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

Interlude: Alyssa

Alyssa Ainsworth stood in the mirrored elevator, thumb worrying at a small gold press pin that glinted on her blazer. She breathed in, allowing the hush of the ascending lift to focus her mind. A year had crawled by since that day—the one that tore open the sky above London. Demons, arcane forces, and Albion Pendragon had demolished every rational boundary. Now the world lived in the aftershocks of that revelation, and Alyssa wrestled with a single question: Where on Earth had Albion vanished to, and why had he broken every promise to return?

A stray hairpin snagged her attention. An odd little thing shaped like a dragon's wing—picked up from a touristy stand near Leicester Square when she first realized her life would never be the same. She'd told herself it was whimsical, yet it had morphed into a talisman. The faint weight against her scalp reminded her that while the world saw her as the "Lois Lane of the Magical Age," she was still just Alyssa: a reporter longing for closure in a world spinning off its axis.

She adjusted the lapel of her blazer, steadied her posture, and forced her chin up.

Ding—the elevator doors slid open onto the Sky Newsroom.'

A dizzying panorama: screens showcasing global attempts to learn or recreate magic, updates on the cratered Westminster Bridge, shaky footage of anomalies worldwide. A glaring banner read: "Anniversary of the Avalon Revelation" The phrase gave her a twist in the gut.

It had been that long since she'd broadcast the footage of Albion Pendragon plunging a sword into a raging demon. She could still taste the adrenaline of that day. And the regret that she'd never gotten the full story from him. She weaved through desks of buzzing interns and half-finished coffees. They parted in her wake. Some saw her as a legend; others, an intimidating figure with unassailable scoops.

Her junior researcher, Graham, dashed up—dark circles under his eyes, half-eaten bagel perched precariously on a notebook. "Boss wants to see you," he said, voice breaking from nerves or excitement. "Something about Pendragon again."

"Of course." She let out a controlled sigh. "We're a year deep in a magical age, so of course she wants the man who started it all. Let's see what she's got."

Graham handed her a neat file. "Oh—someone from your tip line claimed to have new intel. There's mention of an orphanage in the States… something about him living there as a teen?"

Alyssa stiffened. "In San Francisco?"

Graham nodded. "They said you'd know the place."

A swirl of old rumors and half-facts danced through her mind. She'd heard about Sanctuary House before, but never pinned down how it tied to Albion's background. This was new—and it might be crucial.

"Understood," she said, tucking the folder under her arm. "I'll talk to Marissa, then follow up."

Graham gave a supportive nod and retreated to field more calls. Alyssa, heart pounding, headed for the corner office. Marissa Oliver—silver hair pinned back in a ruthless bun—looked out across London's rebuilding skyline, arms folded like a general.

The second Alyssa walked in, Marissa's eyes cut to her. "You're late, Ainsworth." "It's 8:59." "When I say nine, it's eight. Understood?" she barked, ignoring the petty time discrepancy.

Alyssa stood firm. "Yes, Ms. Oliver."

Marissa jabbed a neat stack of file folders on the desk. "We're at a tipping point, you know. The entire planet's gone from panicking about demons to wanting to control magic, maybe harness it. The 'Arcane Accords' is about to pass in Parliament. Meanwhile, half the tabloids claim Avalon is real, while others call it a hoax—like you can hoax a demon burning half of Westminster. And in the middle of it all, we have the giant, gaping question: Where is Albion Pendragon? The man who literally changed the world with a sword and a single broadcast."

Alyssa flexed her jaw. "I've been chasing every lead—" Marissa's hand cut the air. "No more disclaimers. It's been a year since you caught him on camera—since he promised you an exclusive. You must deliver. Our broadcast tomorrow covers the worldwide magical fallout, but we need something else.

We need him." Alyssa exhaled. "He vanished after that fight. I have reason to believe he's traveling between realms, possibly trying to contain new threats. Or he's off hunting something known as Claíomh Solais."

Marissa's eyes narrowed. "You're the best reporter in the building. If he's on Earth, I want him. If he's in Avalon, open a damned portal if you have to. Bring me a story."

Alyssa nodded. "I'll go to the ends of the earth if that's what it takes."

"Do it," Marissa snapped.

Then, more softly: "The world's hungry for answers, and you're the only one I trust to handle them with clarity. Don't let me down."

Alyssa swallowed. "Yes, Ms. Oliver. I have a new tip about the orphanage he grew up in—San Francisco. I'm following up."

