His name was Albion.
Albion scaled down the cliffside of the Triskelion in near silence, his breath catching with each uneven foothold. Charlevoix lay below him, sprawled in ruin. He could see the city's charred rooftops and broken spires, the skeletal remains of buildings that had once glowed with lamp-lit warmth. Smoke drifted upward in trembling ribbons, a testament to some bitter conflict Albion had come too late to stop. Lightning shimmered in the distant sky, crackling in the silence like a reprimand. His own name felt heavy on his tongue, as if merely thinking it—Albion Pendragon—brought with it the crushing weight of a lineage that demanded success, demanded heroism, and demanded that he save a place he had already failed.
He descended with careful purpose, refusing to let numbness swallow him entirely. The storm overhead grumbled, a low rumble of thunder that seemed to mock his every movement. As he reached the lower tiers of the Triskelion, The road towards the devastation in Charlevoix sharpened into grim detail. Houses were toppled into heaps of blackened rubble. Bodies lay where they had fallen—some covered in tattered blankets, others left exposed to the swirling ash. The reek of burned wood, scorched metal, and something worse mingled with the lingering ozone from the storm.
He forced himself toward the forge, praying that some corner of it remained intact, that he might find Becca safe amid the destruction. If there was any single place in Charlevoix that might endure, it was her workshop: four sturdy walls filled with metal, tools, and an anvil that had once seemed impervious to all but her hammer's strike. In the past, she had joked that her forge could withstand the wrath of a dragon—yet as Albion approached, he felt his stomach twist with dread. The doorway had collapsed, the wooden beams splintered, the door itself lying in the street. Inside, soot painted the anvil black. He picked his way over the wreckage, stepping around twisted swords and half-charred wands scattered like forgotten toys.
A faint glimmer caught his eye on the ground. Ash and crushed stone had settled into a thick blanket, but there—beneath a snapped table leg—lay something round, reflecting a stray flicker of lightning. He sank to one knee and lifted it from the soot, wiping away the grime with trembling fingers. A marble. Small, silver, with a strange swirl of light twisting inside it, like a pocket of trapped moonlight. It made no sense, yet it felt oddly significant. Becca had sometimes fiddled with experimental trinkets and rumored enchantments. Could this be one of them?
Next to it, tucked under the table's remains, lay a folded scrap of parchment. A pang of emotion prickled behind Albion's eyes as he saw her looping handwriting. The message was simple, but each letter felt like a plea: Please take my home and this letter. Deliver it to my beloved, Winston. Beneath her name—Becca—was a small, inked heart that had smeared in the heat. Albion's grip on the paper tightened. He slid the note and marble into his jacket, scanning the forge for her. There was no sign of her body, no voice answering his shouts. The silence pressed down on him, growing heavier with every breath.
He staggered back out into the street, calling for her. His throat turned raw, breath hitching with the effort. Smoke stung his lungs. He found only rubble and ash, broken illusions of safety. A chill swept over him as he passed a cluster of homes that had fallen into themselves, the rooftops collapsed like snapped wings. Debris shifted underfoot. He tried not to look too closely at the shapes protruding from beneath certain fallen beams, but each new glance tightened the knot in his stomach.
At first, he barely registered the flash of auburn hair in a nearby heap. It seemed out of place amid the soot-streaked gray. He stopped, blinked once, and felt his heartbeat thunder in his ears. With careful steps, he picked through the wreckage and finally saw her: Becca, pinned under the rubble of a collapsed house, her once-vivid hair tangled with dirt and ash. Her pale arm lay visible, fingers stiff and half-curled, like they had reached for help that never came.
Something inside him cracked. He nearly dropped to his knees as a low, involuntary sound of horror tore from his throat. Her name caught in his mouth. She'd always been so alive, so unyielding. Now her face lay slack and grey, eyes shut, lips parted as if in a final, unspoken plea. Blood seeped from a wound in her side, turning her clothes a dull crimson. Albion's breath came in short, ragged gasps. He pulled aside the broken planks to free her, scarcely feeling the splinters driving into his palms, scarcely aware of the tears mingling with the ash on his cheeks.
He gently lifted her from the rubble, cradling her head against his shoulder, all the while murmuring her name. He tried to find any flicker of warmth in her skin, any sign of life, but she was cold—cold as the wind that whistled through the streets. He knelt there, rocking, numbness and heartbreak crashing together. How many times had she teased him about being new at magic? How many times had she joked about that if he was our only hope to save the world, the world was doomed?
"I'm sorry," he whispered, pressing his forehead against hers. "I'm so, so sorry."
