NOVEL NEXT Chapter 33: Under the Midday Sun
"The sky remembers what the earth forgets. Magic carves both."
The vault of the sky stretched overhead in an unbroken expanse of teal, pierced only by the pale, ghostlike outline of one of Avalon's twin moons lingering in daylight. Albion's and Adele's feet trod along a long-forgotten ribbon of gravel and history—a path whose every crunch echoed with whispered memories of ancient battles. Behind them, the charred ruins of Charlevoix lay scattered like the bones of an ancient beast, its once-proud walls now softened by Adele's rare and gentle magic. Ivy twined around reborn archways, wildflowers burst defiantly from the cracks in stone, and butterflies drifted lazily over sunlit courtyards. Half the ruined buildings glowed from within—a quiet testament to Avalon's enduring promise of renewal.
At noon, the sun reigned high, its scorching rays stretching long, stark shadows across the scarred plains. Albion felt the heat seep into his skin, a constant reminder that while nature healed, the scars of the past remained etched into every grain of earth. He stole a glance at Adele—her silhouette, framed by dark, wind-tossed hair and the low hood of her cloak, emerged like a living portrait against the relentless light. In that fleeting moment, with Avalon's vast mysteries ahead and endless miles yet to tread, the two shared a silent communion of solace and resolve.
"We've seen better days," Albion remarked with a wry smile—his voice light with dry humor yet weighted by loss. "At least the heavens aren't crying."
Adele's eyes crinkled in response. "No, they're not. But these legs will surely remember every step, long after the memory fades." Her teasing tone, mingled with a trace of fatigue, rekindled in Albion a long-dormant warmth—a remembrance of simpler times when hope was an unburdened song.
Their boots pounded a steady cadence along the road, their sound mingling with the soft rustle of leaves stirred by a gentle wind. The scarred fields of Charlevoix gradually yielded to rolling hills and, finally, to the embrace of an ancient forest. Towering evergreens stood like steadfast sentinels, their boughs heavy with the whispers of old incantations. Here, the very air thrummed with magic—a language spoken in the rustle of vine, the shimmer of dew on revived stone, and the delightful absence of impending murder. Albion adjusted the strap of his bag, which had begun to bite into his shoulder like a particularly clingy bat, and glanced sideways at Adele.
She was humming. Actually humming.
"Alright," he said, with a sidelong smirk. "What's with the sunshine-and-lollipops routine? You just survived a duel, a near-ambush, and possibly several war crimes. And you're humming."
She flicked a glance at him, then at the grey-teal sky. "We're alive. We're out. And for once, no one's calling me a heretic at sword-point. That's worth a hum."
"I'd argue your pitch isn't," he said.
She kicked a pebble at him.
They were walking along an overgrown trail, boots squelching in the kind of mud that stuck to souls. Albion's hair had dried into a shape best described as accidental scarecrow, and his clothes had achieved a post-apocalyptic patina somewhere between field-rottedand museum-eligible.
Adele, on the other hand, still looked annoyingly composed—except for the mud streak across her cheek like war paint. "So," she said, glancing at him like she was about to ask something vaguely incriminating, "when's the last time you showered?"
Albion opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "…Define shower."
She blinked. "No."
"Does it count if it involved standing in a military barrack's sink and using a ration packet of soap?"
"No."
He sighed dramatically. "Then, uh. The war camp. A few weeks ago. Possibly a month. Ish."
"You infiltrated a war camp," she repeated slowly, like she'd just discovered he moonlighted as a circus juggler. "And you didn't get caught."
He shrugged. "I was disguised."
"In what?" She scanned his muddy face, unmistakably a Pendragon. "Optimism and bad posture?"
"Magic," he said innocently.
"Define magic."
"My magic clothes. Half a glamour spell. Some sleight of hand. A very convincing limp. Also I told them I was there to fix the plumbing."
"You're joking."
"I had a wrench. I stole it from a mechanic. He had a purple ferret in his pocket."
She was now laughing so hard she had to stop walking. "You're—wait. You—fix the plumbing?!"
"Yeah. Technically I did fix a leak in the mess tent. So I think I'm morally in the clear."
Adele wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her cloak, which was also muddy but clearly not sacred to her like Albion's hideous boots were. "Alright," she gasped. "That's it. You're getting a shower."
"I already told you I'm clean-ish."
