Albion's mind was a tangled mesh of grim resolve and bitter recollections as he trudged beneath a bruised sky. Each step resounded like a broken promise, recalling a vow whispered long ago: "I'll be back for you." That simple pledge, gentle yet determined, remained his sole beacon amid biting chains and an unyielding march.
His plan—born of desperate necessity—balanced the fate of Camelot and the lives of Winston and Adelaide, trapped in its grim dungeons. Time was scarce, and destiny pressed upon him like ancient runes carved into Avalon's vaults.
The drug in his veins blurred reality even as it sharpened his focus. By day, his limbs moved with mechanical precision; by night, his dreams became warzones where familiar faces twisted into specters of loss. Every sensation was heightened, every memory distorted, as reason battled delirium within him.
He had left Charlevoix—a city whose mighty spires and bustling markets were now submerged in despair. In the ruins of a once-great guild, where he had trained under Winston, he learned that secrets could serve as both burden and weapon. Mako's parting words— "We have no time left for mercy"—still echoed in his mind as he fled, leaving behind a legacy of broken dreams.
The route to Camelot snaked through landscapes as enigmatic as Avalon's own magic. To the north lay fragments of his past; to the east, the Enchanted Forest stretched like a labyrinth of twisting boughs and whispered incantations—a place where time itself warped. Once disoriented by that forest, he found himself inadvertently nearer his goal, a mere hurdle among many.
For two grueling days, the army marched hundreds and hundreds miles over barren plains and jagged ridges. Forced into this mechanical parade, Albion muttered, "They're all extras in a bad space opera," a sardonic rebellion against fate. Each footfall marked the approach of darker destinies within Camelot's dungeons.
Blending into the uniformed line, his heart pounded with a fierce hope. A guard's hushed murmur, the scrape of boots, reminded him that time was fleeting. Seizing a lapse in vigilance at the tent's entrance, he moved with the precision of a desperado.
Night brought little respite. In the encampments, soldiers huddled around feeble fires, their voices muted by exhaustion. In a tactical tent, a faint warmth offered a brief haven. Here, Albion observed the rotation of guards, officers bent over maps, and rare bursts of crude laughter. Tonight, he decided, would be the night to act.
Slipping into the shadows, the scent of parchment and aged leather enveloped him. For a heartbeat, he was not a soldier but a boy guarding a secret, as lamplight carved fleeting shadows across the maps before he merged with the ranks.
Inside, the tent reeked of ink and sweat—a mixture of ambition and decay. Dominating one wall was a sprawling map of Avalon, a tapestry of hidden routes and strategies. Officers conferred over it as if planning the empire's salvation. His fingers hovered over the fragile surface, absorbing every detail while his thoughts turned to the personal costs of war. He donned his glasses and snapped a picture of the entire map, pledging to memorize it in time. Intelligence snippets warned of impending doom: Winston's execution was imminent and Adelaide's condition deteriorating.
Then his gaze fell on a smaller, inconspicuous map, its frayed edges steeped in conspiracy. It depicted ancient tunnels beneath the mountains—a secret carved by Merlin himself, remnants of a time when magic was raw and unbridled. This hidden passage offered a chance to bypass the enemy's gaze, and despite its peril, it was his only hope to reach Camelot before total collapse. A dark smile touched his lips as he memorized every twist and turn.
Fate was not finished with him. Near the map lay a small, leather-bound journal with a cracked cover—a relic left for the brave. Flipping through its fragile pages, awe and dread mingled within him as he encountered forbidden lore. One passage detailed the Great Prison, known as Leviathan's Hold, where ancient runes bound a fearsome creature charged with purging the unworthy. Legend claimed the Leviathan spared only those of true blood—the rightful ruler of Avalon—and its wrath was absolute. Some said it was death incarnate; others, Avalon's last guardian exiled beyond the veil. Its existence was no mere fable but a testament to the realm's deep, unfathomable power.
"What the hell is a Leviathan?" Albion muttered, bitter humor slicing through the silence as he envisioned a colossal, scaled horror—an embodiment of primordial chaos with eyes that burned with ancient fury.
