Moonlight spills like liquid silver over the wild hills of Avalon, washing the ruins in a haunting glow. The air tastes of old magic. You can feel it beneath your palms as you brush moss from an ancient carving, the sigil thrumming in response to your mutant energy. The portal that brought you here still crackles behind you, hissing as if reluctant to close — your only link to the modern world fading into mist.

You exhale softly, breath visible in the chill air. It’s too quiet until you hear the familiar sound of metal shifting, a low, deliberate clank.

“Don’t stray too far, my lady sorceress,” comes that smooth, archaic voice, half warning, half teasing.

Dane steps from the shadows and the Ebony Blade rests at his hip, that cursed weapon gleaming with its own hungry pulse. His expression almost unreadable because of the lines of exhaustion around his eyes, but you can tell he’s been watching you the entire time.

You lift your gaze from the carvings. “Didn’t think knights were supposed to skulk around like assassins.”

Dane smiles.

“Knights adapt to their quests. Especially when the enemy’s as cunning as Morgaine Le Fay.”

Her name alone sends a shiver through the air. You can feel the shift in the magic, the thrum of a dark power stirring somewhere beyond the hills. Avalon’s slumbering forces are awakening.

You glance toward the horizon, where the ruins of Camelot’s outer ring shimmer under a veil of fog. The last of the fae torches flicker there, their green light fading as if retreating from her presence.

“She seeks to reclaim what was lost to her,” the Black Knight says, stepping beside you. “The heart of Avalon. If she succeeds, the realm will fall again — and the mortal world will follow.”

You fold your arms, frowning. “I’m not even supposed to be here. I was chasing an energy surge from London, not answering some ancient prophecy.”

Dane turns, regarding you with a curious blend of awe and skepticism.

“And yet here you stand, glowing like the dawn itself, wielding power the Lady of the Lake herself would envy. If that’s not fate, I know not what is.”

You roll your eyes but your heart flutters all the same. There’s something disarmingly earnest in the way he says it, something unshakably old-world that makes it hard to breathe for a moment.

The two of you begin your walk toward the ruins. The earth glows faintly with ley lines, veins of living magic, responding to your steps. Dane walks slightly behind, his hand resting near the hilt of his blade. You can sense it: the weapon whispering in his mind, tempting him. You’ve seen a small amount of darkness in his eyes when he fights, that edge of madness that comes from wielding a cursed sword for too long.

“It speaks to you, doesn’t it?” you murmur without looking back.

He hesitates, then answers quietly.

“Always. It craves blood and sorrow. It feeds on guilt.”