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

The cold rain lashed down as Alyssa Ainsworth, Sky News reporter, adjusted her hood and peered out from the helicopter at the roiling storm. What began as a routine assignment covering a charity event in London took a sudden turn when the clouds ignited with an eerie glow.

"This isn't right," she murmured, glancing at Keenan, her cameraman, who was already zeroing in on the unnatural light overhead.

"You seeing this?" he asked, voice edged with awe.

Alyssa's stomach knotted. "Get rolling. Now." The camera's light blinked on, catching the spectacle—a tear in the sky revealing a monstrous figure.

From the rift emerged a creature that defied all-natural order: one head bore the blindfolded visage of a cow, the other, a goat crowned with twisted horns. Six powerful arms ended in deadly claws, and its blood-soaked robe clung to a body marked by distorted gilded patterns. Its roar cracked the air, scattering civilians into chaos. Cars screeched to a halt; horns blared in a cacophony of panic.

"We're live, Alyssa," Keenan reported, his steady voice belying the mayhem.

Facing the camera, Alyssa said, "This is Alyssa Ainsworth with Sky News. I'm reporting from London, where something impossible is unfolding. Behind me, a creature—an abomination—has emerged from a tear in our sky."

The beast swung a massive arm, demolishing a nearby building. People screamed and fled. As Alyssa retreated a few steps, a solitary figure caught her eye—a man in the rain, sword gleaming with an ancient power. His hood hid much of his face, but his every move betrayed determination.

"Who's that?" Keenan queried as he zoomed in.

Before Alyssa could reply, the man advanced. With deliberate grace, he raised his sword. The blade, lit by the rift's glow, revealed runes pulsing along his forearm. The monster's heads turned, eyes narrowing as it roared and swung an arm with lethal force. Yet the man moved with uncanny speed—ducking, rolling, striking with precision. His sword cleaved through one of the creature's limbs, seeding black ichor sizzling onto the pavement.

"He's fighting it," Alyssa breathed, her voice trembling with awe and fear. "Who is he?"

The battle raged, each strike drawing the creature's monstrous form into unexpected shapes. Mid-combat, the beast shrank into a twisted semblance of a scaly woman with a dragon-like tail. Dark magic flickered in her eyes as she summoned tendrils of energy. The man did not pause. He darted forward, slicing through her with a swift, almost balletic motion. With a final arc, he severed her head, and her form disintegrated into swirling ash as the dark magic dissipated like smoke.

The rift above pulsed and then sealed with a resounding thud, leaving a pregnant silence in its wake. As the helicopter touched down, Alyssa stared in disbelief. The man, calm amid the falling rain, sheathed his sword and met her gaze.

"Did… did he just kill that thing?" she asked.

His answer was measured. "Albion," he said, voice low and steady.

"Albion?" Alyssa repeated. "What just happened? And how did you do that?" She gestured at the sword, the symbol of ancient power that had cleaved through chaos.

"That creature was not of this world. The rift—a tear between realities—released it. Magic, Alyssa. Avalon," Albion replied, his tone leaving little room for disbelief.

Alyssa's pulse raced. "Avalon? Like the legends?"

"Not myth. Avalon is real," he said, his eyes scanning the trembling streets. "I have to go now—there's something I must find. My father's grave is in San Francisco. Help me get there, and I'll reveal everything."

The proposition hung between them. Alyssa exchanged a determined look with Keenan. "We've got the contacts to get you that information," she offered. "But no more half-answers."

"Deal," Albion answered.

Alyssa tapped her phone, and within minutes, she confirmed: "Your father's grave is in Oakland—Kendrick Lane." A fleeting softness crossed Albion's face—fragile relief amid the storm of events.

Then, as if to punctuate the surreal sequence, the runes on his arm flared. The air trembled and split; a shimmering portal tore through the sky. Keenan muttered a curse.

"You can just… leave?" Alyssa whispered.

Albion grinned at the camera. "Thanks for getting my good side." Without further words, he stepped into the portal. The light swallowed him, and London's rain, its ruin, its chaos receded.

In an instant, Albion stood on the familiar rain-soaked streets of San Francisco. The portal vanished, replaced by the steady pulse of the urban night: a distant siren, muted streetlights, and the faint smell of salt and asphalt. Here, the threat was less overt but no less potent—shadowed distortions hinted that the rift's aftermath had stirred darker forces in the background.

He paused as an old woman, silver hair tucked beneath a scarf, stepped into the path of an oncoming car. Her frozen stance broke his resolve for a moment. Without hesitation, Albion darted forward, pulling her from harm's way. Her startled eyes widened in grateful recognition. "That was close," he murmured.