"Good." Marissa waved her off. "Budget's yours. You fly out tonight if you need to."

Before she could book anything, Alyssa grabbed a taxi to Westminster. Construction scaffolding littered the roads as jackhammers rattled. Tourists hovered behind neon barricades, snapping pictures of arcane sigils still glowing on old stone.

She stepped out into a swirl of dust and remembrance. She found a makeshift memorial on a battered wall, listing names of the 2,456who died that day. Flowers, faded photos, candles in jars. People still came to mourn, or pray, or simply stand in stunned awe at the crater where the demon fell.

A retired teacher patted Alyssa's arm and recognized her from the news. "You filmed him, dear. Brave soul, that Albion. My granddaughter—she still calls him the 'Knight of London.'"

Alyssa forced a small smile. "Thank you."

The woman gazed up at the half-finished roof of Parliament. "Think he's alive?"

"Hope so," Alyssa said softly, fighting the painful swirl in her chest.

She took a final moment at the memorial, murmuring a vow: "I'll find him—or find out what happened."

That evening, Alyssa boarded a plane bound for San Francisco. Jet lag clung to her by the time she landed, but adrenaline propelled her forward. She recalled the rumors about an orphanage called Sanctuary House—an odd place rumored to have ties to magic long before London fell. But the detail was always that Albion himself had once lived there at fifteen, acting as a big brother to the younger children. She'd never found definitive proof.

Locals gave contradictory accounts: Some said the caretaker, a woman named Adele, had disappeared. Others insisted it was a front for a secret cult. In a swirl of unconfirmed gossip, Alyssa's gut told her there was truth hidden in that building. She took a cab through San Francisco's winding streets, neon signs flashing and cable cars rattling.

Her phone glowed with messages from Graham about sightings of illusions in the Welsh hills—possibly connected to Claíomh Solais. She pinned that to follow up later.

First stop: the orphanage. Cradled between a run-down bakery and a mechanic's shop, Sanctuary House exuded homey warmth, despite chipped paint and battered shingles. The porch light glowed, flickering slightly in the dusk. She knocked on the door. A teenage girl—nineteen or twenty—opened it. Hazel eyes, curly hair. She had the posture of someone who'd learned to be protective young.

Alyssa recognized her from archived references: Laura.

"I'm Alyssa Ainsworth, from Sky News."

Laura's face tightened. "I know who you are. The one who filmed that demon. The one who filmed Albion."

Alyssa swallowed. "May I come in? I'd like to ask about him… and about Miss Adele."

Laura hesitated, then swung the door open. Inside, the living room was full of secondhand furniture, scattered toys, walls lined with old photos. A golden-haired girl—Chloe—sat on a couch, flipping through a dog-eared library book. She peered up with curious green eyes. "You found us," Chloe said, voice quiet.

"Yes," Alyssa said. "I've followed rumors that Albion lived here once, as a teenager."

Laura sighed. "That's true. He arrived at fifteen, battered from God-knows-what. Adele took him in." She squared her shoulders. "But that was years ago. He left us behind when he went off to Oxford. Didn't see him again until right after London… when he showed up, on the run."

"Here?" Alyssa's ears perked up.

"Yeah, a few minutes after he disappeared in that portal in London," Chloe barked, she pointed at her phone, "I was watching live."

Alyssa's pulse surged. "So, it's true he was your older brother figure, teaching you things, looking out for you?"

Chloe nodded slowly. "He was… ours. This was his home. He'd read stories aloud in the library. He'd cook breakfast with Adele on Sundays. He'd…" She trailed off.

Laura brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. "He never told us about being some… Pendragon. He said his last name was Bell. We only found out the rest after the news exploded." Alyssa eased herself onto a worn armchair. The place felt lived-in, scuffed in a warm way. Photos pinned to a corkboard caught her eye: a younger Albion, hair black as midnight, half-smiling at a birthday party; teenage Laura perched on his shoulders, laughing. This was a side of him she'd never heard about.

"So that day, after he fought the demon, you say he came here?" Alyssa asked, voice gentler than usual.

Chloe fiddled with a blanket edge. "Yes. He showed up in the middle of the night—cloak drenched, sword in his hand, exhausted. He said… he had no time, and we had to keep the orphanage safe. Then he left." Alyssa's reporter instincts flared.

"Do you know why Adele disappeared?" Laura pursed her lips.

