwined with the burdens of duty, and the road ahead promised both salvation and sacrifice.

As Winston strode away into the deeper shadows of the valley, the golden spiral overhead pulsed more insistently. I sank onto the battered wooden chair, feeling the chill of the magic seep into my bones. The echoes of our sparring, the taste of steel, and the whispers of old grief mingled in the stillness. In that vast, enchanted solitude, every second stretched into a silent meditation on legacy, love, and loss.

I closed my eyes, attempting to summon the steady calm of my father's teachings. I pictured him kneeling in the sun-dappled woods, his gentle smile reassuring me that every knight must learn the art of both battle and reflection. In the rustling of the leaves outside the cabin, I heard faint strains of a lullaby—a memory of times when hope was not so distant, when the world still shimmered with possibility. And in the rhythmic thump of my heart, I recognized the promise of renewal, however fragile.

Time passed slowly. The soft sounds of nature and the distant call of a wild creature lulled me into a reverie. I thought about Adelaide's voice—her words trembling with urgency and despair. How could it be that Camelot, a name that once evoked tales of honor and magic, now concealed such treachery? And what of Charlevoix—an unassuming town, now at the brink of a threat I scarcely dared imagine?

Yet it was not just Adelaide or Charlevoix that troubled me. Winston's words about Becca echoed in my mind like a persistent drumbeat. There was an unspoken promise in his tone—a promise of protection, of unwavering resolve in the face of impending darkness. I could almost see Becca's eyes, filled with worry and hope, mirroring the struggles that so many of us faced in a world that was slowly unravelling.

For hours, I danced with the memory of steel, each movement echoing the lessons of the past. And as I moved, I allowed the whispers of the valley and the weight of duty to intermingle. My body, though battered, learned to channel the pain into each graceful arc of the sword, transforming agony into art.

While I practiced, a quiet worry gnawed at me—a worry that reached beyond my own fate and echoed in Winston's parting words. I remembered how he had confessed his concern for Becca, and I wondered what trials she might be enduring in his absence. Though our paths had diverged in that critical moment, the ties that bound us were unbreakable. I resolved that, once I had gathered enough strength, I would not only join Winston on our mission but also find a way to support Becca, to bring light to those lost in the darkness of impending war.

The hours slipped by in that timeless valley. Shadows lengthened, and the golden spiral above danced with renewed brilliance as night fell. I sank onto the cool earth, letting the fatigue and the magic of the place lull my battered mind. In that quiet solitude, every breath became a prayer, every heartbeat a silent vow to rise again. I promised myself that I would not allow despair to set in.