NOVEL NEXT Chapter 25: Queen Adelaide
The hush of the Enchanted Forest pressed in on Albion, every rustle of leaves a reminder that not long ago, he was racing from Camelot's ruins, his mind torn apart by revelations he couldn't fully process. Now, in the aftermath, he had stopped—finally stopped—at the center of a mossy clearing, letting out ragged breaths as if each exhale might purge him of confusion. But the confusion remained, thick as the ancient canopy overhead.
Albion pressed his back against the trunk of a massive oak, struggling to steady his breathing. The air felt warm yet strangely electric, brushing over his skin in delicate waves. His knees threatened to buckle from the weight of unanswered questions. Somewhere behind him, Adelaide—once Miss Adele from the orphanage, now revealed as Queen Adelaide—shifted uneasily.
Her borrowed hoodie, the very one she had stolen from him in some other life —his hoodie, really—was drawn around her face, and despite the dusting of fear on her cheeks, she radiated that quiet magnetism that had once made the orphanage in San Francisco glow with possibility. For a breath, neither spoke. Moonlight glinted off the faint green patterns swirling across the bark, all of which pulsed in response to Adelaide's mere presence. The forest still recognized its queen.
Behind him, Adelaide stumbled over an uprooted vine. She was breathless but determined, the faint scent of jasmine and rain clinging to her as it always had—a subtle essence that whispered of old spells and half-remembered nights.
He clutched Excalibur tight in one hand, runes along its length still shimmering from their earlier flight from Camelot. The sword felt impossibly dense, like it carried the weight of a thousand destinies. Every time he tried to let go, a sharp ache jolted up his arm—like the blade refused to release him. Rivulets of sweat beaded along his brow. He recalled the harrowing moment when that ancient weapon first seized hold of his spirit, nearly tearing him asunder with visions of battlefields and a flicker of a fiery presence that whispered: You were always mine.
A few months had passed since that meeting with the sword in Avalon's clearing, but the brand of it still burned through every cell of his body, leaving him uncertain whether the sword had chosen him or simply trapped him.
"Albion," she called softly, voice laced with the tension of all they'd left unspoken. "Please. We have to talk."
He turned, Excalibur's runes flickering with leftover adrenaline. The sword felt simultaneously vital and unbearably heavy. He glared at her, mind reeling with the memory of who she used to be—Miss Adele, the woman who found him soaked to the bone, a scrawny kid skulking by the orphanage door, chocolate bar half-eaten and hope all but gone.
Adelaide inhaled, drawing his attention. "I know you're upset," she began, tone hushed. "But please believe I never wanted to deceive you. I never intended to keep so many secrets."
He let out a bitter exhale, chest heaving as raw anger and heartbreak churned inside. "You watched me grow up in that orphanage. Let me wander off to universities, let me wonder why you never called, never answered. You never said a word about Avalon, or the fact that you—" His throat constricted. "—the fact that you're the rightful queen. That's not something you just… forget to mention."
Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, the hoodie's hood slipping to reveal a tumble of auburn hair. "I was terrified. My entire life unraveled when your mother left Avalon in my care. I thought if I kept you out of it—if I pretended to be ordinary—maybe you'd have a chance to forge your own path." She swallowed. "I never knew how to tell you, or when."
"I can't believe you're the same person," Albion muttered, voice raw. "Twelve years ago, you dried me off, gave me a place to stay, taught me that—" His voice caught. "That my curiosity wasn't a curse. Then you vanished, and I—" He clenched his fists. "I told you I'd come back if you ever needed me, but I never expected this. Queen Adelaide of Avalon? In my old hoodie?"
Adelaide swallowed, stepping closer, auburn hair shimmering even in the dim light. "I'm still that woman who let you in out of the rain," she said, "but I'm also someone else—someone who's lived another life entirely. Your mother trusted me … and I hated ruling, Albion. I hated it but did it anyway, out of duty to her. Then everything—everything—spiraled."
