He should have been out of this forest.
Albion had trudged for what felt like hours after finding that battered woman—half‐dead, wrapped in chains—yet somehow, he was back among twisted trees. He remembered glimpsing open plains, the brush of cold wind that promised an exit from the labyrinth of roots and shadows. There had been hope.
Now, as he stirred from a restless sleep, he realized the world around him had changed. He knelt in a clearing ringed by blackened oaks. No sign of the rolling hills. No sign of the watchtower. No sign of her, the wounded woman he had carried in his arms.
Gone.
He blinked, groggy. His eyes burned from lack of rest, and the coppery taste of fear clung to his tongue. The ground below was damp, spongy under his palms. A faint mist coiled at knee level, reflecting the sickly moonlight overhead.
I… didn't I see daybreak? He pressed a hand to his temple. The memory was jumbled: stepping out of the tree line, a glimmer of morning sun, the battered watchtower that should have given them shelter… He could have sworn he collapsed to sleep there.
But now it was night again, or some twisted parody of it. The canopy overhead was gnarled and dense, letting only slivers of a dull moonlight through.
And she was gone—the woman he'd vowed to protect.
Albion's heart pounded. "Hey!" he called, voice echoing strangely. "Are you there?"
Silence.
He scanned the black columns of tree trunks, but they stretched on forever, forming a maze.
He tried to stand. A wave of cold dizziness washed over him. His bones ached, as if he'd run an impossible marathon. His eyes flicked to the runes sheathed. The etched runes glinted faintly, as if aware of the looming menace.
What happened to me? How did I get here?
The only answer came from the hush of the forest, the faint drip of condensation falling from rotted leaves. Then, like a single thread snapping in the dark, a voice floated through the air—light, almost playful, but edged with a razor's cruelty.
"What are you doing here?"
Albion's heart slammed against his ribs, breath catching in his throat. He staggered upright, ignoring the pain in his joints. His eyes darted through the gloom. The forest seemed to move, branches bending of their own accord, leaves fluttering without wind. Everything felt wrong.
Then the voice again, sweet and cruel:
"Oh, how silly of you to wander into my playground."
He wanted to demand Who are you? but the name whispered in his mind: Eleven. She had haunted him for days—maybe longer. He remembered glimpses: her figure drifting through the trees, her laughter, the cat-and-mouse chase that always ended in blood. The memory sent a shudder through him.
Eleven. The child-like entity who radiated malice. She had singled him out. Stalked him. Led him to see horrors—like the half-dead woman she butchered in front of him.
Albion forced a breath, chest tight. The presence in the shadows pulsed, as though the forest itself were alive with her. His sword summoned.
"Don't you know?"
"The trees, the shadows, even the air belongs to me. You're in my world now, and I don't play fair."
A swirl of movement in the corner of his vision—dark hair, pale skin. Then it was gone. Albion's fingers curled around the hilt of Excalibur. The sword felt heavier than ever, as though it, too, dreaded this confrontation.
He managed to steady his voice enough to rasp: "Who the hell are you?"
No response—just the soft crackle of undergrowth. Then, from behind a warped oak, a figure stepped forward. Small. Childlike. Wearing a white robe that shimmered in the moon's faint glow. Her hair was black as ink, absorbing any light near it. Her eyes were bright, icy blue—glistening with a predator's intelligence.
Eleven.
His fear confirmed. The voices in his head, real.
She tilted her head, smiling. That smile was too wide, too sharp at the corners. The hush of the forest seemed to bow toward her, branches leaning as if subservient.
"Oh dear, you seem… misplaced."
Her voice was a sing-song mockery, a child's delight shot through with venom. She began circling him, each barefoot step causing the plants around her to shrivel.
"Or perhaps it's something deeper? Yes, yes, broken. You wear it all over you, like a mask you forgot to take off."
Albion clenched his teeth, hand tightening on Excalibur's hilt. Fear crawled up his spine. "Stay away from me," he muttered.
Eleven's eyes glittered, and she gave him a smile that was all cruelty.
"You don't know, do you?" she purred. "You don't know where you are—or what you've walked into. Poor little Albion, always running, always hiding."
He jolted. She said his name. She always knew his name.
The trees groaned around them, as if shifting in sympathy with her words. He blinked. This can't be real. This forest…
Eleven laughed softly. Then, with impossible speed, she blurred out of sight—a whisper of motion that left only a cold gust behind.
He swallowed, scanning the gloom. She's faster than anyone I've faced.