"You're clean-adjacent. That doesn't count." She stepped back, raised her hands, closed her eyes and traced a rune in the air. Wind stirred. Sparkles flickered. Albion blinked—and suddenly, he was soaked. Fully soaked. Shirt clinging, water cascading from his curls, his boots making sloshy noises that could only be described as sorrowful.
He stood there, dripping indignation. "…You did not."
"You smell better already," Adele said primly, and summoned a towel from nowhere like a smug conjurer.
"You could've warned me!"
"I could've. But then I wouldn't have this memory."
Albion took the towel like a man accepting his doom with dignity. "Do I get a fresh pair of socks too, or is that extra?"
"Depends. Can you fix my plumbing?"
"Only if the ferret comes as backup."
"Would you like a light breeze instead?"
"No, the towel is fine. Knowing you that light breeze would be a tornado."
"Good, you're learning."
They walked on, the air lighter now with laughter and drizzle. The rain had slowed to a misty hush, trees sighing overhead. Birds returned cautiously to their perches, and the path became less about escape and more about… travel.
Adele cleaned her clothes with a casual snap of her fingers, mud vanishing in swirls of gold light. Albion eyed the spell with envy.
"Teach me that," he said.
She raised a brow. "You've wielded Excalibur and shattered a tenth of Camelot. But sure, let's teach you laundry."
"Exactly. Even legends need clean underwear."
He expected another sarcastic jab, but Adele just smiled—soft and real this time, the kind of smile that didn't need armor.
"You're ridiculous," she said.
"And yet, you're still walking with me."
A beat passed. "Yeah. I am. Don't remind me."
The trail curved ahead. Fog pooled in its edges, soft and inviting. Somewhere beyond lay danger, politics, destiny. But for now, just for this stretch of earth, there was joy and magic and a boy who'd almost forgotten what it meant to smile without flinching.
They walked side by side, boots leaving a pair of overlapping prints in the softened trail behind them—one quiet, one splashing.
After a thoughtful pause, Albion nodded toward a pair of ebony ravens gliding overhead. "Teleportation isn't on our menu today, is it?" he asked, his tone a blend of light banter and quiet vulnerability.
Adele sighed softly, laced with both resignation and humor. "I tried pushing my magic, but I'm still too drained. I'd risk dropping us in the middle of the ocean—and while you might enjoy a dip, I'm not keen on testing the limits by drowning." Her smile was small, yet it carried the ease of knowing the land's secret language; as she stepped, the ground itself acknowledged her craft, leaving behind a brief shimmer of blossoms that faded into the earth.
As they strolled deeper into the forest, shafts of sunlight broke through the dense canopy, illuminating patches of wildflowers and fresh vines clinging to stone ruins—a living canvas curated by Adele's restorative magic. Every so often, delicate butterflies flitted by their vivid colors a sensory reminder that beauty could emerge from ruin. Albion's gaze softened as he watched Adele's measured, graceful steps. "You always said magic isn't merely about casting spells—it's about understanding the world, letting the land speak to you," he murmured.
Adele's eyes shone with quiet pride. "Indeed. Magic is the language of the cosmos. Consider the Bloom Tax—a hierarchy measured by how deeply one comprehends magic's essence. The deeper your understanding, the more potent your craft becomes. I assume Becca's mentioned it." She paused, her gaze drifting over the forest's living tapestry. "I've reached Level 6—a level only a few ever attain. At this level, every spell I cast isn't merely unleashed; it is created, imbued with a permanence that defies death. Unlike lower magic that fades with its caster, my creations endure long after I'm gone."
Albion's eyes widened in awe, touched with wistfulness. "That's remarkable. While most mages leave nothing behind, your magic endures—a living legacy of creation." He chuckled, his laughter a bittersweet mix of self-deprecation and hope. "But every little spark has its worth."
Their conversation eventually melted into the natural music of the forest—the whispering wind, the distant call of unseen creatures—until Albion, with a hesitancy borne of years of unspoken questions, ventured, "Adele, when I pulled that sword from the stone… did you ever sense that it would lead you to capture?"
A fleeting shadow of regret crossed Adele's face. "I did, in a way," she confessed quietly. "The moment your hand closed around the hilt, I felt fate shift—a subtle pull I wished I could have warded off. I hoped Avalon's magic would shield you, but destiny, as ever, writes its own story. Even the most profound power is subject to fate's unpredictable whims."
Their eyes locked in silent communion—a meeting of foreknowledge and vulnerability.
