A Rise of the Cursed [Epic Fantasy | Arthurian Myth | Destiny as Choice | Slow-Burn Stakes]

The snow had long since ceased its gentle descent by the time Albion, Adele, and Alen resumed their journey through the Sunken Canyons. The low sun cast pale, elongated shadows over the frozen landscape, its feeble light accentuating the treacherous glitter of ice. Though the icy wind had momentarily calmed, a deep, biting cold still clung to the air, making every breath slice through the silence.

Albion pulled his cloak tighter as they navigated a narrow pass between two jagged cliffs. The canyon walls soared overhead, their frozen surfaces glittering with residual magic in the wan light. Every step on the slick, snow-dusted path demanded care, each footprint a testament to their fragile progress.

Alen led the way, his golem—its massive, rune-etched form leaving deep impressions in the snow—trailing silently behind him. Albion's eyes never strayed far from Alen, ever alert for any sign of deceit. He desperately wanted to believe that Alen was no longer a solider, that he had truly abandoned the Empire. Yet Albion knew too well that trust was as brittle as the ice underfoot.

Beside him, Adele moved with a determined grace, her eyes sharp and focused despite the distance. Her voice had been silent since their confrontation in the alcove, and Albion could sense the lingering tension in her measured steps. He remembered the fleeting moment earlier when her gaze had softened ever so slightly as she looked at Alen—a silent, conflicted pause that betrayed her guarded heart, torn between suspicion and the desire to believe.

After several hours of cautious trekking, Alen halted at the edge of a steep drop. Below, the canyon floor spread into a vast, frozen expanse, dotted with jagged rocks and sheets of shimmering ice. In the distance, the faint outline of a ruin—an ancient structure half-buried by time—emerged from the blizzard of memory.

"We're close," Alen said in a low, even tone, pointing toward the distant ruin. "There's a passage through the canyon over there that'll take us further west, toward the next ridge."

Albion nodded, though his attention was drawn to the ruins. Something about that place felt profoundly off—the air around it thickened with a denser, oppressive magic. He couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. Adele stepped closer, her eyes narrowing as she studied the looming structure.

"Do you feel that?" she whispered.

"Yeah," Albion murmured, scanning the endless white. "I have a bad feeling about this."

Her expression hardened further. "We should be cautious. In the tundra, it's not the cold that kills you first — it's thinking you have time. The winds will strip the heat from your bones faster than you can pray, and the snow will cover your tracks so deep even death won't find you for a week. You lose your bearings out here, and you're already dead. You just haven't hit the ground yet."

Albion paused and stared at her, "Well that was dark."

Alen's shoulders tensed imperceptibly at her words—perhaps a flicker of memories he'd rather leave buried. Without another word, they descended the narrow, slippery path. Every step was fraught with danger; the ice threatened to claim them with each misstep. The deeper they ventured, the more the air buzzed with a low hum of ancient magic, as if the canyon itself murmured warnings.

At last, they reached the canyon floor where the ruins loomed larger—a crumbling temple half-swallowed by frost and time. Alen stopped just a few feet from a broken pillar that marked the temple's entrance.

"This used to be a temple," he said quietly, his voice heavy with lost time. "Long before the Empire's shadow fell upon this land."

Albion frowned. "What kind of temple?"

Alen shook his head slowly. "I'm not certain. The magic here is… different. Older. Nothing crosses its threshold."

Adele's eyes narrowed as she scrutinized him. "And what about you, Alen? Have you been inside?"

He met her gaze steadily. "I've been before. There's a route through these ruins that leads to the next canyon, but we must tread carefully."

A cold gust swept through as they stepped beneath the archway and into the temple's shadowy interior. The air inside was unnaturally frigid, more biting than the canyon outside. Strange, intricate carvings adorned the walls—mysterious symbols whose meanings had been lost to time—and the floor was cracked, the ice having carved its own paths through the stone.

Albion advanced cautiously, his sword drawn, every sense on high alert. The oppressive silence of the temple was deafening, disturbed only by their echoing footsteps and the occasional creak of settling stone. A palpable, almost sentient energy filled the space, as if the ancient magic watched them from the darkness.