"Hide and seek," her voice echoed, suddenly near his ear. "Isn't it a fun game? I've been playing it for thousands of years."
Albion whirled, Excalibur raised. Nothing. Just the hush of leaves, the swirl of fog.
"You're not like the others," she cooed from somewhere above. "They all broke so easily. But you… you're different. You're still trying to fight, aren't you?"
His breath came in ragged gasps, mind cycling through too many thoughts. She's unstoppable. I can't outrun her. Where is the woman I tried to save?
"How do you know my name?" he shouted, voice echoing through the crooked trunks.
No answer—just a soft, cruel laugh drifting in the canopy.
"Oh, Albion, don't be silly. This isn't about what I want. It's about what you want."
As if on cue, the trees parted enough for a sliver of moonlight to illuminate a broken stump. She stood atop it, upside down, her long hair hanging toward the ground. She seemed to defy gravity. Her robe draped around her, and her face was twisted into a playful grin that revealed teeth slightly too sharp.
"You're looking for something, aren't you?" she whispered. "Someone. You've lost her."
Albion's heart thudded. He tried to calm himself, but her presence was so overwhelming. The memory of Adelaide flashed in his mind.
Eleven's wide grin returned, a predator's delight.
"Adelaide, wasn't it?"
His heart seized. Adelaide. The woman he failed to protect. The reason he had taken up Excalibur in the first place, forging alliances, making promises, all in a desperate attempt to rescue her.
"Poor little Adelaide," Eleven continued, voice dripping with mock sympathy. "She's been suffering for so long, all because of you. Drained of her magic, locked away, waiting… waiting for someone who will never come."
Albion felt fury ignite in his chest. "You know nothing—"
But she vanished again, reappearing behind him in a swirl of black hair.
"You've failed them all, haven't you?" her voice hissed. "Winston, broken and bleeding because of your fear. Becca, slaughtered because you hesitated. And Adelaide…"
Albion's throat constricted. Guilt hammered at him. I tried. I tried.
"You've never been able to save anyone."
He clenched his jaw, gripping Excalibur so tight his knuckles turned white. "You don't know anything," he croaked.
"Oh, but I do. I see your thoughts, Albion."
A wave of cold swept the clearing. The ground frosted over, the mist becoming a swirl of ice crystals. The trees groaned under new weight.
"You're just a child," she said softly, "playing with a sword that doesn't belong to you."
Albion felt the cold in his bones. Each breath seared his lungs. If I don't fight, I die here. Summoning the last of his courage, he let out a roar and lunged, Excalibur shining as it cut through the darkness.
Eleven vanished in a blink. He turned, heart pounding, scanning for her.
"Too slow," she teased, somewhere behind him.
He whirled, swinging again. Air. Nothing.
"You don't get it, do you? You're already in my net."
Suddenly, the forest flickered.
It wasn't just the light—something in the air split, like a veil twitching in the wind. The trees pulsed, shadows swimming like ink across bark. Albion stumbled, his breath catching in his throat.
And then, between two trunks, he saw it.
Winston.
His face—bloody, broken, jaw crooked—stared directly at him. Eyes dark with pain and betrayal. A line of red traced from temple to chin, and flies buzzed around the gash like mourners at a wake.
Albion froze. The weight of a thousand regrets slammed into his chest. His heart lurched like it was trying to escape. Winston's eyes locked onto his, and for one awful moment, Albion was sure the dead man would speak.
But Winston didn't speak.
He just looked at him.
Accusing. Condemning. Like Albion was the one who'd left him there, like Albion had twisted the blade himself.
Then he blinked—and Winston was gone.
In his place, a swirl of shadow—a black robe fluttering like torn parchment—spiraled through the underbrush. Eleven landed lightly atop a gnarled root, one foot tapping as she crouched, balanced like a cat.
Her voice slithered through the dark.
"You should have saved him," she whispered. "But you were too busy cowering."
The words struck like ice across skin. Albion staggered back, heat flaring in his chest. His lungs clawed for air. Guilt, sharp and unrelenting, curled like a thorn inside him.
He tried to answer—but something else was rising.
Another shape swam before him, forming from the mist and memory.
Becca.
She stood barefoot, her robes torn at the hem, arms outstretched like she was reaching for someone—no, for him. Her mouth opened in a silent scream. Her eyes were wide, glassy, drowning in terror. Blood streaked the side of her face. Crimson pooled at her feet, soaking into the roots. Her scream never broke the silence. It just looped—over and over—her lips trembling but soundless.
