NOVEL NEXT Interlude: Dual Pendragons
Interlude: Dual Pendragons
Bishop Fai rode beneath a slate sky, the steady drumming of rain on her cloak accompanying the rhythmic beat of her horse's hooves along a winding, muddy road. The rain wasn't cleansing. It was cold, clinging, and grim. Like the guilt she couldn't scrub from her bones.
Were there two?
The question gnawed at her, refusing to die.
The landscape around her was scarred by past horrors—ruined battlements, collapsed arches, and the ghostly remnants of what had once been proud bastions of faith and power. As she guided her steed southeast, every splintered stone and every darkened puddle seemed to whisper echoes of a past that still tormented her. In the dim light of early dawn, guilt and uncertainty rode with her: Were there two Albions?
In the turmoil of battle and amidst the chaos of rebellion, she had witnessed a warrior bearing the Pendragon name—a man who fought with the fire of a seasoned soldier, his eyes hardened by years of conflict and sorrow, his sword blazing with a familiar, almost divine fury. Yet, in a fleeting moment of the past amid the clash of steel and magic, she had caught sight of another: a youth, no more than a teenager, whose every movement was raw and untested, his blade shimmering with a gentler, more tentative light. The two figures, both marked by the ancient runes on their weapons, struck her as profoundly different. One carried the weight of a battle-worn destiny, the other, the fragile promise of uncharted hope.
As the road stretched ahead, the memories of past days surged unbidden. She recalled standing amid the charred ruins of a once-thriving market square, where the fall of a proud city had been etched into every blackened wall and collapsed beam. The silence there had been not the peaceful quiet of nightfall, but a hollow void—a silence that had swallowed the cries of the dying and left behind only the bitter taste of regret. It was in that desolate aftermath that the visions of the two Albions had first taken root in her mind. The contrast between the battle-hardened warrior and the tender, uncertain youth had gnawed at her, leaving her to wonder if fate had split the destiny of the Pendragon line into two divergent paths.
The memories of those days were vivid—the air thick with acrid smoke and the scent of scorched timber, after Charlevoix, the ground carpeted in ash and remnants of shattered dreams. She recalled how, in the midst of the carnage, she had seen a young man surge forward with a determination that defied his apparent inexperience, his eyes alight with a fervor that belied his tender years, to save civilians captured by the Church. In the same breath, she remembered Camelot, the older figure—a man whose every measured step and powerful swing of his enchanted blade had carved a swath through the enemy ranks with a precision that could only come from years of battle. The disparity was impossible to ignore: one was a living embodiment of seasoned resolve, the other a flickering flame of youthful idealism.
Her thoughts were interrupted.
A shadow at her side.
Castell—a figure as relentless and unyielding as the Church's own rigid dogma. He rode close by, his gaze fixed on her back as if to ensure that she did not stray too far from the path laid out by orders she no longer fully believed. His silence was a constant reminder of the expectations that still weighed on her, a specter of the institution that demanded unwavering obedience even as its edicts faltered in the face of truth.
The memory of his curt reproaches echoed in her mind as she recalled his disdainful words during their last encounter—a bitter admonition to cast aside her doubts and focus solely on the mission. Yet, even as his presence threatened to clamp down on her wavering resolve, she pressed onward, determined to seek out the truth behind the mystery that now defined her purpose.
The road led her past the remnants of ancient sanctuaries, where once-proud spires now lay crumbled into dust. A ruined chapel came into view, its once-sacred icons defaced by the relentless march of time and fire. It was here, in the eerie quiet of that desecrated sanctuary, that she had once knelt to seek solace in a faith that now seemed hollow. The bitter taste of disillusionment still lingered on her tongue—a taste born of endless nights spent questioning the righteousness of orders that had once been as sacred as the vows she had taken. How could a doctrine that preached salvation also breed such ruin and despair? The question was a thorn in her heart, and it had only grown sharper with every step she took away from the remnants of a fallen order.