At that moment, Excalibur's weight in his forearm felt unbearable. He remembered how its magic was powerful. He had seen it transform, create, alter. If there was any chance to save her—any at all—he had to try. His mind swirled with memories of them testing the sword's limits, conjuring illusions of unstoppable power. Could it really be unstoppable?
He set Becca down gently and unsheathed Excalibur. The runes on the blade pulsed like a barely beating heart. Thunder grumbled overhead, as though the sky itself looked on in disapproval. He drew a shaky breath, recalling the incantations they had half-studied, half-invented, back in the days when none of this seemed real. "Please," he begged, voice trembling. "Don't let her go."
The moment he laid the sword against her, a faint glow arced along the runes. For one glorious heartbeat, Albion thought he felt a current of power respond to his desperate call. His pulse soared, hope flooding him. He whispered the words she once teased him for getting wrong, trying to push aside the guilt and horror. The glow flared brighter, pulsing in rhythm with the storm's flashes.
Then it faltered and died, leaving Excalibur dull once more. No spark rose in Becca's chest. Her face remained still, her limbs cold. Albion tried again and again, voice breaking, tears streaming down his cheeks. Each time, the sword refused him, as if it too mourned her but could do nothing more. She did not stir.
He crumpled forward, burying his face against her shoulder, sobbing. He had believed in the legends of Excalibur, had convinced himself that his bond with the blade might defy even death. Now, that belief shattered around him like shards of broken glass. His voice became a hoarse whisper: "I failed you. I failed everyone."
She was gone. The truth settled over him like a suffocating blanket, pressing every breath from his lungs. Past the fog of his grief, he thought he heard her voice—soft, beckoning him to the very place he had just descended. The Triskelion. The memory merged with the whisper he sensed in his mind: Bury me in the soils of the Triskelion, where Winston and I spent the most time… Perhaps it was his guilt conjuring illusions, or perhaps he truly heard her last wish. He could not say. Yet the words guided him from the devastation of Charlevoix, giving his legs purpose when his heart had none.
He gently lifted her again, holding her close. Her ginger hair brushed his arm, caked in soot, and he felt another wave of tears rising. When he reached the battered guildhall at Vanderbilt, he saw a handful of survivors picking through rubble, tending to the wounded. Someone gestured for him to place Becca among the others, but he shook his head. She belonged somewhere better than this broken ruin. She deserved rest in a place with a view of a sky.
He slipped through the gaping entrance of the guildhall and found the bar in a corner, half-collapsed but still holding an intact row of dusty glasses. He sank onto a barstool, setting Becca's body carefully on a cleared surface nearby, wrapping her in what cloth he could salvage. A single lantern flickered overhead, casting a bleak light across the scattered debris. The whiskey in the chipped glass before him remained untouched. He stared at it with hollow eyes, feeling the weight of Excalibur in the runes. The sword was no comfort now. It felt like a mocking reminder that for all his so-called destiny, he was powerless when it truly mattered.
He heard footsteps. Rahl—Guildmaster by title, though now his expression betrayed only exhaustion and regret—settled on a stool next to him. Old scars and new wounds alike covered Rahl's arms, and his once-proud eyes were ringed with the shadow of loss.
Neither man spoke for a long time. Outside, a building groaned in the shifting wind. A single spark of lighting illuminated their faces. Finally, Rahl cleared his throat. "This was never supposed to happen," he said, as though the words might break some curse.
Albion stared into the whiskey, the reflection of his own broken gaze shimmering back at him. "I failed her," he whispered, not trusting himself to say anything more.
Rahl nodded grimly, rolling up his sleeve to reveal a set of burns. "We all failed. But you, more than most, feel the weight of that sword." He exhaled, glancing at Becca's blanketed form. "I'm sorry."
A tremor passed through Albion, tightening his chest. "She believed in me… in what I could do. I believed it too, until—" His words choked off. He felt a bitter laugh rise, but it died on his lips. "Until I tried to save her and found nothing left inside me that could."
Rahl dropped his eyes to the bar. "We're not done yet. Not with them. They took Winston. If we can find him—"
Albion jerked his head up. "He's alive?" The disbelief in his voice was tinged with a flicker of hope that felt almost painful.
Rahl shrugged, tears threatening at the corners of his eyes. "They dragged him off. I don't know why, but they spared him when they killed so many."
The mention of Winston made Albion think of the letter now tucked in his jacket, the marble pressed against its folded edges. Becca had wanted them delivered to Winston. Had she known something? His mind swarmed with half-formed questions, none of which he could endure right now.
Rahl stood, wincing as he gripped a wound in his side. "Listen, bury her. Do what you need to do. Then find me. I… I have something that might help us figure out how to find Winston. Because if we don't do something, this"—he gestured to the carnage beyond the guildhall— "will only be the start."