"Stop it," Albion gasped, backing into a tree. Bark scraped his shoulders as he shut his eyes. "Stop it—please—"
But the visions surged like a tide he couldn't stem.
Behind his eyelids, another figure appeared—sharper this time, painfully real.
Adelaide.
She knelt in a damp, colorless cell, shackles around her wrists, chains trailing like metal ivy. Her skin was pallid. Hollowed. Her lips moved, slowly, deliberately, forming words he couldn't hear. Her eyes—those familiar stormy eyes—searched for him in the dark. She didn't cry. She didn't scream. She just looked at him like he'd already failed her. And in some ways, he had.
The forest returned in a breath—a rustle, a chill, a sudden silence as if nature itself recoiled from the truth.
Eleven tilted her head, watching him like a child studying a spider caught in a jar.
"You can't hide from the truth, Albion," she said, her voice more amused now, almost fond. "It lives in you like rot in a tree."
He forced his eyes open. Everything blurred at the edges—trees bending like ribs, the ground slick beneath his boots. A wave of nausea rose and nearly overtook him. He clutched his side, willing himself to stand, to breathe, to move.
But he didn't run.
He looked her in the eyes.
The illusions had felt real—too real. He could still smell Becca's blood, still see Winston's ruined face. Maybe they were real, drawn from something deeper than memory. Something raw. Something festering. Guilt shaped into ghosts.
And for the first time, Albion wondered if they weren't hallucinations at all.
But truths.
The kind he hadn't yet earned the strength to face.
"What do you want?" Albion shouted, voice hoarse from running, heart hammering like a war drum. His breath came in ragged gasps, each inhale scraping against the fire in his lungs. Exhaustion bore down on him like a slab of stone, legs trembling beneath the weight of his own failure.
A laugh answered him—high, lilting, and wrong. It rang through the clearing like a child's giggle echoing in a crypt.
"What do I want?" Eleven asked, her voice dancing on the air, impossible to pin down. "Oh, how dreadfully boring. This isn't about me, dear hero. This is about you—what you want. And how far you're willing to fall for it."
He turned in a full circle, sword half-raised, trying to track the sound. His eyes scanned the rotted trees, shadows weaving between them like ghosts. Then he saw her—perched on the edge of a broken trunk, legs swinging like a girl at a fair, white robe fluttering in a breeze that didn't exist. The hem of it was soaked in something dark. Oil? Blood?
She tilted her head, watching him with a predator's patience. "Adelaide's never going to be saved," she cooed, her grin wide, teeth too white. "You know that, don't you? And Winston…" She pouted theatrically. "Poor, poor Winston. If only you'd been faster. If only you'd mattered."
"Shut up," Albion growled, the weight in his gut twisting into fire. "You don't get to talk about them."
He surged forward, Excalibur flaring to life in his grip, the runes glowing along its blade. He swung with all the fury of a storm, aiming to cut her in half.
She vanished.
Just before the blade met flesh, she shimmered into smoke—no, shadow—and disappeared with a soft shhh, like the hush of dying wind.
Her voice whispered beside his ear. "Let's see how far you'll go. How long before your precious morality crumbles… like it did in Charlevoix."
He froze mid-turn, struck harder by her words than any physical blow.
The dungeon.
The walls slick with rot.
Knights chained to iron hooks.
Mako, standing in the dark, scalpel in hand, his voice soft and calm as he peeled away layers of flesh.
The screaming—God, the screaming.
The way Albion had looked away.
The way he hadn't stopped it.
The way he had stopped it—too late.
Too much blood on the floor.
Too much silence afterward.
He staggered back a step. His grip on Excalibur loosened.
"You remember," Eleven murmured, materializing behind him now, a step too close. "It was the first time you realized you weren't the kind of hero they write songs about. Just another boy with a sword and too much guilt to carry it."
He turned and swung again, raw and reckless.
Again, nothing.
She laughed, echoing in every tree, every leaf. "Oh, but you are entertaining. Let's play a bit longer, shall we?"
Eleven's voice turned mocking:
"You think I'm a monster? At least I don't pretend to be righteous."
She reappeared, balancing on a broken branch overhead like a cat. Her grin cut across her face, eyes blazing.
"You can't save her, Albion," she repeated, each word slow and deliberate. "You never could."