He caught the tremor in her voice as she spoke of his mother. Each mention of Elaine Pendragon made his lungs tighten. He had always known his mother was special, but not the full extent of her power. If only he had answers about why she'd vanished when he was so young. In the hush of the moonlit forest, he finally dared to ask, though his voice wavered, "You keep talking about my mother. Elaine. But how did that even happen? And why didn't she stay with me instead of leaving me with my father?" His heart pounded, not sure he was ready for the answers.
Adelaide pressed a trembling hand to the trunk beside her.
"There were whispers in Avalon's court—that Elaine discovered something beyond imagining. Something that frightened her. I never knew what it was. But I believe… she didn't just leave to protect you. She left to protect everything."
The bark pulsed, faintly responding to her sorrow. "I wish I knew why she left Earth entirely. No one does—not even me. But I can explain how I became queen, though it isn't a simple story. Will you let me try?"
He wanted to scoff, to push her away. And yet, every memory of that orphanage tugged at his heart. He saw children's laughter, the swirl of old magic in a battered grimoire, the warm promise in her eyes. He remembered that day when he left for Oxford, her gentle kiss against his temple, the half-torn scrap from the orphanage library: Don't worry. I'll find the truth.
"Why didn't you tell me the truth earlier?" he asked. A tear slipped out—he let it fall. He was too tired to hide the frustration brimming beneath his anger. "When I saw you at the University of Reading four months ago, how could I not recognize you? You—my first love, my protector, my muse—standing there in my classroom, looking not a day older than you did back then. I should have—" He exhaled, shoulders shaking. "How did I miss it?"
She stepped closer, the forest floor soft beneath her borrowed Uptowns. "Because I wanted you to have a normal life. We were separated for nearly a decade, I was gone from your life. After I followed your mother's orders to watch over you, after I saw you grow into a man. I tried to keep my distance. I knew my presence would complicate everything, especially once the Rift began stirring. Then I was taken. I never chose that."
He nodded, forcing down the surge of bitterness. "Tell me everything."
She folded her hands together, gaze flickering with both dread and resolve. "When Elaine was pregnant with you, Avalon was already unstable. The Rift—the portal that connects Avalon to other realms—had stirred, unleashing forces we barely comprehended. She was terrified. Of the Rift, of warring factions in Camelot, of enemies who'd use you for their ends."
She paused, eyes dulling with memory. "I didn't realize the depths of her fear until one night, she simply… told me I had to take the crown. She wanted to protect you from the politics and betrayals that had corrupted Avalon's court. She believed she could hide you safely on Earth while I tried to steer Avalon clear of ruin. She never told me exactly why she vanished off Earth after you were born. I only know she entrusted me with the realm and with you—and then she vanished. It was abrupt. Painful."
Albion swallowed, tears threatening. So many years of half-truths, glimpses of a mother he only half remembered. For so long, he had clung to an image of her: gentle hands smoothing his hair when he was too little to understand. "So you accepted the crown for her. And then… you ran away from Avalon yourself."
A ghost of a laugh escaped Adelaide's throat. "I tried to rule at first. But I hated it. The throne devours your peace. I was no politician; I was just… me. I wanted to help people, but the politics, the betrayals, the endless demands—I sank under the weight. Eventually, Morgan, my sister, began building power behind my back. I realized too late I was about to be ousted—or worse. So I fled Avalon, believing if I disappeared, Morgan would relent. For a while, I hid on Earth, started the orphanage in San Francisco. And I found you." She offered a fragile smile. "Or maybe you found me, standing there in that torrential downpour, half-starved with a stolen chocolate bar in your fist. Remember?"
His throat constricted with a mix of longing and ache. He remembered every detail: how thunder shook the windows, how a neon sign flickered in the rainy night behind him, how she teased him about taking chocolate without paying. That was the night hope took root in his chest, the night she gave him a blanket and said, Any stray with eyes that fierce can stay here. She'd become Miss Adele, caretaker and teacher, never hinting at the queen she'd once been.