Suddenly, Adele halted and raised her hand. Albion froze. In the dim light, beyond a collapsed pillar, a faint glow pulsed—a spectral light that seemed not entirely natural.

"What is that?" Albion whispered.

Adele shook her head, her voice barely more than a breath. "I don't know. But it doesn't feel right."

Alen stepped forward, his eyes narrowing as he studied the glow. "It could be a trap—magical or physical. We'd best avoid it."

Reluctantly, they pressed on, distancing themselves from the eerie luminescence. The glow faded behind them, but the lingering pulse of magic persisted in the air like a heartbeat, an ominous reminder of the temple's ancient power.

The deeper they moved into the temple, the worse the cold became—not sharper, but hollower, as if the air itself had been stripped of all life. The walls around them seemed to press closer, the intricate carvings catching the weak light like a thousand staring eyes.

Without warning, the floor beneath Adele's boot gave a faint tremor—a vibration so subtle Albion almost missed it.

He tensed, scanning the room. Nothing moved.

But then the carvings caught his eye. They weren't just designs anymore.

The figures etched into the stone—the warriors, the beasts, the old gods—had begun to shift.

First in minor ways: a spear lowered, a pair of etched eyes turned to meet his.

Albion blinked hard, but when he opened his eyes, the figures had moved again. Faster this time. Their stone mouths twisted open in silent screams, their bodies arching toward the floor.

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"The walls," Albion whispered, taking a cautious step back. "They're—"

"Watching," Adele finished grimly.

A low hum began to fill the temple, so deep it thrummed in their bones. The glow they had avoided earlier pulsed once—twice—and then spread, thin tendrils of light creeping along the cracks in the floor like searching fingers.

Albion's instincts screamed: move.

"We need to go," Adele said sharply, already pivoting toward the path they came from.

But the way back was gone.

Stone had folded over it like a wound sealing shut, the carvings now crowding the surface—faces pressed tight together, whispering things too soft to hear but too cold to mistake for anything human.

Alen swore under his breath, reaching for a charm at his belt. "It's reshaping itself," he said grimly. "It's not hunting. It's… inviting."

The hum rose, vibrating in Albion's ribs. As he watched, one of the carved figures on the wall extended a hand outward, the stone fingers lengthening, stretching into the real world.

"Exit. Now," Adele snapped.

They broke into a run, Albion nearly slipping on the slick, frozen floor. Around them, the temple seemed to breathe, the walls flexing inward as if drawing them into a stone lung.

The carvings writhed, no longer confined to the walls. Figures of half-formed bodies and faces strained against the stone, reaching, pleading, mocking.

Just ahead—a narrow fissure of faint light.

An exit.

Albion didn't think. He grabbed Adele's wrist and hauled her forward, Alen pounding the ground behind them, the distant cries of the stone faces growing louder, closer.

As they sprinted, the glow from the carvings dimmed—not fading, but drawing back into the walls as if disappointed.

The temple let them go.

But not before Albion heard, just at the edge of hearing, a voice slither out of the stone, soft and ancient: "You'll be back. I'll be waiting."

At the far end of the temple, they discovered a narrow passage leading back into the canyon. As they emerged, the biting wind slammed into them once more, a harsh contrast to the oppressive calm inside.

He stumbled into the open air, his lungs burning with cold, and didn't look back.

Adele wrenched her wrist from Albion's grip, panting. For a second, their eyes met—raw, shell-shocked—but neither spoke. Alen doubled over, coughing hard, as if the cold couldn't scrape the temple's poison from his lungs.

The wind devoured their words as they trudged onward, each step pulling them farther from the temple's haunted grasp.

"We'll be out of the worst of the canyons soon," he said, his voice low. "From there, it's a matter of crossing the tundra."

Adele's gaze lingered on him, cautious. "And then what?" she asked.

Alen fell silent for a long moment, his eyes fixed on the endless expanse of ice. Finally, he sighed, a sound filled with regret. "I don't know. I haven't thought that far ahead."