Albion watched the man limp away. He looked to Becca, so close and yet a thousand worlds away. He wrapped the blankets tighter around her, pressing a last trembling kiss to her forehead. "I promised I'd look out for you," he whispered. "I'm sorry I never kept it."
Rising, he felt an odd numbness in his limbs. Outside, the storm rumbled on, spitting rain in fitful bursts. He gathered Becca's body into his arms and carried her through the hollowed streets, picking a path toward the Triskelion. Every so often, he'd stumble, knees threatening to buckle under grief and exhaustion. But he pressed on, refusing to let her drop.
The ascent back up the Triskelion was slow, climbhold testing his resolve. Wind battered at him, tearing at his clothes. Thunder burst overhead. Lightning strobed the jagged cliff, revealing the twisted shadows of rock formations and craggy ledges. He climbed higher, passing the carved archways that had once welcomed scholars and dreamers to the Triskelion's wonders. Now, the stone corridors felt haunted, voices of the past reduced to echoes in the swirling dust.
He made his way through the cave that led to the staircase—a training ground where Winston, and he had tested his swordplay. He thought back to the pocket dimension, where the three of them had marveled at Excalibur's power, and they teased about him being destined for glory. The memory cut like a blade. He remembered Becca standing in front of him, hands on her hips, smirking as she dared him to summon the blade one more time. My limit apparently forty-two. The corners of his lips quivered at the recollection, but tears stung his eyes anew.
In the soft ground near a lone tree, he gently laid her down. Moonlight filtered through the thinning storm clouds, outlining her features in silver. She seemed almost asleep. Albion scavenged two battered training swords from a storage cave along the edge of the plateau—pieces Winston had once used for daily drills—and began digging the earth with them. The task was slow and harrowing, the metal scraping into the soil, his arms shaking with exhaustion. He forced himself to continue. The world around him faded into the rhythm of metal against earth, punctuated by the crash of distant thunder.
When the hole was deep enough, Albion swallowed hard, lifted Becca's body, and eased her into it. Gently, he covered her with soil, a process that seemed to last an eternity, each shovel of dirt reinforcing the finality of what he was doing. He set the two training swords crosswise atop the mound as a makeshift grave marker, weaving a few wilting flowers among them. The wind blew a stray lock of fiery hair across his vision, and he realized he'd missed a strand of it before burying her. He lifted it, kissed it, then let it fall among the lavender.
"I never asked what your favorite blooms were," he murmured, voice breaking. "I'm sorry. I hope these… I hope they're enough."
The clouds overhead parted slightly, letting a single beam of moonlight spill over the mound. He bowed his head, tears burning his eyes, tears he'd thought he had no strength left to shed. The night air smelled of damp earth and lingering smoke from below. For a fleeting moment, he imagined her voice: "Keep going, Albion. We believed in you for a reason."He didn't know if it was truly her spirit or his guilt forging illusions, but it steadied him enough to stand.
His gaze drifted to the shimmering lake that spread out beyond the plateau. Once, Winston and he had laughed together on its shore, talking about Becca, the past and her quirks. She was someone, he wanted to know. That future now lay in embers. Thunder rolled again, quieter this time, like a distant lament for a world turned upside down.
He lingered there, eyes fixed on her grave, until the storms receded into the horizon and the sky began to pale with the approach of dawn. The emptiness in his chest felt no smaller, but a new determination glimmered at its edges. He could not bring her back. Excalibur had shown him that there were limits even to legend. Yet Winston was still out there, captive or worse, and he owed it to Becca to see if any part of her dying wish could still be fulfilled.
At last, he turned from her resting place and began the walk up the Triskelion again. After heading the cave, the descent felt longer than the initial climb, each hold grinding over jagged rocks, each breath laced with regret. The memory of her final smile, her teasing banter, followed him like a faint echo. Lightning flickered one last time in the distance, illuminating his weary face. He paused at a ledge overlooking the ruins of Charlevoix, the burned-out shells of buildings catching the first pale rays of dawn. Even from this height, he could see the broken spires, the collapsed roofs, the distant glow of fires still smoldering.
His hand drifted to the marble hidden in his jacket. It pressed against the folded letter, as though reminding him of secrets yet to be uncovered. He curled his fingers around it, feeling a subtle warmth from the tiny sphere. In the hush of the early morning, it almost felt alive. Perhaps it was no more than a bauble or a final keepsake that Becca had left him. Perhaps it was something more. Questions churned in his mind: Why had she sealed it with that note for Winston? What power might it hold? He had no answers, and the weight of mystery pressed on his thoughts.