She studied his face, her own eyes glistening. "Yes, I wore a cloak back then, but not the crown. Those children gave me purpose. You were a bright spark. I never told you about Avalon, never told you that I knew your mother, or that she had made me queen, because I thought it'd ruin your chance at a normal life. I believed, foolishly, that I could keep the war in Avalon from touching you."
A tear slid down his cheek. "You promised me once, back at the orphanage, that you'd never lie to me about the big things. But that was a lie in itself."
She flinched. "I was a coward, Albion. I own that. But I—I never wanted to break your trust. Please, believe that."
Silence draped them. He let out a trembling breath, remembering how her presence had shaped his childhood—her unwavering warmth, her gentle jokes, her refusal to let him wallow. How many nights they'd spent in the orphanage library, reading tattered volumes of old myths by lamplight. She was the one who taught him to see magic in every corner, even if he never realized her knowledge came from an actual realm of enchantment. Anger warred with the memories of that kindness.
He swiped at his tears, clearing his throat. "So that's how it is. My mother entrusted you with Avalon. You tried to rule. You hated it, so you ran—like she did. Then you took me in, let me cling to illusions, hoping you'd spare me from the same war you fled. And now here we are." He gestured with Excalibur, noticing how the runes flared, picking up on his turmoil. "Kind of backfired, didn't it?"
A brittle laugh escaped her. "Yes. And I'm sorry." She stepped forward, close enough that he could feel the forest's hum around her. "But by the time I realized Morgan as after me, I got caught, ended up three years in Camelot's dungeon. All that time, I prayed you'd remain hidden from her and find me in time. Everything changed again. This realm—I can't run from it any longer, and neither can you."
He rubbed at his temples, exhaustion seeping through. "So that's the reason behind everything. That's why you said my mother made you queen— because she literally handed you the throne to protect me."
Realization sank in deeper now, and with it came a wave of conflicting emotions. "God. I used to wonder if she died, or if she just abandoned me. And the truth is, none of us know why she left Earth after I was born. Not even you."
Adelaide offered a sorrowful nod. "I wish I had answers about Elaine. But she never told me the real reason, only that she had to vanish to keep you safe from the Rift's influence. I swear, if I knew more, I would tell you. All I could do was try to honor her wishes for your safety."
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"And Camelot's dungeon—those three years?" he asked, voice thick. Images of the battered walls of Camelot's prison flashed through his mind, overshadowed by the memory of a gentle auburn-haired woman at an orphanage, an entire lifetime ago.
Adelaide nodded, her eyes downcast. "Morgan—my sister—was behind it." She paused, wrestling with old scars. "Even now, I feel her magic stirring—like a splinter lodged in the ley lines. She's not just watching, Albion. She's preparing something dark. And she's trying to twist reality itself."
Albion stayed silent.
"I once had an ally named Taliesin, who insisted I should gather strength away from Camelot, perhaps in your world. But it didn't save me from betrayal. By the time the doors slammed shut, I'd lost everything. And all I could cling to was the memory of you. And that battered orphanage in San Francisco—the only place that ever felt like home."
Albion's breath hitched, tears stinging anew as he recalled the battered floors of the orphanage, the half-lit library where she'd traced runes in an ancient grimoire, the children's laughter echoing through worn corridors. It was so real it hurt. "You taught me to read incantations," he said quietly. "I only half understood them. But I— I never forgot your words: Never hold back. You carry something extraordinary within you." His throat felt tight. "That was me. A scrawny kid with a stolen chocolate bar. And you believed in me when no one else did."
"Sanctuary House," she whispered. "It's still lit from within."
Adelaide smiled faintly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Before I disappeared… I made sure the orphanage would never close. I bought the building under a false name, placed protective spells around it. I gave it to the children when they turned eighteen—Jamie, Laura, Chloe—they're running it now. It's still standing."