"She vanished almost a year before the demon attack. No forced entry, no note. She left behind everything… her spellbooks, the orphanage's deed. She'd taught us bits of magic to ward the place, but we weren't advanced. If she was kidnapped… well, we never found out by whom."

Alyssa let out a slow breath. "You believe she was taken?"

Chloe's eyes flicked across the room, haunted. "We suspect so. Because there were references in her diaries to forces wanting to open more rifts. She spoke of Avalon, said it wasn't just a legend. That's why she taught us wards—to protect us if something from there tried crossing over."

Alyssa recalled the swirl of half-facts about Camelot or Avalon existing as parallel realms. "So you think she was hiding from someone, or something, connected to Avalon."

Laura shrugged, a subtle defiance on her face. "We don't know. All we know is that Albion left just as fast, promising to rescue her. Then, the next day, we see him on your broadcast, sword blazing, saving London. After that… he disappeared again."

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

Alyssa studied them carefully. "You're sure he lived here at fifteen? Because government records are hazy. They list him in foster care, but not specifically at Sanctuary House."

A flicker of discomfort passed over Laura's features. "He was definitely here. We have photos. But official records might say otherwise—maybe because Adele used illusions to keep us off social services' radars. We… weren't exactly a standard orphanage."

Chloe's voice dropped to a hush. "Adele had gifts. Small spells, wards that cloaked us from prying eyes, especially if the children had nowhere else to go. People in trouble, kids on the run. She took them in, no questions asked."

Alyssa paused. "Could you be lying to protect him?"

Laura's eyes flashed. "We're not lying." Then a reluctant set to her mouth. "But if we were, who would blame us? The world wants a piece of him—for good or ill. Some might want him locked up for unleashing magic, others want him on a throne. We won't hand him over to anyone who means him harm."

Alyssa felt a pang. "I don't. I just want the truth. The world's bigger now, and they need to understand what's coming."

Laura seemed to size her up, as if deciding whether to trust her. After a breath, she nudged her chin toward a hallway. "Want to see the library where we keep Adele's old notes? Maybe that'll help you figure out the next piece."

"Yes," Alyssa said, heart flickering with hope.

The orphanage's library was a cramped, cozy room with sagging shelves lined by battered books. A wide wooden desk stood in the center, its surface etched with half-faded runes. A single lamp cast warm light. Alyssa's eyes caught on a pinned note: Heartweave is fracturing faster than I feared. If I vanish, the children must remain protected. Albion alone can keep the lines from collapsing.

Alyssa's breath caught. "She wrote this before she disappeared?"

Chloe nodded. "It's in her handwriting."

On the desk, a large, leather-bound tome lay open, stuck on a page that read Camelot in swirling script. The margin contained short lines in a mix of Gaelic, Latin, and Old English.

Laura's eyes tightened. "We think it references Camelot not just as a legend, but as a real place in some parallel realm. Adele believed the realm's stability hinged on certain wards—linked to Excalibur, presumably. That might be why she taught Albion or took him in. We're not sure."

Alyssa carefully ran a fingertip over the page. "So… you're suggesting that if these wards fail, more demons or rifts could appear."

"Exactly," Chloe said. "We suspect that's what Adele feared—that someone wanted to sabotage the wards. That's why she taught him, or maybe why she raised him here. He showed up at fifteen, shook up, and she recognized something in him—maybe she recognized the potential for him to wield Excalibur. Then the government or some shady group tried covering up his childhood records."

Alyssa felt a swirl of astonishment. This wasn't just about a caretaker going missing—it pointed to a grander tapestry of curses, realms, swords that unlocked cosmic doorways. She snapped photos on her phone, feeling that old reporter's hunger for the next lead. Then the phone buzzed—Graham again, lighting up her screen: "Rumors of illusions near Welsh border. Possibly tied to Claíomh Solais. Also, some chatter about an American link to Albion's father's grave in Oakland." Alyssa exhaled, scanning the texts.

She glanced at the sisters. "I might need to see his father's grave. It's in Oakland, right?"

Laura nodded. "He visited it before. Maybe you'll find a clue."

"Thank you," Alyssa said, voice sincere.

They offered her a spare room for the night, an old bunk with a flower-print blanket. Exhausted, she accepted. But sleep proved elusive. She lay in the quiet darkness, listening to the old house's floorboards creak, children whispering or giggling in other rooms. A wave of nostalgia hit her for a simpler time—a world before magic. She heard footsteps in the hallway and rose. Padding softly, she found Chloe on the porch, hugging her arms against the evening chill.