Albion glanced at her—not just with understanding, but something else. Something softer.
"You always talk like you're already fading," he murmured.
Adele's breath caught. "I've spent most of my life watching things die before they bloom. I suppose I try to bloom them fast enough to keep them from leaving."
Albion hesitated. "Then stay a while. Just… stay."
They crested a moss-slick path only to find, unexpectedly, a goat.
It was standing on a boulder in the middle of the trail, chewing serenely on something that was either a map or a very unlucky hat. Its horns were curled, its expression mildly judgmental, and around its neck hung a rusted bell that gave a sad clink every time it shifted weight.
"Is this… normal?" Albion asked, halting mid-step.
Adele blinked. "I don't know. Do your runes detect livestock-related omens?"
Albion frowned. "No, but I feel vaguely challenged by its presence."
The goat blinked at him. Slowly. Then resumed chewing.
Albion took a cautious step forward. "Hey, buddy. Mind moving?"
The goat remained atop its mossy throne, unimpressed.
Adele crossed her arms. "Maybe it's a spirit guardian."
"It's a goat, Adele."
"Have you tried respecting its culture, Albion?"
"Okay, great. We've entered the part of the journey where I lose arguments to farm animals."
The goat let out a snort that might have been laughter.
Adele crouched slightly and squinted. "Wait… is that a sigil on its bell?"
Albion leaned in too, squinting. "Looks like… a stylized sun?"
"Elven, maybe. Old border warding?"
"…Or it was just owned by a very dramatic shepherd."
"Probably Becca's lost goat."
"Very her," his eyes saddened for a moment.
The goat, clearly growing bored, hopped off the boulder with a thunk, sauntered past them, and disappeared down the path—leaving behind, inexplicably, a single scroll where it had stood.
Albion looked at it. Then at Adele. "Okay."
"Nope," she said. "Don't ask me."
He picked it up, unrolled it—and found a very detailed, very unnecessary recipe for a bread stew involving acorns, four cloves of garlic, and something ominously labeled 'Moonmeoluc.'
They stood in silence.
"Prophetic?" he offered weakly.
Adele nodded solemnly. "Clearly. The path has decreed our next trial is making soup."
He rolled up the scroll and tucked it under his arm. "I'm not cooking anything that comes from goat warmed paper."
They started walking again, side by side. The trail had cleared, the air smelled faintly of pine and something herbal, and Albion's boots made a satisfying squelch with every third step.
After a few quiet paces, Adele elbowed him gently. "Do you… want to find a kitchen and actually try making it?"
Albion blinked. "Is that your way of flirting with me?"
"No," she said. Then, very dryly: "If I flirted with you, you'd combust."
He considered that. "Fair."
In the dense twilight beneath the forest canopy, every sound and scent spoke a secret language that both humbled and emboldened the travelers. The forest floor was a quilt of moss and ancient leaves, damp with the memory of last night's dew. As they moved farther from the well-worn road, time itself seemed to slow; each step was both deliberate and reverent.
Albion's hand, calloused from years of adventuring and paperwork, brushed aside a curtain of ferns. The touch was gentle, almost apologetic, as if he sought to mend the scarred earth by simply acknowledging its pain. Nearby, a brook, hidden by intertwining roots and ferns, whispered over smooth stones—a sound that resonated deep within his bones, echoing with the legacy of lost souls and forgotten heroes.
Adele, attuned to the subtle pulse of the land, knelt beside a cluster of silver-barked saplings. Her fingers hovered above the fragile new growth, and the saplings trembled as if in anticipation of her touch. With each subtle motion, the air shimmered faintly with magic—the soft, luminescent glow of her restorative power. She did not speak; instead, she let the forest's murmurs, and the distant clamor of ancient memories fill the silence between them.
Albion watched her, transfixed by the interplay of light and life around her fingertips. He recalled distant memories: childhood afternoons spent in wild orchards, the laughter of companions long faded into myth, and the quiet power of nature that had once soothed his soul after endless battles. His mind, usually so tethered to duty and regret, now wandered in a gentle reverie as he observed how every blade of grass and every tender shoot whispered of rebirth.
The trail twisted through dripping woods, puddles blooming across the path. After a while, Adele conjured another charm—a kind of traveling shield that repelled most of the muck and softened the wind. It glowed faintly gold, casting them in a warm cocoon.
They reached a crumbling wayside rest—what must once have been a charming roadside café, now just a sagging bench and a faded wooden table under a broken awning.