He felt tears burn in his eyes, a toxic mix of fury and shame. Yet some part of him refused to surrender. He roared, "Shut up!" and hurled himself at the tree. Excalibur's blade cleaved through trunk and limb, sending splinters flying. But Eleven had already danced aside, standing a few paces away.
Then, something shifted. A glint in the void. Albion's heartbeat thundered in his ears, but it wasn't fear—it was memory. A sudden, piercing image flared behind his eyes: Adelaide. Not broken, not dead—alive. Her hand reaching through smoke and shadow, eyes wide with hope and defiance, mouth forming his name like a prayer. That memory didn't feel like a recollection—it felt like truth. And with it came the weight of a promise. A vow made not with ceremony, but with blood, breath, and will. It was carved into the marrow of him, deeper than any wound: come find me.
His breathing slowed. The burn in his lungs and arms dulled under the rising clarity of purpose. Every nerve in his body screamed from exhaustion, but he shut it all out. "I will find you," he whispered. The words weren't for Eleven. They weren't even for Adelaide. They were for him. A ritual. A rhythm. "I will save you." Again. "I will save you." The mantra steadied him. Built a wall against despair.
Across from him, Eleven's smirk faltered, just for a moment. Her head tilted, the curiosity behind her narrowed eyes betraying something she hadn't expected: doubt.
"You're thinking about her, aren't you?" she said, her voice laced with condescension but tinged with something else. "Adelaide. You think you can still save her."
Albion's grip tightened on Excalibur's hilt. The runes shimmered faintly along the blade, pulsing with a light only he could see. "I will save her," he said again, louder this time, every syllable anchoring him to the world.
Eleven laughed—a short, sharp sound like glass cracking. "You really don't understand, do you?" she stepped forward, her silhouette shimmering, feet leaving trails of frost as if winter followed her command. "She's already gone."
The words landed like hammer blows, each one meant to shatter something in him. And for a second, something inside wavered. But it didn't break.
Albion didn't speak. He didn't have to. He just raised Excalibur, his arms shaking but unrelenting, as though the sword had fused with his will.
Eleven's smile returned, but this time it was smaller. Tighter. Less certain. She stared at him, as if trying to see where the cracks should've been. And then she said it. Soft. Cutting. Cruel.
"You want to know the worst part?" Her voice dropped to a whisper, barely carried by the cold air. "She's better off without you."
A beat passed.
Albion blinked slowly. And then, for the first time, he smiled. It was faint. Barely more than the twitch of a lip. But it was enough.
"Then I'll prove you wrong."
Albion's vision blurred with tears. For a moment, he faltered, the weight of heartbreak crushing him. But a faint glow from Excalibur sparked at the edge of his vision, as if the blade sensed his despair and lent him strength.
"Oh, Albion," Eleven sighed in mock pity. "You really are pathetic."
She vanished, leaving him alone in the frozen forest. He stood there, body trembling, mind racing.
But something had changed.
He wasn't just a victim anymore.
His heart thundered as he realized: I'm still here. She didn't kill me.
"Come out, Eleven," he growled, voice low. "I'm not afraid of you anymore."
Silence. Then soft, slow clapping echoed from the shadows.
"Well, well, well," Eleven purred, her voice drifting through the crooked branches, "it looks like you're finally starting to understand the game."
Albion raised Excalibur, eyes narrowed, scanning for movement.
"You're still going to lose, Albion," Eleven whispered, cold and sharp. "But at least now, it'll be fun."
And the deadly game began again.
Albion found himself trudging through a corridor of gnarled trees and shadow-soaked moss, a forest that seemed to twist and stretch with every hesitant step he took. The path behind him faded, swallowed by the darkness as though the woods were alive, reshaping themselves to trap him. The ground gave beneath his boots like wet flesh, soft and unstable, and each breath he drew tasted of mold, copper, and something older—something wrong.
The air pulsed with a kind of quiet violence. In the periphery of his vision, Eleven moved like a phantom's echo, never whole, never still. A flicker of black limbs, a glimpse of an inverted smile—always just at the edge, as if the forest itself conspired to keep her hidden from his direct gaze.
He tried to gather his thoughts, to stitch them into something sharp and usable. He remembered their previous encounters—the way she'd moved with cruel precision, each motion a mockery of grace, like a marionette carved from bone. Her limbs had slashed through air and armor alike, her presence bending light, reality, and perhaps even time. She didn't simply attack; she unraveled. She slipped between dimensions like a child darting between curtains, wielding illusions born from horrors Albion couldn't explain, only endure.