Albion stepped up beside him, his tone gentle yet probing. "You said you want to be free of the Empire. What does that mean to you?"

Alen's jaw tightened, and for a moment, his voice wavered. "It means breathing without looking over my shoulder. Sleeping without hearing boots at the door. It means finally being something more than a weapon someone else aimed." His words cracked with vulnerability, and for the first time, the weight of his torment was laid bare.

Before Albion could reply, Adele's voice cut through the cold, low and certain. "No one outruns the Empire. Sooner or later, they catch up."

Alen's eyes flickered to hers, a spark of defiance lighting within their depths. "Let them come," he murmured. "I'm not the man I was."

Adele's gaze hardened as she studied him, and Albion felt the heavy tension of unspoken judgments hang in the air. Finally, she said, her tone softening for just a heartbeat before her guarded resolve reasserted itself, "If you really want to be free, you'll need allies. You can't do it alone."

Albion stepped closer, his voice low and earnest. "You don't have to trust us completely, Alen, but we're not your enemies. If you truly want to break free, we can help you face that past."

For a long, silent moment, Alen considered their words, his expression a tapestry of hope and despair. Then, with a slow nod, he said, "I'll take your help—for now."

Adele's eyes softened ever so slightly, though her posture remained rigid. "Good. Because the next step isn't going to be easy. We need to be ready for whatever comes next."

Albion glanced out toward the frozen horizon. The path ahead was long, and the dangers that awaited were unknown—but for now, they had made it this far together. As they resumed their journey through the icy labyrinth, Albion couldn't shake the feeling that the bonds between them were shifting. They walked on a fractured path, where trust and betrayal danced hand in hand, and every step carried the echo of their pasts.

Yet amid the cold and the uncertainty, a quiet promise lingered—a hope that even in a world so frozen, their shared journey might one day thaw the deepest wounds.

The wind screamed through the canyons as Albion, Adele, and Alen advanced. The overcast sky offered only a pallid glow, and long, austere shadows stretched across a frozen landscape of jagged, ice-encased rock. Though the gusts had softened, a relentless chill clung to the air—each breath a shard of frost.

Navigating a narrow, treacherous pass between sheer, glittering cliffs, Albion tightened his cloak. The canyon walls soared overhead, their frost-kissed surfaces etched with scars of ancient magic. Every careful step on the slick path felt like treading on fragile glass.

Alen broke the silence, keeping his voice low. "This way," he said, nodding toward a break in the cliffs. "It'll take us to the ridge—and beyond that, Cornwall."

Albion squinted through the frost. "Almost to Cornwall?"

"Old Pendragon territory. Still under Gorre's rule, but they guard it like it's a different country. Sacred ground. The Order keeps it that way."

The cold seemed to sharpen Alen's words, carving them deep into the stillness. Albion shifted uneasily, the stories he half-remembered stirring in the back of his mind—tales of brutal trials, sacred oaths, and judgments no outsider could survive.

"We must be cautious," Adele murmured, her voice low and resolute. "The knights patrol these lands, and if we step uninvited into their domain, a trial will be inevitable."

Alen's gaze briefly met hers, and for an instant his shoulders tensed—as if recalling a painful memory—but he continued, "We'll avoid them if possible."

The canyon narrowed further; ice-coated rocks jutted from the walls like the teeth of a long-forgotten beast. Then, without warning, the ground trembled beneath Albion's feet. He stopped dead, heart pounding as the earth convulsed with a deep, resonant groan.

"Did you feel that?" he whispered urgently.

Before Albion could react, the canyon itself turned against them. With a deafening crack, walls of stone and ice surged upward, twisting into a jagged prison. Albion staggered as the ground lurched beneath him, drawing his sword by sheer instinct.

A breath later, figures emerged from the gathering mist—tall, fur-clad knights, faces hidden behind battered iron helms. They moved with a grim, ritualistic weight, stone hammers slung across their shoulders, their armor dusted with frost and old blood.

The earth pulsed beneath their boots. Ancient magic—older than kingdoms—hung thick in the frozen air.