The runes gave a faint hum of magic whenever his foot hit loose rock, like an erratic heartbeat echoing his own. He resented it for a moment, this blade that promised the world and delivered too late. Yet he couldn't part with it. Not while Winston lived. Not while there was still a chance to salvage something from all of this ruin. Rahl's words returned to him—there was something the Guildmaster wanted to show him, maybe some old route or map that might reveal where they were taking Winston. If even a sliver of that hope remained, he had to grasp it.
With slow, deliberate clings, he resumed his descent, wind tugging at his cloak, the early light painting the sky in bruised hues of pink and orange. His heart felt torn between the silent anguish of leaving Becca in the cold earth and the pull of duty urging him to the city below. Each footfall seemed to echo through the lonely mountainside, as though the Triskelion itself bore witness to his grief.
He reached the bottom of the mountain of a climb, the road granting him a fresh view of the smoldering town. He couldn't linger here; if he did, he feared he might collapse and never rise again. The memory of her voice, the sight of her grave, the knowledge of Winston's fate—these were the strands holding him together. He forced himself onward, one step at a time, tears drying on his cheeks, jaw set in a quiet vow to do better, to be more than the failure he felt he was.
As he passed a gnarled tree clinging to the cliff's edge, the wind picked up and lifted his hair from his forehead. For an instant, it felt like gentle fingers, like her presence was guiding him. He closed his eyes, allowing the gust to brush over him, letting the hint of solace settle into his bones. The city waited below. Survivors needed him. Winston needed him. Rahl would be there, battered but willing to lead. And beyond that, an unknown enemy roamed, armed with power enough to tear Charlevoix asunder.
Yet in this singular moment, as the wind whirled through the forest, carrying the distant smell of rain and the faintest scent of smoke, all Albion could do was breathe. He inhaled slowly, letting the pain roil within him like a gathering storm, letting it fuel the ember of resolve that still clung to life in his heart. Then he exhaled, pushing himself forward once more.
He whispered her name under his breath, a quiet farewell lost in the wind. With each step forward, with each fractured breath, he carried her memory in his chest—a weight heavier than any sword, any legacy, any burden he had known. And in that slow, solemn descent, Albion Pendragon resolved that whatever remained of his strength would now be devoted to a single cause: to honor Becca's faith in him, and to rise from this tragedy with purpose, no matter how broken he felt inside.
********************************************
His title was Guildmaster Rahl.
He stood at the broken edge of Charlevoix with dusk pressing in on the horizon, taking in the ruins of the home he had once believed invulnerable. The wide avenues that used to bustle with trade had turned into lifeless corridors of rubble. Everywhere he looked, jagged remnants of buildings rose up like gravestones, and scattered corpses littered the cracked roads. Smoke drifted in spirals into the sky, trailing off into the twilight. The ocean's salt-laden breeze failed to wipe away the stench of charred wood and death.
He had lived through pillaged kingdoms and vicious skirmishes, seen wide-scale devastation wrought by magic and warfare. Yet the sight of Charlevoix—his city—reduced to ashes felt more personal than any devastation he had ever known. This was a place he had tended and protected for decades. This was where he had raised his boys. The weight of that truth pressed upon his heart so heavily he could scarcely breathe.
He took a moment to slow his racing pulse, willing himself to remain upright in the face of such loss. His arms bore old burns and scars, the vestiges of a lifetime in combat. The wounds seemed to protest anew at the carnage before him, his skin prickling in phantom pain. He clenched his fists, staring at the collapsed rooftops and the fallen spires that had once shone like beacons. A strangled guilt burrowed into his chest. It gnawed at him, whispering accusations: If you had been here… if you had not left… if you had thought to prepare them better.
Twilight deepened across the sky. A handful of red-gold embers still crackled in the debris, offering pathetic light against the enveloping darkness. He dragged his gaze over broken streets and battered doorways. His mind conjured fleeting images of Winston, Ian, and Sebastian—his three adopted sons, though the guild only ever heard them called "Rahl's boys." He had taken them in at different points in their youth, rescued them from the chaos of war, taught them blade and magic, discipline and camaraderie. Ian had been a mischievous child, ever eager to spar. Sebastian had grown into a thoughtful strategist who forged plans for the Guild missions. Winston…Winston was the strongest of the three, a natural leader with a thoughtful spirit and a rare gift with the blade. Rahl loved them as though they were his own flesh and blood.
A cold knot formed in his stomach when he remembered how easily he used to scold them for minor mischief, never imagining that something truly horrific could snatch them away. He forced himself to move forward, though each step felt heavier than the last. The earth beneath his feet bore scorch marks and tracks of the unknown enemy's assault. Now the entire city lay in ruin, a testament to a violence that had battered through every defense.