"Hard to sleep?" Alyssa asked.

Chloe shrugged. "I keep thinking about him. He was the big brother, you know? He read us bedtime stories, carried us piggyback style around the block if we missed the bus to school. Taught us how to play harmless pranks on Ms. Adele." She laughed quietly, eyes shining with tears. "Now the world calls him a hero, but we remember him as the lonely boy who just wanted a family."

Alyssa's heart clenched. "He's more real to you than he is to any of us on TV."

Chloe breathed a shaky sigh. "He confided in me once, said he'd do anything to keep us safe from the nightmares that haunted him. I never thought those nightmares were actual demons. Then London burned."

Alyssa gently set a hand on the girl's shoulder. "The rest of the world saw him for a day. You knew him for years."

Chloe nodded, looking out at the dark street. "I hope he's okay."

Alyssa swallowed. She felt the quiet determination building. "I'll do whatever it takes to find out."

Chloe didn't answer. She only nodded, eyes on the stars—or maybe on something far beyond them.

Silence swelled between them, the kind that didn't demand to be filled.

Later, back in the borrowed room with its flower-print blanket and creaking radiator, Alyssa lay awake beneath the hush of distant dreams and closer ghosts. Thoughts coiled through her mind—of Avalon, of Albion's laugh echoing in faded photos, of the girls who still waited for answers.

When sleep finally came, it did not come gently.

It slipped over her like a curtain pulled across reality, and she drifted into the world of dreams.

It began with wind.

Not the kind that howls or howls back—but the kind that hushes everything into listening. A slow breeze passed over her cheeks, cool and dry. Alyssa stood barefoot in a field that had no horizon, too still to be real. Wildflowers stretched to the horizon in every direction, vibrant in colors she couldn't name—shades that hummed more than glowed, shifting like memories: blood-red poppies, moon-colored lilies, violets with petals like painted glass. There was no sun, no moon, but a soft light bathed everything in a gentle glow, as if the sky had forgotten which time it was supposed to be.

The flowers swayed in silence. Reds, blues, golds, whites. But none of them had scent.

She walked.

The silence was not peaceful. It rang too loud. Each step felt muffled, like sound itself had forgotten how to exist here.

Wind moved without sound.

Then she noticed the child.

They were sitting among the flowers, no older than ten, knees hugged to their chest, hair black as ink and eyes too wide, too knowing. Black wings curled from their shoulders—vast, oil-slick things that caught the strange light and refracted it into colors not found on any spectrum. They shimmered like old bruises. The child turned to her slowly, and smiled like someone who had seen her in a thousand lifetimes.

Eyes dark, bottomless. Familiar, in the way shadows are familiar when you're walking home alone.

"I've been waiting," the child said. Their voice echoed with softness and finality. "You came later than I thought."

Alyssa stopped. Her throat tightened. "For me?"

The child nodded. "You dreamed of me before. You just don't remember."

The flowers rustled without wind.

Alyssa's throat closed. "Where are we?"

The child stood. Though small, they carried the quiet weight of something ancient. "This is the field between breaths," they said. "Where you come when you're almost ready."

Alyssa's skin prickled. "Ready for what?"

The child tilted their head, and their wings stretched, blotting out the not-quite-sky. "To choose what you'll lose. That's always the cost."

A hush fell over the flowers. Their colors began to drain. Red bled into white. Yellow paled into ash. All around them, the field turned to lilies—white and still, as if mourning something that hadn't happened yet.

"I don't want to lose anything," Alyssa whispered.

"You already have," the child said. "You just haven't accepted it yet."

Their gaze fell on her hair. "You still wear the wing," they said. "Good. You'll need it when the sky falls again."

Alyssa stepped back. "Where am I really?"

The child tilted their head. "Nowhere important. But it's beautiful, isn't it?" They stretched out a hand and touched a bloom. It withered on contact. The petals grayed, curled, vanished into ash.

Alyssa's breath caught. "Why me?"

"Because you look too hard at cracks in the world," they said. "And sometimes, when you stare into the cracks… they blink back."

The wind shifted. The flowers began to turn. No longer soft colors—now white lilies, all of them, dense and mournful. Alyssa felt them brushing her ankles, climbing higher, like a tide of quiet mourning. The child stood, suddenly far taller than they should be, wing-shadows stretching across the sky.