Before he could hide the journal, approaching footsteps shattered the quiet. Cardinal Vorn emerged—a general whose pristine uniform and icy smile belied a hidden menace. "Enjoying the view, soldier?" he drawled, his tone a mix of sarcasm and threat that sent a chill through Albion.
Something about Vorn was unnerving—his movements too still, his breath absent from the cold night air. In that frozen moment, Albion's heart pounded with dread. A sardonic quip died on his tongue as rough hands seized him. Guards swarmed, yanking his arms behind his back and chaining him to the unforgiving ground. Vorn's cruel amusement deepened as he casually picked up a discarded journal—unaware the one with Leviathan lore was already hidden.
"Take him to Camelot," Vorn commanded, his voice final, leaving no space for negotiation.
Bound once more and forced back into the relentless march, Albion's spirit simmered beneath layers of despair. The drug warped his senses, turning the world into a montage of blurred images and echoing steps. Between the pounding of boots, fragments of faces—Winston's determined eyes, Adelaide's wan expression—and a ghostly promise emerged, fueling his resolve. A delirious soldier murmured, "They say the Leviathan awakens when the Pendragon returns…" The hushed tone imbued the myth with an ominous prophecy.
Camelot loomed ahead—a fortress of stone and sorrow. Its towering walls cast long shadows across a barren landscape, marking the threshold between hope and despair. Albion's mind churned with plans to break free and warn those he loved as rumors of execution and collapse gnawed at him.
Within Camelot's dungeon, light hovered in controlled, artificial glimmers. Engineered magic hummed through stone corridors that whispered secrets of past rebellions and ancient pacts. Albion recalled the journal's dire inscription: "When the Hold breaks, the realms shatter with it." Its warning echoed with a timeless finality.
Each step into the dungeon deepened the darkness. His chained limbs throbbed with exhaustion; each breath was a struggle against an inevitable fate. Yet a defiant spark blazed within him—a determination to shatter both the physical chains and the invisible bonds of despair.
In a quiet alcove, a flickering torch cast spectral patterns on cold stone, and Albion allowed himself a brief moment of introspection. The weight of unspoken history pressed upon him, and the ghost of that old promise burned quietly, fueling his rebellion against an empire of fear and myth.
The corridors twisted like the pages of a cursed manuscript. With each step, legends of a time when Pendragon forged sacred pacts resurfaced. The empire trembled before the secret of the Leviathan, its slumber maintained by runes entrusted to the Pale Queen. Should those runes fail, the ancient beast would rise in a fury capable of unmaking worlds.
Before the cell block, faintly glowing runes etched into the stone caught his eye. In that moment, he whispered, "If these runes fail… if the Leviathan awakens… then it's all over." His words challenged the cosmic order with grim resolve.
Outside, the march thundered like an approaching reckoning. Every step and whispered oath became a promise to defy fate's chains. The ancient tunnels, cryptic journal entries, and even the mocking refrain— "What the hell is a Leviathan?"—merged into a singular resolve: to rescue those he cherished and defy an empire built on mythic terror.
Clutching the journal, Albion steeled himself for the chaos to come. The dungeon's corridors, heavy with despair, were about to witness a reckoning as old as Avalon. As he prepared to act, that nameless promise—once spoken in a time of hope—remained his guiding light. In Avalon, where legend and reality intertwine in blood and magic, even a chained soldier can spark a revolution. With every step toward the cell block, Albion advanced—his spirit unyielding, his resolve as timeless as the runes guarding Leviathan's Hold. The fate of Camelot, the balance of realms, and the hope for a future rested on his shoulders.
At the heavy iron door leading to the dungeon cells, his heart pounded with urgency that eclipsed his pain. Beyond lay Winston—his sentencing imminent—and Adelaide, whose fragile hope waned with each moment. Though he did not yet know that the promise he carried was meant for her, the memory of a love defiant of darkness spurred him onward. In that vast darkness, as destiny's drumbeat resonated and ancient whispers swelled, Albion's spirit surged with the conviction that his fight was not solely his own. It was for every soul ensnared by despair, every hero recorded in Avalon's lore, and for a future that refused to be silenced by terror. Each determined step was a quiet rebellion—a countdown toward collapse, and perhaps, rebirth.