He reached a plaza that had once been lively with merchants and travelers hawking trinkets. Where children had once dashed about playing at knights, only twisted beams and ash remained. In the center of that plaza, as if someone had impaled the very heart of Charlevoix, stood a sword: Masamune, Winston's prized katana. It jutted from the cobblestones at an angle, black shadows seething around the blade.
Rahl's breath stuttered, and for a moment, time froze. That sword was Winston's soul made steel—he had carried it everywhere, trained with it until both boy and weapon seemed fused. If Masamune had been left behind, it meant Winston was gone.
He forced his shaking legs to carry him closer. The closer he drew, the more he sensed powerful magic clinging to the sword, an ominous, dark aura. He had felt it before, had taught Winston to keep such forces balanced. Now, that magic twisted in malevolent coils, reacting to the absence of its master.
He reached out, brushing his fingertips near the hilt. The air itself seemed to recoil, launching dark tendrils of energy that snapped at him as if to warn him away. Rahl jerked back his hand, heart pounding. Something's different. This darkness wasn't always in the blade.
Steeling himself, he gripped the katana's handle. At once, the shadows flared, lashing at his wrist and forearm. The pain was sharp, burning like liquid fire. With a hiss, Rahl shut his eyes, and an image sparked across his mind: Winston, shackled in darkness, roaring in defiance as an unseen presence dragged him into the night. Rahl felt the intangible thread that bound blade to wielder and realized Winston was still alive—somewhere.
Relief warred with grief in his chest. Winston lived, but that knowledge offered little comfort while the rest of the city lay in ruin, and Ian and Sebastian… Rahl forced himself not to dwell on the truth of where they might be, or whether they might still draw breath. For a heartbeat, he felt Winston's presence through the sword, like a candle flickering in a gale. Then the connection dimmed, and the shadows retreated.
He yanked the blade free from the cobblestones with a grunt. Immediately, he felt a burning mark sear itself into his skin, forming a dark tai chi symbol on his forearm. He recognized it as an ancient emblem of binding magic, something that would link him to the katana until Winston reclaimed it himself. The pain pulsed through Rahl's veins, but a grim sense of purpose settled over him.
"Hold on," he whispered under his breath, gripping Masamune in his left hand. "I'm coming for you, Winston. I swear it."
He turned away, eyes burning, and began weaving through the broken streets. The devastation felt surreal. He stepped over broken beams, saw the silent forms of people he had known for years, their bodies contorted in final agony. Some had tried to flee, others had died fighting. He recognized a blacksmith's apprentice, face down in the ash, and a local guard whose helmet still glimmered with the insignia of Charlevoix.
His mind tumbled through scenes of the past: Winston sparring in this very plaza with Ian and Sebastian. They had teased each other relentlessly. Rahl had stood with arms crossed, scolding them for sloppy stances, but inwardly brimming with pride. Ian used to brag that he'd inherit the master's role someday, while Winston laughed and said he was aiming higher. Sebastian only smiled quietly, reading a tome. A thousand recollections seared Rahl's heart, each one more painful than the last as he walked a silent graveyard of memories.
He glanced again at the scorched ruins, as if scanning for a miracle. Had any of his sons left behind a clue? A footprint, a note, something? The emptiness weighed on him. A phantom ache gripped his chest at the thought of never seeing Ian's roguish grin or hearing Sebastian's measured advice. He could scarcely accept losing them. This city had been their refuge, the place he had hoped they'd always return to. Now it lay in tatters.
Farther down the lane, an eerie hush enveloped him. The sun sank below the horizon, leaving only a dim glow. He thought he saw a shape flitting through the rubble—a silhouette. His heart jumped. For an instant, he thought it was Winston, come back to retrieve his sword. "Winston!" he called, voice cracking.
But when he reached that spot, only piles of burnt timbers and collapsed roofs greeted him. No living presence. He clenched his teeth, cursing the illusions wrought by grief and failing light.
Eventually, his feet carried him to Vanderbilt, the one place that might still shelter survivors. The grand structure's domed roof was torn wide open, letting him see the star-flecked sky beyond. Once, that dome was a grand mosaic, a testament to Charlevoix's unity and skill. Now shards of colored glass crunched underfoot, mixing with ash and dried blood.
He passed the entrance, the battered doors, the decapitated statue of heroic masters from centuries past. Inside, the gloom was thick. Bodies lay scattered. Some were covered with cloth, others burned beyond recognition. Lanterns illuminated the wreckage. A handful of survivors wandered, bandages dragging across the dirt, eyes glazed from shock. Rahl knew each face, recognized the heartbreak in them. We're the remnants, he thought, sorrow twisting his gut. What's left of a city that's no more.
