The corridor was colder than he expected. Albion walked in silence behind Mako, each step echoing off the damp stone walls, every breath exhaled as a trembling cloud. It felt like entering a crypt, only no one here was dead—yet. He shivered despite himself. The air smelled of decay, sweat, and fear. He picked out the metallic bite of blood long before he saw it.
Mako stopped at the final door. A single lantern glowed inside, its flame flickering against rusted iron chains strung along the walls like grotesque ornaments. The older man turned briefly, locking eyes with Albion. In those silent seconds, Albion sensed a warning: If you don't want to see this, leave. But leaving wasn't an option. He had to understand. He needed answers. Slowly, he stepped across the threshold.
A part of him wished he hadn't.
The sight hit like a punch to the gut. The room was alive with suffering. Lantern light revealed three knights, chained upright against the walls, bodies trembling under the weight of exhaustion and pain. Bits of their armor lay in twisted wreckage at their feet. Severed fingers, battered gauntlets—trophies of brutality—were scattered about. The walls themselves seemed to drip with a black-red residue, a reminder of all who had bled here. The stench was overwhelming: coppery blood, stale sweat, and the sickly odor of festering wounds.
Albion's stomach churned. He wanted to look away, but he forced himself to meet the gaze of one knight, a half-lidded eye set in a bruised face. The man's cheeks were hollow. He might have once been proud. Now he was just a tortured shell. A feeble groan escaped his cracked lips.
Mako stood to one side, unmoving, as though he occupied a different plane of existence. On a small table at the chamber's center sat a chessboard, mid-game. A few pieces were arranged in tense positions, rooks and knights frozen in anticipation. The board was flecked with rust or, perhaps, dried blood. Mako slid a pawn forward as Albion approached, as if such a mundane gesture could exist in this nightmare.
"This wasn't what I signed up for," Albion rasped, swallowing down a surge of nausea. His eyes flicked from the battered knights to Mako's face. "These are prisoners…"
Mako didn't reply immediately. He moved another piece on the board, a methodical shift of a black bishop across the center squares. Then he exhaled, a low sound that mixed anger and resignation. "Times changed," he said, voice tight. "You weren't here for the battle, Albion. You didn't watch these bastards march through Charlevoix. You didn't see our friends cut down in the streets. We have no time left for mercy."
The quiet, measured tone in Mako's voice was worse than if he'd been shouting. It was too controlled. Too cold. Albion remembered the charred remains of buildings. He could see, in his mind's eye, the battered survivors, the scorched cobblestones. But this was a step too far. Another wave of dread twisted in his stomach as he studied the three knights, their hair matted to their foreheads, their chests heaving with slow, ragged breaths.
"At least let me speak with them," Albion said, voice shaking. "If you want information, let me try first."
Mako glanced at him with a hard stare. "Ask away. Don't be surprised if they refuse. They're fanatics."
Albion knelt near the first knight, an older man with a streak of gray across his temples—though the blood and grime made it hard to read his features. The man's armor had been crushed at the shoulders, leaving his arms pinned by twisted metal. One of his hands was… simply missing. Albion's breath came shallow, heart pounding in his ears.
"Where is your base?" Albion asked quietly, searching the knight's eyes. "We know you've got men hiding outside Charlevoix, that you're moving on the empire's roads. Just tell us where."
The man's jaw quivered. He made a sound somewhere between a cough and a laugh. Blood speckled his lips. "I'll tell you… nothing," he rasped, voice laced with loathing. "Avalonia scum. You're all devils." His gaze flicked to Albion. "You watch, but you do nothing. You're no better."
Those words struck Albion like a lash. For a moment, he pictured the burning houses of Charlevoix. He pictured Mako's unflinching approach to prisoners. Am I no better if I stand by?
He set a hand on the knight's mangled arm, pressing gently, letting the man know he could still feel pity. "It doesn't have to be like this," he whispered. "We can end this bloodshed if you'll just—"
"Bloodshed?" the knight spat, mouth curling in a sneer. "You talk about bloodshed as if I didn't see your kind butcher half a city before. Hypocrite."