As she rode, the memories wove themselves into a tapestry of regret and possibility. She recalled the clash of swords, the deafening roar of magic unleashed in defiance of tyranny, and the desperate cries of those who had fought for a cause they believed would herald a new dawn. There had been moments of unexpected mercy amid the carnage—a young rebel sparing an enemy's life, a captured civilian given a crumb of hope even in the face of utter devastation. Such instances had left an indelible mark on her soul, challenging the notion that the Church's unyielding authority was the only path to salvation.
Now, with the dark mystery of the two Albions pulsing in her mind, Fai's purpose had taken on a new urgency. The Order of Triskelion, shrouded in as much secrecy as they were rebellion, might hold the answers she sought. They were known to move in the fringes of the broken empire, operating with a purpose that defied the rigid dictates of the established order. The Order dealt in secrets, and secrets never came without blood.
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
Rumor had it that within their guarded circles, truths were traded like precious relics—truths that could expose the contradictions at the heart of the Church's power and reveal the real nature of the Pendragon legacy.
Yet, the question remained: Was her journey to track down the Pendragon boy one of duty, to capture and deliver him to the relentless maw of the Church? Or was it something else—a quest to aid a soul caught between the brutal dictates of a dying order and the desperate hope for a new beginning?
The answer eluded her, suspended in the grey twilight between capture and redemption. What was certain, however, was that the enigma of the dual Pendragons could not be ignored. It was a riddle wrapped in the chaos of rebellion and the shattering echoes of war—a riddle that, if solved, might illuminate a path away from the tyranny of unquestioned authority and toward a future where truth and compassion reigned.
As the landscape unfurled before her—fields of broken stone and forgotten banners—the distant murmur of voices reached her ears. Faint and indistinct, they seemed to speak of a gathering in the south, a convergence of those who had long since abandoned the old order for a cause defined by rebellion and renewal. The Order might offer answers—or only another lie, dressed in a different banner. She no longer knew which was worse.
The thought of confronting the Order of Triskelion filled her with a cautious determination. Their secrets, whispered behind closed doors and hidden in the shadows of crumbling ruins, were the only hope she had of understanding the disparity she had witnessed. Perhaps within their ranks lay scholars and warriors who knew the true history of the Pendragon line—a history that could explain why one man might bear the scars of countless battles while another still shone with the untempered light of youth.
The battles she had survived pressed in, vivid and unrelenting. She remembered the chaotic clash in a ruined tower, where the force of a mighty blade had rent the stone and set the very foundations of a once-great citadel trembling. The memory of that explosive defiance—the flash of ancient runes and the resounding crash of collapsing masonry—was imprinted on her soul.
It was a moment of transcendent power, where the clash of steel and magic had not only bypassed physical barriers but had also cracked the brittle veneer of unquestioning faith. And in that moment, amidst the wild, desperate struggle for survival, she had seen the unmistakable spark of something extraordinary in the eyes of a warrior.
Yet, that memory was now tinged with uncertainty. Had she truly seen him—the one forged in the heat of relentless conflict? Or had her eyes, burdened by loss and regret, deceived her with the ghostly semblance of a second, younger figure? The uncertainty was maddening, a constant undercurrent in the storm of her thoughts. Every murmured legend, every unkept promise of the old order, converged upon that single, elusive question: What did it mean if there were indeed two manifestations of Albion? Was it a sign of destiny fractured, of a lineage divided by the very forces that sought to control it? Or was it merely an illusion born from the chaos of war—a trick of light and shadow in a mind desperate for certainty?
The rain began to ease as she neared the borderlands, where the wild, untamed countryside hinted at both danger and freedom. Here, nature reclaimed what had once been ruled by iron and stone. Moss clung to broken statues, and ancient trees rose like silent sentinels, their branches whispering secrets to the wind. In this place, the old boundaries of power blurred into the vast, uncertain promise of the future. It was here that the Order of Triskelion was said to hold sway, their hidden enclave a repository of forbidden lore and clandestine hope. To reach them, Fai would have to navigate not only treacherous roads and bandits drawn by the lure of a new order, but also the relentless scrutiny of Castell, whose every glance and measured word reminded her of the cost of defiance.