"Focus, focus," he whispered, forcing himself to breathe as he gripped the hilt of Excalibur. The blade trembled faintly, like a heartbeat in his palm. Runes along its edge shimmered in the gloom—old magic, sovereign and cold. The sword was anxious, perhaps even afraid.
From the shadows came a sound—lilting, high-pitched, soaked in amusement.
"You should've seen it, Albion," came the voice, sing-song and cruel. Eleven's voice. "The look in that woman's eyes… oh, the look, when I had my fun."
Her words slithered into his ears, unbidden and vile. He staggered as a memory struck him like a thrown stone—visceral, immediate. The woman's face—soft, defiant, terrified. Her final scream, cut off mid-breath. Her body collapsing in unnatural ways as Eleven played with her like a broken doll. Blood spraying in arcs that shimmered in the half-light. His feet frozen. His voice lost.
His fault.
He clenched his jaw until it ached, trying to drive the images out.
"You remember it," Eleven continued, her tone almost flirtatious now. "I made sure you would. That taste—fear—it's intoxicating. So ripe in the dying. So honest."
Albion's stomach turned, the bile clawing its way up, but he forced it back down. His grip on Excalibur tightened until his knuckles went white. He would not vomit. He would not give her the satisfaction.
"Stop talking," he snarled, voice low and edged with fury.
"Why?" she replied, drifting between the trees like smoke. "You're always more interesting when you're listening."
A gust of wind swept through the corridor, carrying with it a chorus of faint cries—echoes of the dead, twisted by her power into a grotesque lullaby. Leaves rustled in a rhythm that sounded like breath. The forest leaned closer.
"Was she even real, Albion, did you think of that?"
"Stop!"
Albion moved forward, blade raised, every sense on fire. He didn't know what was illusion, what was real. But he knew one thing: Eleven was here. And she hadn't come to kill him. Not yet.
She wanted to break him.
A rustle in the undergrowth. Then a blur of white, so fast he barely registered it. His pulse hammered in his ears.
"This is your fault," Eleven whispered, her voice seeming to come from behind him. "If you'd been faster, braver, maybe you could have saved her."
Albion spun, Excalibur raised, but again—nothing. The forest gloom pressed in.
He forced his feet to move. The path seemed to shift under him, as if the land itself was leading him deeper into her domain. For a fleeting moment, he thought he saw the silhouette of that watchtower they'd sought as shelter. But then it melted into the shadows, replaced by scuttling vines.
He was trapped in her illusions.
Exhaustion clawed at his mind like a beast with dull, persistent fangs. Every breath felt thick, like breathing through cloth soaked in ash. His vision blurred at the edges, shadows bending into shapes that weren't there—until one of them was.
A figure emerged from the darkness, half-formed in the flickering light—Mako. Drenched in blood, sleeves rolled to the elbows, hands-stained crimson to the wrist. That same expression he wore back then: calm, clinical, as he carved truths out of living bodies. No hatred. No pleasure. Just methodical cruelty in pursuit of answers.
Albion recoiled from the memory like it might crawl into his skin. His stomach churned. He had tried to forget that look. That stillness.
A voice broke the silence, soft but jagged.
"You think I'm monstrous," Eleven said from somewhere unseen, her tone balanced between mockery and mourning. "But how many atrocities have you watched your kind commit with clear eyes and silent lips?"
He clenched his jaw, breath catching.
Was she right?
He had seen so much—cities burning under banners of peace, children crying beside the corpses of their kin, men like Mako doing unspeakable things in service of some greater cause. Each horror buried deeper than the last, like sediment over the grave of who he used to be.
He shook his head. Focus.
The sword in his hand grounded him—cool metal against his calloused palm, a steady weight that reminded him he was here, now. Not then. Not back in that room. Not back in that war.
Stay in the present.
He gripped the hilt tighter, breathing in through his nose, holding it, letting the past drift like smoke into the recesses of his mind. But Eleven's voice lingered like a stain.
Somewhere in the restless swirl of his thoughts—half memory, half storm—he heard Adelaide's voice, gentle but resolute, threading through the chaos like a golden needle: Come back to me… Don't give up…
The words didn't just echo—they rang, striking something buried deep in him. They cut through the noise, the doubt, the darkness creeping at the edge of his reason. Her voice, unmistakable, was not just a call. It was a tether, a promise, a command wrapped in love.
And in that moment, it steadied him—like an anchor sunk into the bedrock of his soul, holding him fast against the tide.