Mako gave an audible sigh behind him. The lantern swung overhead, sending the knights' shadows dancing on the damp walls. Albion rose, heart pounding so loudly he could scarcely think. He turned to the second knight, a younger figure who was half-conscious, slumped in the chains, eyes rolling. There'd be no answers there.
The third knight twitched, trying to straighten. His face was clenched, one eye swollen shut. Albion swallowed as he stepped closer, conscious of Mako's heavy presence behind him.
"Please," he said, hating how desperate he sounded. "We need to know where your base is. Where your commanding officers are. If we can't stop them—"
"Sod off," the knight rasped, spittle flying. "We'll never betray our cause."
A tense silence fell. Mako's boots scraped across the sticky floor. "Enough," he muttered. "I gave them a chance." He reached out, touching a runic circle etched into the chain that held the second knight. A faint glow sparked to life beneath his fingers. The links clinked, dragging taut. The knight's eyes bulged. He emitted a stifled cry.
Albion surged forward, adrenaline spiking. "Wait! Don't—"
Mako pressed the rune. There was a low hum, followed by a metallic creak that built into a violent shriek as the chains constricted. The second knight's tortured gasp rose, strangled, then cut off in a gurgle. Albion caught a glimpse of battered armor collapsing inward, of blood spraying across the floor. The final sound was a wet snap. The chains rattled—and then the knight hung limp, dead.
Terror seized Albion's mind. Everything blurred. He felt his stomach lurch, and for a moment he thought he would retch. "Stop…" he whispered. "This is inhuman."
"Is it?" Mako's voice remained low, though the anger in his eyes was unmistakable. "What did they do to us? To Charlevoix? We tried mercy at first. Isolation. They answered with slaughter." He snapped his gaze to the third knight—an older soldier who had the remains of a once-regal crest on his chest plate. "You next, or do you talk?"
The man paled. His eyes flicked wildly between Mako and Albion, then to the corpse of his comrade. Still, he stayed silent, lips pressed tight. Mako gave an almost imperceptible nod, triggering the runes again. This time the knight screamed outright, an agonized, keening wail that echoed in the stone chamber. The sound jolted something deep in Albion's soul—an instinct to intervene. He lunged toward the chain, grabbing for Mako's arm.
"Let me handle this!" he demanded, voice raw. But Mako slammed his elbow back, catching Albion in the ribs. Pain shot through him, doubling him over. Before he could recover, another hideous crunch ricocheted through the room. The second body sagged to the ground, the chain slackening around bloodied armor. Now only one knight remained, trembling, tears streaking through the grime on his cheeks.
Albion steadied himself, forcing down the bile. Fury and horror merged in his chest, a storm of helplessness. Mako turned to the last man. "Speak. Where is your base? Where do you keep your reinforcements? Where is Winston?"
The knight's voice came out as a hoarse sob. "F-Fellsmere," he stammered, desperation fueling every syllable. "Their stronghold is in Fellsmere, a ruined fortress to the north… Five days' ride northwest from Charlevoix. Please—enough."
Mako stepped away, nodding once. "Fellsmere." A flicker of triumph flashed in his eyes. He looked at Albion, as if to say, See? This is how we get results.
Albion lowered his gaze to the floor. His entire body felt cold. The knight let out a shuddering breath, relief flooding his face. "I told you," he whispered. "You have what you need. Just—just let me go."
Albion turned, wanting to set the man free, wanting to end this atrocity. He took a step toward the chains, but Mako blocked him. In a single smooth motion, he laid his palm on the runes again. Albion yelled, "No!" but Mako's hand didn't move.
The knight's eyes went wide. He realized what was happening an instant before the final, sickening crunch. Blood splashed across the stone, spattering Albion's boots. The man's last scream lodged in Albion's ears, a torment that would haunt him. Then silence.
Mako said nothing for a long moment, just wiped the blood from his coat. "We have our lead," he said. "Fellsmere. That's all that matters now."