"You'll find him soon," the child said, voice now layered—like something older was speaking through them. "But he won't be the same. Nothing ever is, after touching Avalon.

The child smiled—not cruel, not kind. Just inevitable. "We are what watches. We are what follows. We are what waits at the edge of every decision." They paused, then added, softer: "You'll see me again. When you're standing at the door."

"What door?"

Their wings flared wide.

"To the truth."

She took a trembling step forward. "Who are you really?"

The child smiled again. This time, there was no joy in it. Just inevitability.

"We are what waits. And we'll see you again… when the last truth breaks."

They reached out. She felt cold fingers graze her temple—

A gust of scentless wind scattered the lilies. The petals whipped around her like snow.

When she looked again, the child was gone, and the sky had begun to bleed.

A crack of thunder split the silence.

The last thing she heard was the sound of wings—not flapping, but folding.

Gasping. Room dark. Fingers shaking. The wing-shaped hairpin clattered from her nightstand to the floor. Somewhere outside, a raven cawed once, then went silent.

Sweat slicked her hair to her temple. The borrowed sheets tangled around her legs.

Moonlight cut sharp lines through the curtain. On the floor, the dragon-wing hairpin had fallen, landing perfectly upright.

She stared at it for a long moment. Then she whispered, "Not yet," though she wasn't sure if she was talking to herself… or to something still listening.

The next morning, she left for Oakland's rolling hills. The caretaker at the cemetery recognized Alyssa from the news. "We had a young man come by around a year ago," she said, escorting Alyssa to William Bell's grave.

"Looked torn up. When I turned around, he was gone—like the wind carried him off." Alyssa knelt at the grave: William Bell. She carefully brushed aside leaves, hoping to find the pendant or any sign. Nothing. Only worn grass. She whispered, "Albion—where did you go?"

A soft breeze threaded through the headstones, too warm for morning, carrying with it the faint scent of ozone and lilacs. Alyssa remained kneeling, fingers curled in the grass. Her heart was quiet now—not racing, not breaking. Just… waiting. Listening.

The caretaker had wandered off, giving her space. Overhead, the sky was low and pearled with cloud, the kind of gray that made everything feel suspended between moments.

She traced the letters of William Bell again, her hand steady. "You raised a son who changed the world," she murmured. "And I wonder if he got to say goodbye."

She thought of the photo on the orphanage wall—Albion with cake on his chin and Laura hoisted on his shoulders. That ridiculous grin. The way the world hadn't yet carved trenches into him. The way he'd looked at her, once, just before he vanished. Like he knew something she didn't.

She stood slowly. The grass was damp beneath her boots.

Then the wind stopped.

Not calmed—stopped.

Birdsong cut out. The leaves froze on their branches. Even the distant hum of cars on the far-off highway seemed to dissolve. The world inhaled, and forgot how to exhale.

Alyssa turned.

Behind her, ten paces from the grave, the air shimmered. Not light, not shadow—something between. Like a mirror of reality had cracked in the wrong place.

Then—

A seam tore open in the air.

It was vertical, impossibly narrow at first, then widened like an eye learning how to see. From within poured a soft golden glow—not harsh or holy, but warm. Alive. The color of lamplight through fog. The kind of light that made you think of home, even if you didn't have one.

Her breath hitched.

There was no sound. No voice calling her name. No silhouette framed in the threshold.

Just the invitation.

A breeze curled from within it, brushing her hair back like a familiar hand. It smelled like petrichor, and firewood, and something older—iron and magic.

Her fingers went to her lapel. The dragon-wing hairpin sat there, still. She touched it without meaning to.

Then—barely audible, almost imagined—a voice echoed in her ears.

"When the sky falls again… you'll need to choose."

Her pulse hammered.

The light flickered. Not failing—waiting.

Alyssa took one step toward it. Just one. Enough for her shadow to stretch toward the seam.

She didn't know if she was ready.

She knew only this:

The story hadn't forgotten her.

And somewhere beyond that light, Albion Pendragon was waiting.

The portal hummed, low and steady.

Alyssa stared into it.

And did not blink.

A silhouette flickered just beyond the light. The edge of a sword. A glint of armor.

Then a whisper: soft, dry, familiar.

"Sorry, I'm late, Lois."

The portal pulsed once—then sealed like a wound that had changed everything.