He advanced, deeper into the twisted woods, ignoring Eleven's taunts that drifted in the wind. If she wanted him to cower, he refused. If she tried illusions, he would press on.
Hours—or what felt like hours—passed. The sky above never lightened. Yet at one point, the horizon ahead glowed with a false dawn. Startled, Albion hurried forward, heart lifting at the thought of escaping these cursed trees. But as he reached a clearing, the color smeared into a sickly bruise of purples and blacks, swirling into the shape of Eleven's grin overhead.
"You're not going anywhere," she called, her voice reverberating in the darkness.
Albion's shoulders sagged. I have to find a way out.
The game continued. Eleven toyed with him mercilessly, like a cat stretching out the final moments before pouncing on a wounded mouse. She appeared at random intervals—never fully, only glimpses—just enough to keep him on edge. A flicker of white robe disappearing behind a moss-covered trunk. A glint of her silvery-blue eyes in a patch of moonlight. A swirl of her ink-black hair vanishing above him into the canopy, carried on a gust of wind that stirred the branches into whispers. Then nothing. Only the cold snap of silence, broken by her mocking laughter that danced through the trees like a phantom.
Albion's body screamed for rest. Every muscle throbbed with tension, his lungs tight from ragged breaths, his legs like stone. Sleep had long abandoned him, replaced by an aching, electric exhaustion that gnawed at his edges. He had lost track of how many times he had swung Excalibur into nothingness—into leaves, into shadows, into illusions that shimmered like water and disappeared just as easily. He had chased her silhouette through the dense forest, stumbling over roots and ducking under low-hanging branches, always too late, always just behind. The forest, once beautiful, had become a nightmare maze of mirages and false trails.
But he refused to give in to despair. Not now. Not here.
Little by little, instinct replaced doubt. His senses began to sharpen in the haze. He started noticing the details—the almost imperceptible shift in the wind that heralded one of her illusions. The strange chill that prickled his skin just before she appeared. The swirl of frost that etched itself into nearby bark when she was close. Even the faint distortion of air in the corners of his vision became a clue, a breadcrumb, showing him which direction she had vanished. She was powerful. But so was he. And he was learning.
She appeared again, this time perched effortlessly on a high branch above him, framed in moonlight like a vision torn from a dream. Her legs swung lazily, her face painted with amusement. "Still playing, dear hero?" she cooed, voice like honey laced with venom. "I wonder how much more you can take."
Albion didn't flinch. He raised his head, sweat and dirt streaking his face, breath fogging in the cold air. "I'll fight until I can't breathe," he growled, every word pulled from the fire in his chest.
She gave an exaggerated pout, then smirked, tilting her head like a curious crow. "Oh, I'm counting on it."
Then she was gone again, a blur of white and black disappearing into the forest's arms, and the hunt resumed.
At one point, the forest canopy fractured, just slightly—a slender rift in the thick ceiling of leaves—and through it spilled a cold, silvered glow like moonlight remembered. It bathed the path in an eerie, holy hush. Eleven seized on that flicker of light as though it were an invitation.
She spun her fingers through the haze, and from the air itself illusions bloomed—phantoms clothed in memory and grief. Faces he knew. Voices that should have been silent.
They circled him.
Becca stepped forward first, her outline forged of fog and starlight, but her eyes burned with fury too precise to be imagined. Loyal. Fierce. Arms outstretched in accusation, her voice piercing through the stillness.
"Why weren't you there?"
"Why did you let me die?"
"Why did you fail me?"
Albion staggered backward, breath caught in his throat. Grief clutched him like a chain wrapped tight around his ribs. He groaned, a low sound buried in his chest, trying to anchor himself. But the illusions pressed in tighter, mouths open in silent chants that somehow roared. Their blame crawled beneath his skin.
His knees buckled. The mist thickened. The faces multiplied.
His mother, pale and lifeless.
His father, sword broken, gaze hollow.
Adelaide, distant, unreachable—mouth moving but no sound coming.
Winston, eyes full of hurt.
Mary—just a child, looking up at him. "Don't leave me, Dad…"
The weight of it nearly crushed him. He dropped to one knee, hands shaking.
Then—
A ripple of motion. A disturbance in the sorrow.
A sudden blur—Eleven lunged from the shadows at his flank, claws extended, her figure flickering like a flame on the wind. Her face was twisted with rage and glee, something between a beast and a ghost.