"Break?" Adele offered.
Albion collapsed onto the bench like a dying Victorian poet. "God, yes. My feet are suing me for emotional damage."
She conjured two battered tin mugs and poured steaming tea from a conjured kettle—small magics, woven deftly, practical as breathing. Albion accepted his mug gingerly, eyeing it like it might explode.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
"Careful," she said. "It's hot moonmeoluc."
"From the goat paper," Albion looked at the cup wearily, "I don't know about this?"
"If you rather starve be my guest," Adele pouted, then smiled.
He tried to lift it like a medieval knight lifting Excalibur. Fumbled. Sloshed milk tea onto his hand.
"OW."
Adele bit her lip to hide her laughter. "Good lord, Albion, it's a mug, not a cursed artifact."
"I was raised by wolves," he muttered, blowing on it and scowling.
"Apparently very clumsy wolves."
He shot her a look of pure betrayal, then took a triumphant sip—too large, too fast—and promptly choked.
"Graceful," Adele noted, dabbing her mouth with an imaginary napkin.
Between coughs, Albion gasped, "I'm immune to normal human weakness."
"Mmm. Yes. You definitely screamed in that very heroic way."
"I didn't scream. I breathed aggressively."
She chuckled into her tea. "Of course."
Another sip. Albion's eyes drooped dangerously. The warmth of the tea, the magic-warmed air, and the lull of relative safety began dragging his exhausted body downward like quicksand.
He shook his head sharply, trying to rally. "I'm immune to sleep aids, too."
"Uh-huh."
"I could stay up for days," he mumbled.
"You're drooling."
"No I'm—"
And then he pitched sideways with all the slow inevitability of a falling oak tree—landing against Adele's shoulder in a damp, sleepy heap.
She froze, mid-sip, looking down at the puddle of Pendragon slumped against her like a feral cat who had decided this is my spot now.
"Immune to sleep aids, he says," she whispered to no one, smoothing his wild curls out of his eyes. "Unstoppable force, he says."
He snored once, indignantly, like his soul objected to being mocked even in unconsciousness.
The tea cooled. The rain softened to mist. Fog wreathed the broken café. And for a little while, in a world broken by kings and swords and impossible wars, there was just a tired boy leaning against a girl who was slightly less tired than him, sipping cold tea and pretending she hadn't been worried at all.
Slowly, a smirk tugged at her mouth.
Albion stirred, made a small, mortified noise, and sat bolt upright so fast he almost fell off the bench.
"I was, uh," he said with the brittle confidence of a man who absolutely had not planned any of this, "strategically resting. Tactical napping. You know. Field operations."
Adele just raised an eyebrow. "On me?"
"You have a sturdy… aura," Albion said, instantly regretting every life choice that had led to this moment.
"Sturdy aura," she repeated flatly.
"Battle-tested," he added lamely, like that made it better.
She snorted, folding her arms tighter just to stop herself from laughing outright. "Next time you invade my personal space, Pendragon, at least buy me dinner first."
He coughed into his fist. "I'll add it to my war crimes list."
Then—because he couldn't help it—he leaned back against her shoulder again, on purpose this time.
"Tactical," he muttered, already half-asleep again.
Adele sighed, exasperated but deeply, deeply amused. "Hopeless," she said under her breath.
But she didn't move.
Albion, still damp despite Adele's earlier magical intervention, grumbled sleepily about how wet his boots were. Adele listened with half a smirk, adjusting her cloak to make room.
"You can sit closer," she said without looking at him. "So you don't freeze. Just don't get any ideas."
Albion, half-asleep already, mumbled, "No ideas. Only regrets."
And like that, he leaned into her side—warm and exhausted—and passed out within minutes.
Adele sighed, resigned, as he started snoring softly against her shoulder.
"You're lucky you're pitiful," she muttered, but she didn't push him off.
Early dawn.
Albion jolted awake to the sound of birds arguing above them. Adele was already up, brushing dirt from her cloak and looking very pleased with herself.
"You drooled again," she said without preamble.
Adele looked away too quickly, her laughter catching for a half-beat on something heavier. She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear with unnecessary precision, as if smoothing out the vulnerability that had almost slipped free. Albion was too busy muttering about dignity to notice—but the moment lingered like a secret.
He blinked. "What?"
"On my sleeve. Like a baby wyvern."