Albion's breath caught. "You gave it to them?"
She nodded. "It was the only real home I ever had. I wanted it to stay that way—for them. For you. For all of us."
Adelaide's lips quivered. She closed the distance, her hand trembling as she reached for his arm.
"You gave me hope too. Those nights in the orphanage, the way you devoured books on lost civilizations, the spark you had. I needed to believe in something beyond Avalon's politics.
Then I ended up in Camelot's dungeon, and it was your name I whispered over and over, like a talisman. Albion."
He let out a strangled laugh, wiping at his tears with the back of his sleeve. "I said I'd come back for you if you ever needed me. And here I am, stumbling through an ancient forest with a legendary sword I barely understand." He raked a hand through his hair, glancing at the glowing runes on Excalibur. "There was a time when I thought magic was just an illusion. But you taught me better."
She blinked, eyes shining. "Yes, I did. And you believed in that magic—even when the rest of the world scoffed."
He swallowed. The orchard of memories flooded him again: the children—Jamie, Laura, little Chloe—the cozy library, the promise of fresh bread on stormy nights, that time he saw her grin across a stack of old tomes. He'd carried those images all the way to Oxford and beyond. They had given him reason to pursue knowledge and never relent. Then, at Reading, she reappeared, wearing a new identity but still exuding that sense of ephemeral, half-hidden magic.
The wind shifted, scattering stray leaves in a swirl around them. Adelaide's eyes flicked to the dark pines, as if sensing watchers. "We… can't stay exposed like this." She sighed softly, then steeled herself. "But you deserve to know the rest."
He opened his mouth to respond when a twig snapped from somewhere beyond the canopy. Adelaide's gaze darted left, tension coiling in her frame. "We should keep moving," she whispered. "The forest can hide us for a little while, but Morgan's forces, or worse, might find us. I'd rather get closer to Winston before that happens."
Adelaide let the silence settle before speaking. "When I first met you—twelve years ago, in that storm—I saw so much of myself in you. That quiet defiance, that ember of hope. You reminded me of a prophecy Taliesin once mentioned. He said I'd find the one who could bridge worlds. The one with eyes that carry the weight of forgotten realms."
Albion's face heated. "A prophecy? About me?"
She nodded gravely. "I didn't believe it at first. But the night I saw you at the orphanage door, soaking wet and alone… there was a flicker of recognition. You might not remember, but your eyes burned with fierce intensity. It felt like an echo of Avalon's future."
He forced a laugh that held no mirth. "So a prophecy is why you took me in?"
Adelaide shook her head vehemently. "Not a prophecy. You. Your spirit. You needed me, and I needed someone to remind me why I still believed in magic. It just happened that the prophecy fit the moment. I never told you because I was scared it would shatter everything normal you had left."
A thick hush settled, broken only by Winston muttering something about perimeter checks.
"Taliesin said you'd be the one who returned not through a portal—but through memory."
Albion's eyes dropped to the swirling runes etched into Excalibur's blade. "I remember the orphanage," he murmured. "I remember how Jamie made me laugh when I wanted to cry, how Laura snuck out in the rain just for fun, how Chloe used to cuddle up with a stack of books. And I remember… you. Teaching me that curiosity is strength, that love could be found in the unlikeliest of places."
He swallowed, tears blurring his vision again. "You were my anchor. So when you vanished, it felt like… everything I believed in might not be real after all. Miss Adele—this unstoppable presence. You slipped in and out of my life like a dream, and I had no idea how to reconcile that with the memories."
Adelaide's lips twisted in regret. "And I couldn't tell you. You recognized me enough to break the enchantments that shielded my identity—but by then, Morgan found me. Luckily, she didn't know anything about you. If I'd fought, we'd both be in Camelot's dungeon."
Albion exhaled shakily, nodding. "I get it. But it still hurts."