But Albion wasn't entirely lost. Even through the fog, something in his blood—instinct, maybe, prophecy—pulled his hand to the runes. Excalibur flared to life, summoned by sheer will. Steel rang like a bell in a cathedral as he raised the blade in a tight arc and caught her claws mid-strike.
Sparks burst at the point of impact. Her shriek tore through the grove.
She flew back, stumbling, her form destabilizing for a breath before stitching itself whole again. The illusions collapsed like smoke in a gale, dissolving into the forest floor. The path cleared, if only slightly.
Eleven hissed, clutching her hand as if scorched. "Clever little sword. Clever little boy. But grief is a hydra. Cut one head, three more take its place."
Albion rose slowly, shoulders rising with each breath, eyes locked on hers. His fingers tightened around the hilt of Excalibur. His heart still thundered, but his voice was steady—measured.
"As many as it takes," he said.
And this time, the blade didn't just shine—it burned.
Thorns erupted underfoot, coiling like barbed serpents, biting into his boots and clawing at his ankles whenever he dared to slow. Every pause, every moment of hesitation, brought a fresh barrage—roots writhing like worms through the soil, thistles blooming in unnatural speed to hinder his steps. Overhead, the branches creaked with ancient weight, their gnarled limbs swaying in rhythm to some unseen pulse. Now and then, they swooped down violently, snapping at him like the groping fingers of the dead. The forest was no longer just trees and underbrush—it was a sentient snare, a twisting labyrinth shaped by malice and mind. It had become a living barrier, not merely wild, but woven together by intent—by Eleven's will.
And then he saw it: the pattern beneath the chaos. Each time she appeared in the distance—her silhouette half-shrouded in mist, her voice echoing from no clear source—the world around him shifted. Fog would rise like breath from a buried beast, thickening into curtains that blinded. Vines slithered up trunks, forming nooses and netting, as if to strangle the sky. Frost crackled across the fallen leaves, weaving silver veins over rot, each step louder than the last. The terrain shifted with her moods—wrath twisted the path, sorrow brought cold, and deception drew darkness thick as ink. The forest wasn't merely reacting to her presence—it was reflecting her. Mirroring her.
It wasn't just a battlefield. It was her. A manifestation of her consciousness projected through every leaf, every root, every flicker of shadow. As if the forest itself had become an extension of her mind—a dreamscape made physical, or a nightmare made sovereign.
He grit his teeth. He had to break that connection. Cut the tether between her and the woods, sever her control before he was swallowed whole.
Then everything stilled.
The hush fell like snowfall—silent, heavy, and absolute. Even the wind seemed to halt mid-breath. The thorns held back. The branches paused. The very forest, alive moments before, now waited. As if listening. As if holding its breath alongside him.
Then—without warning—Eleven lunged from behind a crooked oak trunk, her movement a blur of limbs and shadows. She struck like a serpent, impossibly fast, closing the gap with supernatural agility. Her hands slashed the air, fingers splayed—except they weren't fingers anymore. They ended in glinting nails, curved and cruel as obsidian talons.
Albion reacted. Excalibur flared in his grip, summoned with a spark of thought and defiance. He raised the blade just in time. Steel met claw with a crack like splitting stone, the force of the impact jarring his bones and sending a hot jolt through his shoulder. He staggered but held firm.
She didn't recoil.
Instead, she grinned.
Up close, her face was disarming—freckled, youthful, even delicate—but her eyes betrayed her. No spark of innocence lingered in them. Only hunger. Ancient, patient hunger, like something that had waited beneath the earth for far too long.
They moved, then—fast, brutal, unspoken. He swept the sword in a low arc; she leapt over it, pivoted midair, and countered with a claw aimed for his throat. He ducked, rolled, came up slashing. She darted back, but his blade caught her sleeve—a whisper of contact. The cloth tore. No blood. But her head snapped toward the gash, nostrils flaring.
She hissed. Not like a girl. Like something cornered and amused by it.
"Maybe you're not entirely useless," she said, circling him now. Her voice dripped scorn, stretched by something serpentine. "But you're still a clumsy ape with a stolen sword."
Albion said nothing. He could feel his pulse in his teeth. The forest around them had gone too still. No birdsong. No breeze. Just leaves shifting like they feared to fall.
A sudden gust swirled through the clearing, snatching up the leaves in a tight spiral around him. His cloak flapped, his stance tightened. When the wind died, the leaves fell.
She was gone.
Not a footprint. Not a sound. Just silence, returned like a trap waiting to be sprung again.