Albion turned an alarming shade of red and immediately began fumbling for a denial, but she just tossed him a piece of bread and conjured ham.
"Eat. You'll need your strength for all the shame."
He groaned into the bread while she laughed and packed up their things, the sunrise catching the edges of her smile.
The path beneath them wound like a river of memories, leading deeper into a realm where time lost its usual sharp edges. Sunlight broke through the branches in fleeting, golden bursts—a reminder that even the darkest places could be touched by hope. At one point, a pair of luminescent moths, their wings dusted with stardust, circled around them, as if heralding the advent of a long-anticipated miracle.
As they pressed on, the forest revealed more of its hidden treasures. Albion paused before an ancient stone bridge, its surface etched with faded runes and adorned by delicate climbing ivy. He knelt, his rough hands tracing the intricate designs carved by long-dead hands. In that tactile moment, the weight of history pressed upon him, and he sensed the myriad lives that had once sought refuge beneath these very arches. In the play of light on stone, he saw reflections of his own journey—a mosaic of triumphs and failures, each etched into the fabric of time.
Adele joined him, her eyes soft as she regarded the weathered runes. "Each mark tells a story," she murmured, not with words but with the touch of her hand on the cool stone. "This bridge, like so many things in Avalon, is not merely a relic of the past—it's a living reminder that every ending can bloom into a new beginning." Her tone was imbued with the quiet certainty of one who had seen both the sorrow and the joy of regeneration.
They resumed their journey along a narrow, winding trail that led them to a clearing rimmed with silver birch trees. The trees stood slender and graceful, their pale bark glowing in the soft, diffuse light of late morning. Here, the air was filled with the soft murmur of leaves and the gentle clatter of acorns tumbling to the ground. It was a place where time seemed to breathe, each rustle a heartbeat in the symphony of nature.
In the midst of the clearing lay a small pool, its surface mirroring the sky in a crystalline perfection that belied the rough world beyond. Albion knelt beside it and dipped his fingers into the cool water. The ripples danced outward, scattering light in intricate patterns that spoke of hidden depths and secret journeys. For a moment, he saw his own reflection—a face etched with battles fought and scars earned, yet softened by the quiet wonder of the world around him.
Adele stood nearby, her gaze drifting from the pool to the distant treetops. "There is magic in every ripple," she observed softly, her voice almost merging with the whisper of the wind. "Every disturbance in the water is a story, a fleeting glimpse of change that never truly fades." In that moment, the pool became a mirror not just of the sky but of the ever-changing soul of Avalon itself.
Their conversation, sparse and laden with meaning, gave way to a comfortable silence. The forest, with all its vibrant, living detail, spoke in metaphors and allegories that needed no translation. Every leaf, every ray of sun, and every murmuring breeze told a tale of rebirth—a tapestry woven from the threads of history, magic, and hope.
As afternoon deepened into dusk, the forest began to shift. The vibrant greens gave way to hues of deep indigo and violet, and the first stars blinked awake in the vast expanse above. Lantern-like fireflies emerged from hidden crevices, their gentle glow reminiscent of tiny beacons heralding the coming night. The air grew cooler, and a soft mist began to rise from the forest floor, swirling around the travelers' feet like ethereal dancers.
Albion felt a shiver—one not born of the dropping temperature, but of the profound stillness that enveloped him. He recalled the warmth of old campfires, and the laughter of comrades long departed, their memories mingling with the night's embrace. The subtle scent of pine and damp earth filled his senses, each inhalation a reminder of the cycles of decay and renewal that governed this enchanted land.
In the soft light of dusk, the forest's magic took on a more mysterious quality. Shadows moved in silent, graceful choreography along ancient trunks, and the wind carried faint echoes of forgotten songs. It was as if the very soul of Avalon had gathered here to share its wisdom in the language of nature—a language that required no words, only the willingness to listen.
Adele led the way along a narrow footpath bordered by clusters of luminous fungi and delicate ferns whose fronds unfurled like the petals of a secret flower. Her presence seemed to encourage the forest itself to reveal its hidden wonders. At one bend, the pair paused before a towering oak whose gnarled branches stretched like welcoming arms. High above, nestled among the leaves, a single silver blossom shimmered in the twilight—a symbol of hope amid the encroaching darkness. For a long moment, Albion and Adele stood in silent reverence, the beauty of the moment speaking volumes about the resilience of life in even the most forsaken places.