Albion couldn't even look at him. His chest felt hollow, his lungs incapable of drawing in enough air. He stumbled out of the chamber, half-blind to the carnage around him.
Outside, the ruin of Charlevoix stood stark against a fading sunset. The city's once-lively walls were pocked and burned, battered from siege. Houses lay collapsed, piles of charred wood and stone. A bitter wind snaked through the alleys, carrying the ashy smell of destruction. Here and there, survivors shuffled through the wreckage, eyes vacant. Some tried to rebuild small corners of their homes. Others stood idle, as if they lacked the will to go on.
Albion walked, his steps unsteady, the scenes of devastation melding with the horrors he'd left below ground. He replayed the knights' screams in his head—how the last one begged for mercy, the very word echoing in that dank pit. He wanted to believe there was a better way. But Mako's cold efficiency had forced him to witness another truth: war was swallowing morality whole.
He reached the outer gates, tall iron structures that had once symbolized the city's pride. Now, one hung crooked, half-torn from its hinges. A swirl of dust drifted across the threshold. The sky beyond had darkened to deep indigo. In the distance, silhouettes of shattered spires stood like jagged teeth against the horizon.
As Albion lingered, breath ragged, he heard the clatter of hooves on cobblestone. A fantastical contraption approached—a carriage drawn by copper horses, each mechanical limb clanging softly in the dusk. Steam hissed from their joints as they walked. The driver was an old man, skin weathered like crumpled parchment, long white hair unkempt beneath a battered hat. Something in his gaze gleamed with an unsettling light.
He pulled the reins, halting near Albion. The horses exhaled spurts of steam as the man leaned forward. "You look like you've seen a ghost," he said in a near-whisper, his tone light despite the ravaged city around them.
Albion stared back, uncertain. Part of him wanted to snap at the old man for his flippancy, but words failed. "What are you doing here?" he managed.
The old man smiled, as if they stood in a bustling marketplace instead of a corpse-strewn ruin. "Courier," he said, tapping the side of the carriage. "I bring packages, letters, all sorts of special cargo. My usual clients… well, from the look of things, they won't be needing me." He nodded sadly to the ruins. "So many lost."
Albion's gut twisted. "Yes… so many."
The courier's eyes flicked from the scorched remains of buildings to Albion's weary expression. "Life's strange, isn't it? You can fight with every ounce of will, and sometimes you still lose everything." He sighed, turning the reins. "But that doesn't mean we stop trying."
Albion stayed silent.
"Are there… any survivors in the guild hall?" he asked, though he suspected the answer.
"A handful," Albion replied. "But not many."
"War's marched on. The living will have to fend for themselves." He clicked his tongue, and the copper horses clomped forward. As the carriage rolled away, he called back, "We do what we can—and sometimes that's not enough. Good luck, lad." Then he vanished around a corner, the hollow ring of hooves trailing off.
For a moment, Albion stood there, letting the emptiness of Charlevoix seep into him. He wanted to scream, to rant at the universe for the cruelty he'd witnessed. But he simply pressed his lips together, feeling numb. He recalled Mako's final words in the dungeon: We have our lead. Fellsmere. That's all that matters now. Winston might be there, held captive. Another wave of guilt coursed through him. If saving Winston required these vile tactics… what was he becoming?
Night had settled by the time Albion left Charlevoix behind. Pale moonlight guided him across rough roads until the city's ruins gave way to tangled undergrowth. The Enchanted Forest loomed ahead, a shroud of trees with twisted branches reaching out like skeletal arms. Five days to Fellsmere: that was the plan. Though his body felt heavy with fatigue, he pressed on, unwilling to linger near such devastation.
The forest entrance was marked by a half-rotted signpost. Letters once carved into the wood were now faded, their meaning lost. A hush fell as he crossed into the tree line, the wind dying away. The underbrush crackled beneath his boots. Every rustle set his nerves on edge. The telepathic instructions of where to go from Mako echoed on his lips.