His gaze drifted to the back of the main hall, where the bar used to stand. With a pang, he remembered nights when Winston, Ian, and Sebastian sat there with tankards in hand, celebrating a well-fought spar or a new forging technique. Now there was only ruin. Broken bottles, shattered stools. Torn banners fluttered from overhead arches, their guild emblems stained black.
But one figure sat alone at the bar, half in shadow: a man hunched over a glass of whiskey he did not drink. His runes reflecting the lantern glow in faint, flickering patterns. Albion Pendragon. Rahl's chest tightened with a sympathy so sharp it almost felt like a physical wound. Albion looked as if someone had drained the life from him, leaving only a husk. His face was streaked with grime and tears; his posture was that of a man who no longer believed in redemption.
Rahl approached quietly. His boots crunched on broken glass, and Albion turned to glance at him. Their eyes met. In Albion's stare, Rahl recognized the hollow, the shock of losing someone precious. His gaze flicked to the corner, and Rahl understood, beneath a blood-smeared cloth lay Becca's body, or what remained of it. Winston's wife, oh dear. Rahl felt fresh sorrow twist in him. It was a story repeated a hundred times that day: those who had put their faith in one another, ripped apart by a tragedy they never saw coming.
He eased himself onto a stool beside Albion. The splintered wood groaned under his weight. One of the surviving barmaids, Nicolette—her eyes dull with grief—poured whiskey for him without a word. Rahl accepted it, though the sight of the amber liquid only made his stomach churn. The hush between them was suffocating. No greeting, no small talk. How could there be, in a place like this, after what had happened?
Rahl knew that if the roles had been reversed, Winston would be here, slumped next to the broken bar in the same posture Albion now took. That realization fueled a swirl of shame and anger in his chest. He wondered which form of anguish was worse: losing your child or losing someone you felt bound to protect. As far as he was concerned, all of it was soul-crushing.
The minutes stretched. The barmaid poured them another round, but neither man drank. Finally, Rahl forced himself to break the silence. His voice emerged rough, quivering around the edges. "This was never supposed to happen."
Albion said nothing, only breathed out a tremulous exhale. His eyes looked haunted, ringed with dark shadows. In that single look, Rahl saw the reflection of his own pain. When at last Albion spoke, his voice was distant, as though drifting up from a deep well. "I failed her," he said. "I… couldn't save her."
Rahl felt the tension in his jaw. He cast his gaze at the pile of bodies behind them, some covered, some not. He recognized a few of them: old guild members who'd served under him for years. "We all failed," he said bitterly. "Don't think you bear that alone."
The words tasted hollow. He set the whiskey glass down, rolling back his shirt collar to reveal charred burns etched into his skin. The bandages that covered his older scars felt suffocating, reminding him that he'd outlived more battles than any man had a right to. "Look at me," he muttered, unable to keep the anger from his tone. "I've been at this longer than most. I've seen men cut down in their prime. But… this…"
His voice faltered. He reached for the whiskey, only to set it down again without tasting it. Albion's eyes flicked over, perhaps expecting more. Rahl let out a ragged sigh, remembering the three boys he'd once brought under his roof. Where to begin? How to explain the heartbreak of losing so many?
"I had sons," Rahl began, words tumbling out as if dragged from him. "Not by blood, but they were mine just the same. I found them—Ian, Sebastian, Winston—each at a different stage of my life. Ian was a street fighter in a border town, picking pockets to stay alive. He tried to steal a dagger off my belt once." Rahl managed a faint, sad smile. "He was so damn scrawny, but the fight in him was something else. I took him in, promised to train him right."
He clenched his jaw. His memories threatened to drag him under in their painful intensity. "Sebastian… I found him abandoned at a crossroads tavern. He was half-starved, but he had a spark in his eyes. He loved thinking—learned from the local library. He always in said building, learning something new was the purest kind of magic. Over the decades, he turned out to be the finest tactician I'd ever known. Then there was Winston. He had some formal training by the time I met him, a quiet soul who lost his parents young. But the raw potential in him…"
Rahl paused, recalling Winston's swift discipline, his almost scholarly approach to swordplay, the gentle way he helped the younger recruits. "I took the three of them in, taught them everything I knew. They became my family. My legacy, really." He pressed his lips together, tears stinging at the corners of his eyes. "And now look." He gestured at the bar, at the bodies, at the collapsed hall. "Ian and Sebastian… I don't even know if they survived. Winston—taken. I saw it happen, and all I did was hide."
Albion's shoulders tensed, as if he wanted to comfort Rahl but lacked the energy or the will. Instead, he only murmured, "I'm sorry."