She reached for his hand, her voice trembling. "I know. And for that, I'm so sorry." Her gaze flicked to Winston, verifying he wasn't overhearing. Then, more softly, "I need you to understand that for me, you were never just a prophecy or a means to an end. You were hope. The only hope I ever found outside Avalon's madness."
Albion let her words sink in. Slowly, as if a lifetime of tension melted away, he turned to face her. "Then we find a way forward," he said quietly. "No more half-truths. No more hiding. Not from you, from this forest, or from whatever fate's waiting past this moment. I won't just carry Excalibur—I'll use it. For us. For everyone who never got to choose."
She nodded. "No more."
"Sometimes… I swear we've done this dance before," he murmured without planning to. "Met somewhere between magic and a promise." He gave a self-conscious laugh. "That probably sounds ridiculous."
Adelaide's eyes softened, a flicker of recognition passing through them. "Not ridiculous at all," she whispered. "There are patterns in this world—and beyond it—that none of us fully understand."
"Sometimes I dream. You're always there, and I'm always leaving. Every time I wake, I feel like I've failed you again." Albion's heart pounded. "Do you remember it too?"
She hesitated, then nodded. "Pieces. A lounge, golden light. And the sense that I'd waited… so long." She cleared her throat, as though the memory pained her. "But it's blurry, like a glimpse through fog."
He shook his head in amazement. "I thought it was just a dream."
Her hand found his again, the warmth of her touch like an anchor. "We've been tied by more than one lifetime, Albion. If what Taliesin said is true, you and I were always meant to find each other—amid storms and rifts, captivity and orphanages." A faint, wry smile. "We're just stubborn enough to keep making it happen."
Albion let out a laugh choked with emotion. "Great. So we're an ongoing cosmic accident?"
She chuckled. "Or a cosmic promise."
They would've stayed like that, exchanging raw confessions beneath the forest's living canopy, if not for Winston clearing his throat from the clearing's edge.
"Sorry to interrupt," he said drily, "but our luck won't hold forever. We need a plan. Or at least a place to rest where we won't be ambushed."
They skirted around the thick roots, winding deeper into the forest. The moon hung above, casting patterns of silver across the moss. Each step reminded him how unsteady he felt in Avalon. The ground pulsed faintly, as if the land was reminding him it's alive and aware of his presence. He shivered. At times, he caught glimpses of swirling illusions in the corner of his vision, half-formed specters dancing beyond the trees—manifestations of ancient spells or the forest's own soul.
A branch snapped overhead; a hush fell. Adelaide froze, staff appearing in her hand with a near-silent flicker of magic, her eyes scanning the darkness. Albion's heart hammered. He tightened his grip on Excalibur, mind flashing to that brutal fight with the Djinn. The memory churned his stomach: the scorching heat, the raw terror as molten claws raked across his ribs, the desperate moment when he'd nearly collapsed under the sword's power. If Adelaide hadn't urged him forward, he might have given up. The memory of that creature's final screams still haunted him.
Nothing emerged from the darkness, though, and after a few tense seconds, Adelaide motioned for them to continue. Winston melted out of the tree line, katana resting on his shoulder. His expression was grim but not unkind. "We're about to have company again. These forests aren't safe."
Adelaide tensed but didn't step away from Albion. "Can you sense how many?" she asked.
Winston shook his head. "Not sure. Enough to be a problem. We should find shelter."
Albion's heart still pounded with leftover emotion, but he forced his focus outward. "There's a clearing—like a sanctuary—ahead. We might hide there."
Winston gave a curt nod. Adelaide swallowed and squeezed Albion's hand before letting it slip free. "We'll finish talking," she promised. "But for now, we survive."
Reluctantly, they broke apart. Adelaide rose, brushing damp leaves from the elbows of her borrowed hoodie. "There used to be an old watchtower near here—somewhere we could at least catch our breath," she suggested, recalling the way time had changed so much of the terrain.