He tried to breathe deeply, to ground himself in the present, yet fragments of the torture chamber clung to his thoughts like a curse. He wondered if Mako had already left—riding ahead with his grim determination—or if he lurked somewhere nearby, ready to push forward at dawn. The mission was to find Winston. But each step, each memory, weighed Albion down.
Tall oaks and ancient birch towered overhead, their canopies blocking much of the moonlight. The forest floor lay dappled with silver patches of illumination, creating illusions of movement. Occasional droplets fell from overhead leaves, plopping in the quiet. The deeper he walked, the more the outside world faded. All that remained was the labyrinth of trunks and the ghosts in his mind.
He trudged on for hours. At times, he paused, hearing a faint stirring among the trees—branches clacking, something creeping through the brush—but he saw no one, encountered no familiar faces. The air grew thick with the scent of damp earth and old moss. Gnarled roots sprawled in twisted arcs, forming natural obstacles that forced him to pick his way carefully.
It was somewhere past midnight, by his guess, when he glimpsed a hollow beneath a cluster of interwoven trunks. Exhaustion pressed on him like a weight. He settled there, letting the rough bark brace his shoulders. He clenched his fists, remembering the knight's final plea: Please! Don't leave me with him!
"Damn it," Albion whispered, voice cracking. He lifted a trembling hand to his face, pinching the bridge of his nose, trying to ward off the memory. If Winston was in a place like that, suffering or witnessing worse… how far would Albion go to save him?
His thoughts blurred, swirling between guilt, anger, and sorrow. At some point, he drifted into fitful sleep, haunted by screams echoing in the darkness.
He woke with a start, heart pounding. The forest was still black, though faint streaks of gray suggested dawn was near. Something had wrenched him from his dreams. A sound—like dragging chains or scraping metal—echoed faintly among the trees. He jumped to his feet, heart in his throat, hand moving to Excalibur's runes.
Silence, then a rustling to the east. Each hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He peered into the gloom, breath locked in his chest. A shape emerged, hunched, dragging something behind. It was tall, or perhaps stooped. Hard to tell in the darkness. Its movement jerked, as if half-limping, half-slithering. Albion swallowed hard.
"Who's there?" he called, voice hoarse. No response, just a low moan that cut through the quiet. The thing lurched nearer, stepping into a milky pool of moonlight that revealed a figure. Once-human, or maybe still human. Ribbons of cloth clung to a battered form. Arms glistened with fresh cuts, or maybe open sores. And behind the figure trailed the rusted outline of a chain, links scraping over the roots.
Albion braced himself, fighting panic. "Stay back." He unsheathed Excalibur, the runes glimmering faintly along the blade. The figure paused. Its head tilted in a strange, halting way, as though it sniffed the air.
Then it moaned again, and this time the sound was wet, gurgling. "H-help," it whispered, lurching forward.
Albion took a tentative step closer. "Are you—?" The question died on his tongue. A woman's face peered at him: dirt-streaked cheeks, eyes hollow with fear. Chains looped around her middle, cutting into raw flesh at the shoulders and hips. She seemed too weak to even raise her arms.
"Help me," she repeated in a cracked voice, knees buckling. She hit the ground with a thud, dragging the chain. Fresh blood spattered the leaves.
For a moment, Albion stood frozen. Had Mako done this? Had someone else? She looked half-dead. His better instincts roared in protest; he couldn't abandon her. She shuddered on the forest floor, panting. He darted forward, carefully sliding an arm under her. The chains were heavy, etched with strange markings worn to near-illegibility.
"Hold on," he murmured, though panic edged his words. "I'll—get this off."
He laid her gently against a tangle of roots, then lifted Excalibur. One swift strike might sever the metal if the runes cooperated. Steeling himself, he swung the blade at the chain. Sparks flew, and the iron links resisted for a heartbeat. Then they snapped with a resonant clang, scattering shards of rust. The woman gasped, arching her back as if relief had shocked her system.
Albion knelt, pressing a hand against her forehead. "It's all right," he said, voice trembling. "Who did this to you?"