As the path wound onward, the terrain grew steeper, and the soft murmur of the forest gave way to a hushed, almost sacred quiet. The ground was carpeted with a mosaic of fallen leaves, each one a tiny repository of autumn's fleeting glory. Albion found himself slowing his pace, not out of weariness, but to savor each small marvel: a dew-laden spiderweb shimmering in a stray beam of light, a solitary red leaf twirling on a gentle breeze, and the distant call of a nightingale whose song was both melancholy and hopeful.
In this realm of shifting light and silent eloquence, time seemed to blur. Memories of battles and burdens receded, replaced by an overwhelming sense of being part of something far greater than himself. The forest, in all its living majesty, became a sanctuary where the soul could be both raw and renewed—a place where every scar, every whispered regret, could be transmuted into a spark of creation.
They emerged from the dense woods onto a ridge that overlooked a vast valley. The view was breathtaking: rolling mists swept across fields of emerald, and the setting sun painted the horizon in hues of gold and crimson. Albion stood transfixed, his eyes tracing the silhouettes of distant mountains and the winding river that meandered through the land like a silver thread of fate. In that moment, the enormity of Avalon's legacy pressed upon him—the myriad stories, joys, and sorrows that were interwoven with every breath of the wind.
Adele joined him at the edge of the ridge, her gaze following his. "Every land bears its wounds, and every wound its healing," she said softly, her voice carried away by the cool evening air. "This valley, with all its scars, sings a hymn of renewal. Even the deepest hurts are transformed under the patient caress of nature." Her words, delicate and unadorned, resonated with the quiet certainty of a truth known only to those who have seen the cycles of decay and rebirth.
As night fully descended, the valley below transformed into a realm of shimmering shadows and luminous glimmers. The distant lights of small hamlets, like fireflies scattered over a vast tapestry, spoke of lives continuing amid hardship. Albion felt both a pang of sorrow for all that had been lost and a deep, abiding hope for what might yet be salvaged from the ruins of time. The air was filled with the murmurs of nocturnal creatures and the gentle rhythm of nature's eternal cycle.
In the silent communion of that midnight hour, Albion and Adele found themselves drawn into quiet introspection. They set up a modest camp beneath a canopy of ancient pines, whose branches intertwined overhead to form a living cathedral of shadow and starlight. Over a small, carefully tended fire, their faces were lit in flickering amber, revealing lines of weariness, determination, and the quiet strength of souls who had seen both beauty and sorrow in equal measure.
Albion rubbed the back of his neck, feeling strangely self-conscious. "You know… while you were gone, I finally got Excalibur to stop trying to kill me. Mostly."
Adelaide turned her head, arching an eyebrow so sharply it could have cut through steel. "Well, I'm thrilled you were having fun while I was rotting in a prison cell," she said, voice light, but her eyes darker than her tone let on.
Albion gave a small, helpless laugh. "Yeah, because getting electrocuted by sentient lightning and being verbally abused by a magical blacksmith counts as fun now."
She snorted, a genuine grin breaking through the veneer of exhaustion. "I mean, sounds like a pretty standard day for you."
He chuckled, the sound low and a little rough around the edges. Then he shifted slightly, turning toward her, expression tightening into something more serious.
His voice dropped—quieter, like a truth not meant to be spoken aloud but impossible to hold back any longer.
"I missed you," he said simply. No theatrics. No bravado. Just a fact laid bare between them."I kept thinking about you. Wondering if you were even still…" He stopped, shook his head as if trying to shake off the weight. "I don't know. It's stupid, but… even before I really knew who you were—before remembering—I felt something. A spark."
Adelaide blinked, caught off-guard by the honesty punching through his usual stubborn shell. Her mouth opened like she meant to say something clever, but nothing came out.
Albion gave a breathless, almost embarrassed laugh.
"I can't believe I felt that way about someone I barely understood. Someone the world practically built temples to, and I just…" He shrugged helplessly. "You were just you. And that was enough."
For a moment, neither of them moved.
The silence stretched—not cold, not awkward, but dense with all the things they weren't ready to say.
Finally, Adelaide shook her head, smiling crookedly.
"Well," she said, voice rougher than before, "if it helps… I liked you better before you knew how doomed you were."
He grinned at that, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders.
"Yeah. Me too."
He chuckled, then caught her gaze—really caught it. There was a quiet grief there, buried deep, like a wound that hadn't yet stopped bleeding.
He shifted closer, voice softer.