Her smile was brief and knowing. "You move quick, son."

Albion offered a slight nod. He'd learned that even in crises, small acts of kindness matter. Yet that fleeting recognition in her eyes stirred a caution—like a silent reminder that something watched his every move.

Soon, Albion's path led him back to a place he'd left years ago—the orphanage where he'd grown up. The rain softened as he reached the door. Hesitant yet resolute, he knocked. The door creaked open, and Laura, now twenty, stood frozen in surprise.

"Albion?" she whispered.

A fragile smile touched his lips. "Hey, Laura." Without warning, she wrapped him in a tight embrace. Moments later, Chloe—seventeen—rushed forward, eyes alight with joy.

"Albion! I can't believe you're here," Chloe cried.

In the familiar warmth of the orphanage, amid the lingering scent of cocoa and baked bread, the past and present converged. Over mugs of hot cocoa, Laura probed softly, "Where have you been? Why didn't you come back?"

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Albion's gaze fell to his steaming mug. "I chased answers and ran from my destiny. But I'm here now. I must find what my father left—a sigil meant to stop what is coming." His voice carried the weight of unspoken history.

Chloe's eyes sparkled. "Like magic? Real magic?"

He smiled wryly. "Yes—real magic. But the sigil is broken. Only half remains." The truth was stark: his father, William Bell, had guarded a secret tied to Avalon—a secret that might hold the key to the rising darkness.

After reminiscing, Albion stood. "I have to go," he said. "There's something I need to do."

Laura's worry was palpable. "You're leaving again?"

"I must complete this journey," Albion replied. With a decisive motion, he raised Excalibur. The ancient blade glowed, and a portal shivered to life. In awed silence, Laura and Chloe watched as Albion stepped through the rippling light.

Emerging onto Oakland's rain-slicked streets, Albion made his way to the cemetery where his father rested. Each step thudded with purpose. Arriving at a weathered headstone—William Bell—the past confronted him with cold finality. Albion knelt, his fingers tracing the stone's inscription. Suddenly, he felt a pull beneath the surface. Placing both hands on the earth, the runes on his arm glowed as the soil shifted. A hidden compartment revealed an intricately carved sigil. Yet as Albion lifted it, dread replaced hope—the sigil was fractured, half missing.

"Damn," he whispered, the rain intensifying around him. The mystery deepened. Why was the sigil incomplete? Who had taken the other half? As Albion stared at the broken artifact, his heart sank with the realization that his journey was far from over. He remained there, kneeling in silence, until the storm eased. Rising slowly, Albion stepped toward the grave's edge once more, the weight of history pressing against his shoulders like a second skin.

He stood before the weathered stone of his father's grave, the rain tapping lightly against the earth like the soft cadence of a heartbeat long silenced. His fingers tightened around the half of the Pendragon sigil in his hand, its cool surface slick from the drizzle. He hated the way it felt. Pendants, sigils, symbols of ancient power—they all seemed so heavy. Pendants, especially, always felt like chains around his neck, and he never liked how they seemed to dangle like some medieval flair.

I'm not exactly one for accessories, Dad, he thought, staring down at the sigil. Not my style. Still, guess it suits the whole "destined knight" look. Just need a helmet and a shield, and I'm the full package.

He chuckled softly to himself, the first laugh he'd had in a while.

"I'm a brave little knight now, Dad. Just like you used to call me. Except… this time it's real."

He knelt down, brushing a bit of dirt off the engraved letters spelling out William Bell. The weight of what he had been through, the battles, the losses, the sacrifices—it all seemed so distant here, like the rain was slowly washing it away.

"I wish you could see me," Albion whispered, his voice low and full of emotion. "I wish you could've seen it all—the things you prepared me for. The journey… all of it." He sighed. "I'm not sure you'd love the part where I almost died every other week. But the adventure part? Yeah, that you would've loved."

His eyes glazed over, the memories flooding back. The fire. The night his world had crumbled, and his father had vanished into the flames. He could still see the orange flickers reflected in his childhood bedroom, feel the heat of the inferno and the cold emptiness that followed. They'd said it was an accident, but Albion never believed that. Why did you die? He still didn't have the answer. But at least now, standing here, it didn't feel like such an insurmountable question anymore.