Her inner dialogue was a tumultuous blend of fear, duty, and a burgeoning hope for change. She recalled how, in moments of quiet after the violence, she had felt the soft, steady pulse of something different—a call to a higher truth that resonated in the quiet spaces between orders and commands. That call had first stirred within her when she witnessed a defiant act of mercy on a battlefield so ravaged that even the cries of the innocent were silenced by the weight of loss. It was then that she had begun to question whether the Church's uncompromising demands, the very commands she had once executed with unflinching loyalty, were not in fact the chains that bound a people to despair.
Now, as she pressed onward toward the unknown lands of the south, her resolve crystallized. The mystery of the two Albions was more than a question of lineage or the subtle differences in the gleam of their enchanted swords—it was a symbol of the deeper schism tearing at the heart of the realm. It was the embodiment of a choice: to cling to a past defined by rigid hierarchy and unyielding doctrine, or to embrace a future where truth and compassion might forge a new covenant between the people and their destiny.
The soft murmur of a distant village reached her ears, and for a fleeting moment, she allowed herself to imagine that perhaps within that humble gathering lay answers, or at least the seeds of a rebellion that might reshape a broken world. The thought was both terrifying and exhilarating—a reminder that even as the mighty structures of power crumbled, the smallest voices could rise to challenge the darkness.
Castell rode like a silent executioner in the first pale light of dawn, his shadow stretching long over the broken road. She had once believed obedience was salvation. Now it felt like a noose she had fastened herself. He offered no words now, merely the chill of his disapproving gaze. Yet, in that silent exchange, she sensed the unspoken weight of his duty—a duty that clashed with her own evolving truth. He was the guardian of an order that demanded absolute obedience, even as she, Bishop Fai, had begun to see that the true strength of faith lay in questioning, in embracing the complexity of a world that could no longer be divided into simple absolutes.
As the landscape opened before her in a gradual swell of low hills and scattered groves, her mind reeled with the possibilities of what lay ahead. The Order of Triskelion, with its veiled promises and kept secrets, beckoned like a distant mirage. In their hidden sanctum, she hoped to uncover the records, the testimonies, or perhaps even the legends that might reveal whether the dual image of Albion was a harbinger of hope or a portent of deeper division. Each question fueled her determination, transforming her internal doubts into the fierce, steady flame of resolve.
No matter what she found in the south—whether it was the capture of a dangerous rebel, an offer of aid to a misunderstood youth, or the revelation that destiny itself was more fractured than she had ever imagined—she would not turn back. The path ahead was uncertain, the cost of discovery immeasurable, but she would ride on, driven by the ghosts of the past, the echoes of crumbling temples and fallen empires.
Drawing a slow breath, she shifted in the saddle, feeling the pressure settle fully on her shoulders, leaving behind the remnants of a shattered world and riding toward the promise of a new dawn—a dawn where the true nature of faith, of destiny, and of the Pendragon legacy might finally be revealed. In that determined moment, as the horizon hinted at both peril and possibility, Bishop Fai embraced her destiny. She would ride southeast into the heart of rebellion and into the very mysteries of power itself, armed not only with her qiang and her unwavering resolve, but with the quiet, unyielding hope that, somewhere amid the ruins, truth awaited.
She would find the truth, or she would become its last casualty.
The road ahead would break her, remake her, or bury her.
But Bishop Fai would not turn back. Not now. Not ever. And so, as the pale light of dawn crept over the land, casting long shadows over the broken path, she rode on—an uncertain traveler on a road that led not merely to the Order of Triskelion, but to the very heart of a future yet to be written.