She tried to speak, but no sound emerged at first. Finally, she rasped a single word: "Monster…" Then her eyes rolled back, and she slipped into unconsciousness.
"Monster," Albion echoed. The forest was silent as a tomb. He felt watched, though no one else was visible. Gently, he checked her pulse. It was faint but present. She was alive, but in dire shape. For an instant, he recalled the dungeon's cruelty. Was the same brutality at work here? Or had she escaped some other torment?
He couldn't abandon her. She was evidence of the spreading darkness, another victim of war or worse. Gritting his teeth, he gathered her in his arms. She weighed next to nothing, her body too frail. Blood from her open wounds stained his jacket.
"Hang on," he whispered. Fellsmere was weeks away, but so was any hope of real help. He'd have to do what he could for her on the road. First step: find some place to rest, treat her wounds, ensure she survived the night. Then keep moving.
Hours passed as Albion navigated deeper into the forest, cradling the unconscious woman. Dawn finally broke, sending pale light through the branches. Mist coiled around the trunks, turning the forest into a shifting tapestry of shapes. The woman's breaths were shallow, each exhalation a small victory.
When he found a half-collapsed ruin—a mossy structure that might have been a shrine centuries ago—he ducked inside. Broken columns lay strewn about, and the roof had caved, creating a ring of open sky. He laid her gently on a flat slab of stone, rummaging in his pack for a canteen of water and scraps of cloth.
Without proper medicines, his help was limited. He cleaned the worst of her wounds, careful not to press too hard. She stirred only once, eyes flickering open to reveal hazy terror. But she sank back into unconsciousness almost immediately, as if even that brief effort cost too much.
Outside, the forest floor rustled. Albion tensed, half-drawing Excalibur, but it was just a fox darting between twisted roots. His nerves remained taut, certain that something else lurked beyond the sunlight. Monster. The word churned in his mind.
He spent the next few hours tending to her as best he could, forcing small sips of water, from his waterskin, between her cracked lips. Meanwhile, the agony of Charlevoix clung to him, merging with this new horror. It felt like he'd fallen into some underworld, where each turn revealed a fresh nightmare.
When at last she seemed stable, he let himself rest, leaning against a chunk of broken column. He stared through the hole in the ceiling. Thin rays of sunlight speared the drifting dust motes, turning them to gold. In that quiet, he found no solace—only the heavy knowledge of what waited beyond this place. Fellsmere. The name carried the promise of answers about Winston. But also, more bloodshed.
By midday, the woman regained partial consciousness. She winced at every movement, ribs flaring with pain. She tried to speak, but could only form fragments. Albion gleaned that she had been fleeing an attack when "the monster" caught her, binding her in those cursed chains. Beyond that, she remembered little.
"We have to move," Albion said, wiping sweat from his brow. "Staying put makes us vulnerable." He glanced around the ruins, half-expecting something to lunge from the shadows. But the hush remained unbroken.
She nodded weakly, a silent agreement. Albion steadied her against his shoulder. Though her legs trembled, she managed a few steps. Her skin was cold against him, her once-white tunic-stained rust-brown from dried blood.
They set off northward, guided by the faint direction of the rising sun. The forest thickened in places, forcing them to wind around dense brambles. They stumbled over collapsed logs, forging a path through the underbrush. The entire time, Albion felt eyes on him, an eerie sensation of being followed. He kept Excalibur close at hand, scanning the gloom.
Every so often, the woman stiffened, pointing at some shape in the distance. A figure? The monster? Each time, the shape vanished. Maybe it was just a flicker of leaves. Maybe not. Albion's pulse hammered regardless.
Between the two of them, progress was painfully slow. The woman's breath came in ragged bursts, and Albion's arms ached from bracing her upright. But each step forward was victory in itself. He found himself whispering encouragements. "Not far now. Keep going. The forest can't go on forever."
She clung to him, eyes glassy with trauma. When he paused to let her rest, she whispered, "Why are you helping me?"