Rahl forced a bitter chuckle. "Sorry doesn't fix a damned thing. But I appreciate the sentiment, kid." His voice dipped lower, thick with emotion.
"I can still see it. Right here in this hall, Ian bragging he could outdrink Winston, while Sebastian looked on with that quiet grin. Sometimes they would rope me into their games, teasing me for being an old dog. We had such life here, you know? Such hope."
He swallowed hard, memories of that final day flooding back. He had been late for a meeting with Ian and Sebastian. The two of them were waiting in the practice yard, probably sparring or joking as always. Winston was off on an errand, or so Rahl believed. He hadn't thought anything of it. Charlevoix was safe—he had ensured it was safe. Then, out of nowhere, the assault came with the force of a thunderclap. He could still hear the distant screams, see the fire blossoming from rooftops, feel the jarring impact of illusions unraveling as enemy magic shredded the wards. By the time Rahl got to the heart of the city, the guild was half in flames, and the enemies were more organized than any force he'd ever encountered.
He had glimpsed Winston from afar, pinned by brute force, wrestled to the ground, arms bound in chain. And Rahl, in that moment, felt his nerve falter. He was torn between running to Winston's aid or searching for Ian and Sebastian. Fear had frozen him. Before he could force himself to act, Winston was gone, swallowed by a squadron of soldiers. In the next moment, a hail of magical blasts crashed into the street, forcing Rahl to take cover. By the time he scrambled out, Winston's captors had vanished behind a wall of flames.
"I did nothing," Rahl said softly, tightening his grip around the edge of the bar. "I lost them all in one day."
Albion's voice was barely audible. "We can't change what happened."
"No," Rahl agreed, choking back the bitterness. "But Winston is alive. I'm sure of it." He lifted Masamune a fraction, letting the blade's glimmer catch Albion's eye. "His sword told me."
Albion watched the katana for a moment, a flicker of confusion darting across his grief-stricken face. Then he nodded faintly, though he said nothing. They sat in silence, the living among the dead, listening to the flicker of dying flames.
Eventually, Rahl forced himself to stand. His joints protested; bruises and burns covered him from that chaotic battle. He pressed a hand to his ribs, feeling them ache in protest, but he had no time for self-pity. "It's not over," he said, his tone growing steadier. "Not for Winston, at least."
Albion looked at him, torn between sorrow and the faintest spark of hope. "He could be anywhere."
Rahl exhaled. "I know, I have an idea for that. But I won't sit here waiting for those bastards to finish what they started. First, though… there's something I need to show you." He realized his voice trembled at the edge, a mixture of secrecy and fear. He glanced at the battered archways behind the bar. "But not now. Not in this place, surrounded by the dead." He glanced toward Becca's body—his daughter in law that would never rise again—and felt a pang of empathy. "Bury her."
He put a hand gently on Albion's shoulder, feeling the younger man recoil slightly at the contact. "Do it. Take your time."
Albion's gaze slid toward the small shape beneath the cloth. He nodded, tears brimming in his eyes again. "I can't leave her here among the rubble," he whispered. "She asked… she asked to be buried up on the Triskelion."
His eyes flickered with a spark of interest. He didn't truly know the details, but he understood enough. "Then go," he said. "I'll be here when you return."
Albion rose, retrieving Becca's body with a tenderness that made Rahl's throat constrict. The young man's face was etched with heartbreak, a reflection of all Rahl felt in his own soul. Then, with quiet steps, Albion slipped away, disappearing into the gloom of the ruined guildhall.
For a moment, Rahl stood alone in that half-collapsed bar, the last vestiges of twilight dying in the high dome above. Every inch of him wanted to sink onto that stool and stay there, drowning in self-condemnation. Yet an urgent part of him insisted he keep moving, keep gathering any survivors who could be saved.
He moved about the guildhall in a daze, checking each corner, each makeshift cot. Some of the wounded recognized him and tried to stand, though he waved them back down gently. This was not a time for grand gestures; these people needed rest. He offered water from a canteen, a few words of solace, though it felt like far too little. Where was the unstoppable Guildmaster now?
At the edge of the main hall, he paused near a row of bodies arranged beneath bloodstained sheets. His breath caught. He dared to lift a corner of one sheet, heart hammering. Beneath lay Ian's lifeless form, face gently. The old guild tattoo on his forearm had burned away, leaving blackened flesh. Rahl's world blurred. Ian had been so vibrant, his laughter echoing through these halls, bragging about how he'd one day defeat Winston in a duel. Now he lay here, stiff and silent. Rahl sucked in a ragged breath, forced himself not to cry out.