"I'll figure it out, Dad. I'll find Mum, and I'll figure out why you died. Why everything happened the way it did." His voice faltered for a second before regaining its strength. "I owe you that much." His thoughts drifted to Miss Adele—the woman who had taken him in after the fire, after the orphanage in San Francisco became his home. He hadn't been alone, even then. But the emptiness, the confusion of being a child with no answers, clung to him for years.

Miss Adele had been a strange kind of guardian. Mysterious, often distant, but with flashes of warmth and kindness. Or was that all part of the manipulation? Albion wondered now, tracing the memories with a more critical eye. He had adored her once—trusted her implicitly. But as he grew older, especially once Avalon entered his life, he began to see the webs she'd spun around him. Everything seemed to lead back to her influence.

And yet, he had loved her. How could he not? She had raised him, cared for him in her own enigmatic way. But she was always pulling him toward something—toward the destiny that had haunted him long before he understood what it truly meant.

He twirled the half-sigil in his hand, its edges sharp against his skin. Adelaide—or Miss Adele, or whatever name she chose—still occupied too much space in his mind. He loved her, he knew that much. But he didn't trust her, not fully. Not yet. Too many moments in their journey had shown him that her love came with strings, with hidden motives. Was she guiding him? Or controlling him?

"I wish I could ask you about her," Albion admitted quietly. "About Adelaide. I… I love her, Dad. But I don't trust her. Not yet. She's been playing her own game, and I'm not sure what the endgame is. But I can't let her be Queen. Not the Queen Avalon needs. Not while I still question her motives."

The rain began to fall more steadily, soaking through his clothes, but Albion welcomed it. Cleansing, somehow. Like it was washing away the years of indecision, of guilt and second guessing.

"I could use your calm logic," he continued, a faint smile on his lips. "I've always envied that about you. The way you could just know things, the way you never seemed afraid." He sighed again. "I guess I got more of your recklessness than your calm."

The wind picked up, swirling the rain in soft spirals, and Albion's thoughts drift back—to Winston.

Winston is more than just a mentor. More than the man who showed him how to wield Excalibur, more than a guide through Avalon's endless mysteries. Winston is the father figure Albion needs after his real father is gone. He grounds me when no one else can. Winston believes in him when Albion doubts everything. There's a quiet understanding between them—a bond formed through hardship, forged in the fires of Avalon's war-torn lands.

"I think Winston would like you," Albion says to the grave, a flicker of warmth in his chest. "He's stern, sure, but he has that same look you used to get when you were proud of me but trying not to show it." He chuckles softly, thinking of Winston's gruff encouragement, the way he always knows exactly when to push Albion and when to let him stumble. "Winston teaches me so much, just like you. Between the two of you, I guess I turned out okay, huh?"

And Winston—faithful, unwavering—is still waiting for me in Avalon, another chapter Albion hasn't yet turned. Another reunion delayed, but not lost.

"I missed him. I missed you both."

The rain blurred his vision, but Albion didn't bother wiping it away. The world seemed to fade, leaving only the present moment and the memories that clung to him like the droplets on his skin. He stood taller now, feeling lighter somehow, like the weight of the Pendragon name wasn't so suffocating anymore.

"I did it, you know? I did something right. I'm going to unify the people of Avalon. I can feel it.

It's like everything I've gone through was preparing me for this moment. They need me, Dad. They need someone who can bring them together, and I think… I think I'm that person."

He swallowed hard, his throat tightening as he forced the words out. "I just wish you were here to see it. You'd be proud of me, wouldn't you? Even with all the mistakes, even with all the times I got it wrong… you'd still be proud, right?"

And then, through the silver curtain of rain, Albion caught a glimpse—a silhouette, tender and proud—William Bell. A faint silhouette, standing just beyond the reach of his voice, smiling that same soft, proud smile Albion remembered from his childhood.

"Thanks, Dad," Albion whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "For everything."

The air around him shifted, a subtle crackle of energy humming through the atmosphere. Excalibur, ever a presence at his side, began to vibrate gently in his hand. Albion gripped the hilt, feeling the familiar weight of it, but this time it felt… different. Lighter. More certain.

The blade flashed, cutting through the air in front of him with a sharp, crystalline sound, and a tear appeared—shimmering, rippling like a pool disturbed by unseen forces. Albion stared into it, feeling the pull of something greater, something beyond this world and this moment.

She's waiting for me in Avalon. She always is.

"I'm coming home"

He looked back once more, feeling the warmth of his father's smile stitched into his heart.

"I'm ready," he said softly.

And with that, Albion stepped through the tear, leaving behind the rain, the past, and the boy he had once been.

The End is a Beginning.