The question stung more than he expected. "Because," he said, swallowing thickly, "I've seen too many people left behind, and I… I can't do that again."
She stared a moment, then closed her eyes, head nodding in a mixture of gratitude and fatigue.
They walked until dusk painted the sky a dusky orange, glimpsed through canopy breaks. Finally, the tree line began to thin. A chill wind slid across them, carrying the scent of open grassland. The woman's steps faltered. Albion hoisted her more securely, ignoring his own exhaustion.
Ahead, the forest receded, revealing rolling hills. The dying light caught on scattered boulders. In the distance, the vague outline of craggy formations hinted at Fellsmere somewhere beyond. Albion inhaled shakily. Five days ride from Charlevoix, Mako had said. Perhaps four days now, if they kept moving. If nothing else stopped them.
They emerged from the last clinging arms of the forest. Albion turned to look back at the treeline—a labyrinth of vines and shadows. He thought of the word "monster" on the woman's lips. Had it followed them? Was it just one horror among many in this war-ravaged land? The hush gave no answers.
The sun dipped behind the hills, and the temperature dropped sharply. Albion spotted the remnants of a disused watchtower in the distance—a silhouette against the darkening sky. "We can rest there," he said. "It'll give us shelter from the wind."
Step by painstaking step, they reached the watchtower's crumbling base. Once, it might have been a proud structure, used to guard an old trade route. Now, half its stones lay in heaps, ivy creeping up the remaining walls. Inside, the floor was littered with fallen timbers. But it kept the worst of the chill at bay.
Albion settled the woman against a half-broken bench. She hissed at the pain in her wounds. With what water and cloth remained, he changed her makeshift bandages. Moonlight spilled through an open gap in the tower roof, illuminating the dust motes. If he tilted his head, he could see stars swirling in a velvety sky.
A pained whisper from the woman drew his attention. She clutched his forearm, eyes glistening. "Thank you," she managed, voice trembling. "I'd… be dead… if not for you."
Albion's throat tightened. He said nothing, only gave her hand a gentle squeeze. He felt almost guilty accepting gratitude. Every memory of Charlevoix's basement threatened to tear him apart with self-loathing. I couldn't save those knights. Couldn't stop Mako. Now I save you and feel noble? The hypocrisy gnawed at him.
"Don't thank me," he muttered under his breathe. "I didn't save anyone who mattered."
Still, he propped her up, letting her rest, dozing off himself in short fits. Night deepened. An owl hooted somewhere distant. Time slipped by in that fragile hush.
When dawn broke, a thin band of gold spread across the hills, dispelling the gloom. Albion blinked awake. The woman stirred, grimacing as she tried to push herself upright. "I can stand," she insisted, though her voice shook.
"Careful," he murmured, helping her up. She tested her weight. Though unsteady, she managed a few halting steps around the old tower, leaning on the mossy stones.
Outside, the new day revealed a wide, sloping landscape that rolled gently north. Somewhere out there lay Fellsmere—the stronghold, the answer to Winston's fate, the place that might hold the next stage of this war. Albion felt a swirl of dread and determination. If he was to reclaim any shred of his honor, any sense of purpose, he had to keep going.
He turned to the woman, who was watching him intently. "We continue," he said simply. "Either we find real help in Fellsmere, or at least we find an end to this. One way or another."
She nodded, eyes filled with mingled fear and hope. "Thank you," she whispered again, her voice more certain now. "I—I can't repay you, but I'll do what I can to stand on my own."
Albion didn't have a reply. He offered a half-smile and turned his gaze toward the horizon, bracing himself for the journey ahead. Past these hills lay the next front of the war. Past these hills lay danger—but also a chance to save Winston, to salvage what remained of his conscience.
He squared his shoulders, ignoring the soreness in his limbs, ignoring the nightmares that still lurked behind his eyelids. Step by step, they would close the distance. Step by step, he would face the consequences of a world consumed by brutality. He only prayed that, in the end, he wouldn't become everything he despised.
Fellsmere awaited.