Winston nodded and set off to scout, leaving Albion and Adelaide a brief moment alone. She turned to him, eyes brimming with emotion. "I'm sorry it's all happening so fast," she whispered. "I wanted you to have time to understand everything before you were thrown into a war.
He managed a smile. "Time's never been on our side, has it?"
She shook her head. "But you're here now, and that's all that matters."
He hesitated, then reached out, gently cupping her cheek. "I told you once: if you ever needed me, I'd come back. Well… I'm here."
A tear slid down her face as she covered his hand with her own, leaning into his touch. "Yes," she whispered, voice catching. "You really are."
They reached the sanctuary—a circle of ancient stones half-consumed by moss. At its center rose a gnarled tree, branches twisting into an arch overhead. Winston eyed the perimeter, sword readied. Adelaide pressed her palm against the trunk, lips moving in a silent incantation. A faint green glow shimmered where she touched, like the forest itself recognized her rightful place.
Her expression softened. In that quiet hush, it felt like the battered orphanage resurged in the corners of his memory: the crackling laughter of children, the soft lamplight on her deep green eyes, the swirl of incantations she taught him on rainy nights. Remember, one of those spells had glowed into life beneath her fingertips. Remember.
"Will it hold off intruders?" Albion asked under his breath.
Adelaide's eyes flickered. "For a while. The forest might still honor me as a queen." She paused. "Even if I abandoned that throne."
Albion gently laid a hand on her shoulder. "Duty or not, you saved my life all those years ago. And I—" He broke off, feeling the sting in his chest. "I never repaid you… until now."
For an instant, the forest quieted around them—no rustling leaves, no distant echoes, only the soft glow of the sanctuary's ancient magic. A hush that felt like a promise, as though the orchard of memory and the dreams that haunted them had merged into this single point in time.
Winston returned, stepping over a gnarled root. "There's a path east of here. If we move quickly, we can avoid whatever lurks in the trees. I'll take point."
Adelaide smoothed her hair, adopting the calm composure she once wore as a queen. "Lead on," she said, voice steady.
Albion took up Excalibur, the runes shimmering faintly in the twilight. Before following, he glanced back at the sanctuary's tree. The bark glowed with a final flicker, as if acknowledging them. This forest had waited centuries, he thought, not just for its queen to return—but for a boy who remembered a night of rain.
Adelaide caught his eye, offering a small, hopeful smile. He remembered the orphanage library, the swirl of half-learned spells, the vow he made in the downpour. Find me, she'd once said, in a dream that felt more real than memory. And he had. Over and over.
"Ready?" she asked softly.
He nodded, tears still shining in his eyes but a new resolve burning in his chest. "Ready."
Together, they pushed through the thick undergrowth, forging a path deeper into the Enchanted Forest. The looming pines parted with uncanny timing, as if still remembering the queen who once commanded them. Remnants of old illusions clung to the air, shimmering beneath the canopy. Albion felt them brush against his skin—flickers of the magic Adelaide had used a lifetime ago in that battered orphanage, little spells that once turned the smell of baked bread into a ward against despair.
She slid down onto a moss-covered boulder, pulling him down beside her. Winston kept watch nearby, his presence a reassuring anchor.
Together, they left the clearing's protection and stepped into the deeper shadows of the Enchanted Forest. Their footsteps soon faded, leaving behind only the faint hum of old magic in a grove that had borne witness to more than one quiet miracle.
They had no idea what new battles awaited. But for now, at least, a promise was honored. He had come back. And so, hand in hand with the queen who had once been Miss Adele, Albion strode into a future he could neither predict nor deny—one woven from heartbreak and destiny, from children's laughter and the hush of ancient forests, and from the unwavering conviction that hope, once offered, would always be repaid.
He no longer felt like a boy hiding from the rain. He was walking into it—hand in hand with the queen who once taught him how to endure the storm… and listen for the quiet hope inside the thunder.