He was gone—one of his boys. He'd prayed for a miracle, that perhaps he'd escaped, or that he'd see them standing valiantly amidst the wreckage. Instead, he found him here under sheets soaked in their own blood. He realized his tears were soaking into Ian's brittle clothing. "I'm sorry," he choked. "I left you. I should've been here."
It felt like he knelt there for ages, the swirling chaos around him fading into a dull roar. Guilt weighed him down, an anchor of grief. But Winston and Sebastian remained. He clung to that single, precarious thread of hope. Winston's sword had responded. Winston might still be saved. Sebastian could be anywhere, hopefully alive. He covered Ian again with trembling hands, an aching hollowness spreading through his chest.
He rose and found a half-intact corridor behind the main hall, rummaging through the remnants of the old armory. He needed something—anything—to restore a sense of purpose. Leftover potions, battered shields, crates of stored gear. It struck him that he'd likely have to lead whoever was left on a desperate rescue mission. But how could he lead when he had already let so many die? The question battered him mercilessly.
A sharp throbbing on his forearm made him flinch. He glanced at the new burn marking that had been scorched into his flesh by Masamune. It looked red and inflamed around the edges, and from time to time, the black lines seemed to pulse with an otherworldly light. A reminder that Winston still existed somewhere beyond this city's ruins, and that the sword expected him to do something about it.
He forced himself back to the guildhall's main chamber. The wounded whispered about sightings of robed figures or monstrous beings controlling the flames, but everyone knew the Imperium had orchestrated the assault. The consensus was that the purge had been swift, well-coordinated, and merciless. Rahl listened, collating scraps of information. None of it eased his regrets.
Night wore on, the hall growing colder as a bitter wind flowed through the collapsed dome. Rahl sat near the bar again, mindful of the bodies still lying in silent rows. The only sign of warmth was the single lantern flickering on the counter. He tried to close his eyes, but each time he did, he saw illusions of Winston, Ian and Sebastian's lifeless forms. Eventually, he welcomed the burn in his lungs from breathing in too much soot; at least it grounded him in the present.
He wasn't sure how many hours passed before Albion returned. The younger man emerged at the threshold, shrouded in grief. Rahl's eyes flicked to the runes on Albion's forearm, then to the hollowness in his gaze. Their talk earlier had drained both men. Now, they seemed a pair of ghosts drifting through the aftermath of a war they hadn't been able to stop.
But there was something subtly different in Albion's posture. A faint tension around his jaw suggested he was forcing himself to stay upright. Rahl guessed that he had done as Becca asked, carried her body to the Triskelion, and buried her beneath the starlit sky. It was the same place, Rahl had trained Winston, and the others. No wonder Becca would want to rest there; she must have cherished those memories. But he wondered if there was another purpose.
Albion's hair was damp with sweat and tears, and bits of dirt clung to his knees, signs of the labor he'd just undertaken. His red-rimmed eyes met Rahl's. For a moment, neither man moved. The hush between them pulsed with raw, shared anguish. Then Rahl cleared his throat and motioned toward a basement door.
"Come," he said, his voice still hoarse. "I need to show you… what we're truly up against."
Albion nodded in silent agreement, stepping closer. But before they headed off, he touched Rahl's arm, expression flickering with empathy. Rahl realized the boy was searching for some hint that the old Guildmaster would endure. Some fatherly assurance that it would all be fine, the same sort Rahl had given Winston, Ian, and Sebastian a hundred times over.
Rahl had none of that left. Instead, he pressed the battered handle of Masamune into Albion's hand, letting him feel the faint stir of magic that swirled around it. "He's alive," Rahl murmured, voice trembling in the quiet. "The sword wouldn't lie."
A spark of hope lit Albion's eyes for a fleeting heartbeat, offset by the sorrow that still weighed him down. He returned the katana to Rahl, letting the old man hold it once more. Rahl nodded, then turned, leading the way. Rahl gripped the iron ring in the floor and pulled. A hidden door groaned as it swung open, revealing a dark set of stairs spiraling below. An unexpected shiver ran through Albion's limbs, as if the very stones beneath his feet pulsed with secrets.
"Follow me," Rahl muttered, descending carefully into the gloom. Albion tasted the chill of damp air as he followed, bracing himself against the crumbling walls. Every step echoed with the weight of possibility, his heartbeat loud in his ears. At the bottom, the narrow passage opened into a secret cellar lined with shelves of dusty tomes and arcane relics. Strange symbols glimmered in the lantern's glow, dancing across old stone. Albion's pulse quickened. Whatever it is he's been hiding, Albion thought, it's waiting here. Rahl turned, eyes shadowed and solemn, and in that moment Albion knew: one truth—one revelation—could change everything.