"I thought about you. Every time. Every time I got knocked down or messed up, I thought, 'She'd laugh her ass off if she saw this.'"
Adelaide's smile faltered for a heartbeat, something fragile flickering across her face. She looked down, fiddling absently with the hem of her hoodie. "Yeah, well. You've always been good at making an idiot of yourself. At least you stayed consistent."
"Consistent is the only thing I could be without you around," he said, half a whisper.
There was a long pause, not heavy, just… real. The kind that settled in your chest like something earned instead of stolen.
Finally, she nudged his boot with hers, just lightly, just enough.
"Next time," she said, voice tight but teasing, "you don't get to have all the fun. You're dragging me along. Sword stabbings, frying pan assaults, the works."
He grinned at her, warmth stirring somewhere behind all the scars.
"Deal."
They laughed, quiet and slow. And for a moment, they weren't soldiers or survivors. Just two people under a sky that didn't demand anything of them.
While the fire crackled and sent sparks dancing into the dark, the two companions spoke in hushed tones of legends and lessons. Albion recalled ancient tales of heroes who had once walked these lands—stories of valor, of mistakes, and of destiny. Myths and stories that were now confirmed real, an archaeologist's wet dream. Adele, her eyes reflecting the dancing flames, spoke of Avalon's deep-rooted magic as if it were a living, breathing entity. She described how every spell cast, every scar of the land, was a note in an endless symphony—a song that, when truly heard, revealed the secret architecture of fate.
Between the crackles of fire and the soft murmur of the nocturnal forest, Albion's thoughts wandered to the moments when destiny had danced at the edges of his life. He remembered the day he had drawn the sword from the stone—a moment when the mundane and the miraculous converged in a flash of light and inevitability. Now, as the night deepened, that memory stirred within him like a half-forgotten refrain, a reminder of both the burdens he carried and the spark of hope that still burned bright in his heart.
The hours slipped by slowly, each moment imbued with the tactile magic of the wilderness: the rough bark of a pine beneath his hand, the whisper of wind through the leaves, and the soft, persistent glow of fireflies that appeared like scattered embers in the darkness. In that enchanted interlude, carried across time like a secret remembered by the earth itself, the weight of fate seemed to lighten, replaced by the simple, elemental truth that even amid loss, there remained beauty—an eternal promise that every ending held the seeds of a new beginning.
"Adele," Albion said, voice low.
She turned, the firelight casting gold across her cheekbones.
"There's something I want to say. I just…" He paused, words heavy in his mouth. "I don't want to say it if you're planning to leave again."
Her eyes held his. "Then don't say it yet."
"But you already know what it is."
"I do," she whispered. "And I want to hear it when it doesn't have to sound like goodbye."
Albion leaned back slowly, eyes on the sky.
"Then promise me," he said quietly, "that we'll make it to a moment that isn't goodbye."
Adele didn't answer with words. She just reached over, took his hand in the dark, and held it until the stars began to fade.
By the time the fire had dwindled to soft coals, dawn's faint blush began to edge the horizon. Albion and Adele stirred as the forest awoke to a new day—a day whose gentle light promised both healing and challenge. The night had been a crucible of quiet revelation, and as they prepared to rise, there was a shared understanding between them that the journey was far from over. Every step forward was both a tribute to the past and an invitation to the unknown wonders of Avalon.
Slowly, they packed their modest camp, the crisp morning air carrying away the last vestiges of night's quiet magic. The dew that clung to the grass sparkled like tiny diamonds in the newborn light. In the hush of early morning, as birds began their gentle chorus, Albion felt his spirit buoyed by the memory of the night's soft revelations—the murmurs of ancient voices, the silent witness of nature's enduring resilience, and the quiet strength that flowed between him and Adele.
As they resumed their journey, the landscape transformed once more. The valley gave way to gently sloping meadows where wild grasses swayed in a delicate dance with the breeze. Each blade of grass, each delicate petal that brushed against their legs, was a testament to the land's ceaseless determination to live and to heal. The air was perfumed with the scent of blossoms and the tang of fresh earth—a sensory reminder that even amid the scars of the past, life had an uncanny way of emerging, resilient and defiant.
Albion's thoughts turned inward as he walked. The gentle rhythm of his steps, the soft murmur of Adele's quiet conversation, and the steady cadence of nature itself wove together into a tapestry of reflective solitude. In those moments, he recalled every hardship he'd ever known and the quiet persistence that had carried him through countless trials. Yet, as the day advanced and the light grew bolder, there was also a stirring of hope—a luminous promise that every faltering step might eventually lead to transformation.