The Knights of Gorre had found them.

Albion's heart hammered in his chest as the knights closed their circle. One figure stepped forward—a giant even among them, his hammer engraved with runes Albion couldn't read but instinctively feared. He raised one gloved hand, and the canyon floor rippled like water. Albion dropped to one knee, pinned by a force as heavy as a mountain.

"You have trespassed on hallowed ground," the knight intoned, his voice deep as bedrock. "Your blood does not belong here."

Albion gritted his teeth, struggling to rise. Beside him, Adele fought against the unseen weight, sparks of magic flaring at her fingertips. Alen stood grimly, head bowed, while his golem loomed behind him, silent and watchful.

"We mean no harm," Adele said evenly, her voice cutting through the oppressive cold. "We're only passing through."

The knight's gaze sharpened beneath the shadow of his helm.

"No one passes through the Silentmad," he said. "The frost judges."

"Silentmad?" Adele muttered to herself, never hearing that name before, "The desert has a name?"

A wave of instinctual dread swept over Albion.

"What do you want from us?" he asked, breath misting the frozen air.

The knight lowered his hand, and the pressure eased enough for Albion and Adele to stand.

"You will submit to Trial," the knight said. "Survive it, and the land itself will speak for you. Fail—and the snow will bury you."

Albion caught Adele's eye. No argument. No clever escape. Only forward.

"We accept," Albion said, forcing steadiness into his voice.

The lead knight nodded once—nothing more—and turned toward a narrow fissure splitting deeper into the cliffs. The others fell into silent formation, their stone hammers thudding against the ground in a slow, ritualistic rhythm that made the canyon walls seem to shudder.

As they followed, Albion murmured, "What kind of trial is this?"

Adele's gaze stayed fixed on the looming passage.

"The kind you don't survive by swinging a sword," she said. "The kind where the land decides if you're worthy."

She didn't say the other half: Or if it decides you're nothing more than meat for the snow.

After a long, heavy silence, the knight gave a single nod. With a flick of his hand, the crushing force lifted from Albion and Adele, leaving behind a tingling weight in their limbs. The knights held their formation, unmoving, as if the mountain itself had grown eyes and was judging their every breath.

"Follow," the lead knight commanded, voice like a stone sliding over ice.

Wordlessly, they obeyed, their boots crunching over frozen gravel as they trailed the silent procession deeper into the canyon.

"What do you think this trial is?" Albion muttered under his breath, careful not to let the knights overhear.

Adele kept her gaze ahead, her voice a thin thread of calm. "It won't be about strength alone," she said. "It'll tear at us from the inside out."

For a heartbeat, her mind flashed back—an old memory, a different set of judges, a different kind of failure—but she shoved it down, sealing it behind her armor once more.

Alen remained silent at their side, his face grim, his golem trailing behind like a second shadow.

They rounded a bend, and the canyon walls fell away.

Before them lay a vast circle carved into the living stone—an arena shaped by ancient hands, worn smooth by wind and older magic. Snow dusted the ground, hiding the slick, treacherous ice beneath. In the center rose a massive pillar of cracked basalt, spiderwebbed with fractures from which a slow, dark mist bled upward, twisting in the frozen air like a living thing.

The knights fanned out around the arena's edges, silent as statues. The leader stepped forward, his shadow falling long and sharp across the ice.

"This is where the land will weigh you," he said. His words didn't boom or echo—they simply existed, as inevitable as gravity.

"Strength will fail you. Skill will fail you. The land remembers what you have forgotten. It will call you to account. Only truth endures."

The black mist from the pillar began to spread, crawling over the ice like a slow, searching tide.

Albion thought—just for a heartbeat—that the mist hesitated, as if scenting them, judging whether they were worth the trouble of killing.

He caught his breath, half-convinced it had already judged him lacking. His grip tightened on his sword, but already he knew, steel wouldn't save them here.

The land itself was alive. Watching. Waiting.

And somewhere deep inside him, something colder than the tundra whispered: Not all of you are meant to leave this place.