Adele, ever attuned to the subtle pulses of the land, occasionally paused to touch a flowering branch or trace the lines of ancient stone with her fingertips. With each gesture, she seemed to draw strength from the earth, her magic mingling effortlessly with the wild, uncharted energy of the world. Her eyes, reflective and clear, often met Albion's with a knowing glance—a silent exchange of courage and vulnerability that needed no words.
They traversed paths that wound through ancient groves where time itself appeared to hold its breath. Here, in these hallowed spaces, the natural world revealed its unspoken truths: a lichen-coated boulder that had witnessed centuries of change, a cluster of mushrooms that sprouted like secret offerings from the forest floor, and the gentle cadence of a hidden waterfall that sang a lullaby of renewal. Each detail was rendered with vivid clarity—a show of nature's artistry that spoke louder than any narration of events.
In one such moment, as the pair crossed a narrow stone bridge over a bubbling creek, Albion paused to watch water droplets scatter like liquid diamonds into the sunlight. The creek's clear voice murmured secrets of the past and dreams of what might be. He could almost hear the echoes of old battles and the tender refrain of nature's reclamation—a song of loss, of hope, and of a future yet unwritten. Adele's hand rested briefly on his arm, and together they shared a moment of quiet communion with the elemental forces that had shaped their world.
The day wore on in a symphony of sights and sounds—each one a brushstroke on the vast canvas of Avalon. They crossed meadows where the wind carried whispers of ancient lore, and wandered along paths bordered by wild lavender and thyme. The interplay of light and shadow, the delicate interplay of scent and sound, all fused into a sensory tapestry that rendered every step a transformative experience.
As afternoon melted into a mellow, honeyed twilight, the landscape itself began to shimmer with the promise of something otherworldly. Distant mountains, bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun, hinted at realms where magic was not confined to the seen but roamed free in every whisper of the wind. In this luminous interlude, the world around Albion and Adele seemed to pulse with a secret rhythm—a heartbeat that resonated with both the fierce power of creation and the gentle persistence of renewal.
As they rested at the water's edge, Adele sat close—closer than usual. Their shoulders brushed.
Albion didn't move away.
Her fingers, cool from the stream, brushed against his hand, hesitant at first.
He turned his palm upward. Inviting.
She laced her fingers through his.
For a moment, Albion forgot the war, the sword, the thrones and ruins left behind. There was only this: a simple, quiet tether anchoring him to a world that hadn't yet burned him away. Her hand in his was not a promise, but it was something close—a fragile act of faith he hadn't dared hope for. He squeezed her fingers slightly, as if afraid that if he let go, he'd vanish back into smoke and forgotten names.
The travelers found themselves nearing the outskirts of a vast, enchanted glen, its edges crowned by ancient oaks whose mighty limbs reached toward the heavens. Here, the earth was soft with moss and the air was alive with the scent of wild honeysuckle and damp loam. Every step forward was an immersion into the realm of magic—a journey that transcended mere movement and became a meditation on the interconnectedness of all things.
In the heart of the glen, they discovered a natural amphitheater, its curves formed by weathered stone and crowned by a living vault of intertwined branches. It was here that nature's performance unfolded in silent majesty—a dance of light, shadow, and color that defied the transient and celebrated the eternal. Albion sat for a long while on a smooth stone, his eyes following the graceful flight of a solitary falcon as it soared above, a living symbol of freedom and the unbound spirit of Avalon.
Adele, too, lingered in quiet reflection, her gaze fixed on the play of colors that transformed the glen into a living tapestry of emotion. In that suspended moment, they both understood that every step they had taken—every hardship and every quiet joy—had led them to this point of sublime convergence. The forest, the meadows, the whispered voices of ancient magic—they all spoke in a language older than time, one that required no translation, only the willingness to be deeply present.
Slowly, as if in deference to the sacred rhythms of the land, the time came for the two travelers to rise once again. Their footsteps, now imbued with the memory of every glimmering detail and every whispered secret of the wild, led them back toward the familiar yet ever-transformed path—the path that would guide them to the final threshold, where destiny and magic converged in one luminous embrace. Their journey—enriched by the memory of a restored Charlevoix and the promise of enduring magic—was not an escape but a benediction for what was yet to come.