He stayed frozen for a moment, Excalibur still raised, unsure if she was truly gone—or if this was only the next beat in her dance of cruelty.
Then, slowly, the world resumed breathing.
And so did he.
Albion's legs buckled beneath him, muscles quivering with exhaustion. He stumbled through the undergrowth, each step clumsy, desperate. The weight of Excalibur dragged behind him like an anchor forged from dying stars. Finally, he collapsed beside a broad, moss-wrapped trunk, letting his back slide down its bark with a gasp. The sacred sword came to rest across his lap, its runes dimmed but pulsing faintly, as if sharing his fatigue.
The forest was still. Unnaturally still.
Birdsong had ceased. The air was heavy with a damp tension, like the world was holding its breath. Even the leaves refused to rustle. The silence pressed in around him, thick and unnatural. Still, Albion knew the truth: Eleven had retreated, yes—but not far. The creature lingered at the edges of the wood, like a wolf waiting for the fire to burn low.
He dared not close his eyes.
Instead, he looked down, forcing his aching hands to unclench. His arms were trembling violently, the muscles twitching from overuse. Bruises blossomed across his ribs and forearms, each one a memory of a near-miss or a failed block. One particular welt under his left rib ached with every breath, a dark reminder of a glancing strike that nearly took him off his feet. His lungs burned like a forge, drawing in ragged, shallow gulps of air as if the forest itself rationed his oxygen.
Every breath threatened to tip him into unconsciousness.
He pressed his palm against the bruise, as if pressure could slow the pain, then leaned his head back against the tree trunk. Cool bark met fevered skin. For a moment, he let the quiet soak into him.
But then the illusions came.
At first, just flickers—shadowy shapes darting between branches, flashes of movement that weren't there. Then came whispers—faint, indistinct murmurs that tugged at the corners of his thoughts. A woman's voice. Laughter from a dead man. Echoes of the past, and warnings of a future that may never come.
He shut his eyes tight and shook his head, gritting his teeth.
Not now. Not again.
His thoughts drifted toward Winston—his gruff voice, his weathered hand steadying Albion's shoulder just before the battle. And Adelaide—bright-eyed, fire-forged, disappearing into the maw of darkness. The image struck harder than any blade.
He wanted to scream. To cry. To run. But none of those were options.
Instead, he forced himself to draw breath. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Again. And again.
"I can't keep this up forever," he murmured, his voice barely audible, rasping like dry leaves.
A pit opened in his chest, hollow and hungry. For sleep. For safety. For the world to just stop.
But then—like a coal catching flame—he remembered Adelaide's smile. The way her hand felt in his. Winston's laugh. The way they looked at him, as if he wasn't a broken sword, but the shield they could stand behind.
And something within him sparked. A single stubborn ember refusing to die.
I have to keep going.
I have to.
The runes on Excalibur flickered, just once, as if in answer.
So, Albion sat still, soaking in what little rest the forest would allow. The battle would resume. The monster would return. But for now, under a canopy of whispering trees and dim light, he breathed.
One heartbeat.
Then another.
And another.
A fragile rest, but his own.
He closed his eyes for what felt like seconds—just seconds. But exhaustion doesn't count in seconds. It counts in weight, and the weight dragged him down fast.
He drifted on the knife-edge between sleep and surrender, breath shallow, fingers slack. The cold forest receded, replaced by the deep black behind his eyes.
Then came the flashes.
Winston—
Bound in chains, arms stretched and trembling. His voice cracked as he screamed his name— "Pendragon!" The sound echoed like it was pulled through water, strained and desperate. Blood ran from his wrists. He reached for him. Albion couldn't move.
Mako—
Grinning like a wolf mid-feast. The orange glow of Charlevoix in flames cast shadows over his face as he drove the blade again, and again, into the kneeling knights. One cried out. One begged. Mako only laughed. His eyes found Albion's through the dream, and the sneer widened. "They screamed for you."
Adelaide—
So close. Closer than memory allowed. Her skin pale, trembling like she stood on the edge of breaking. Her lips quivered as she whispered, "It hurts… help me…" He reached for her, but his arms wouldn't move. The world melted into cold, and her image cracked like glass.
He gasped and jolted awake.
Air hit his lungs like fire. He clawed at the earth, heart hammering like it was trying to break free from his ribs.
The forest greeted him in silence. The trees loomed, impassive. The mist had stilled.
But Excalibur's runes glowed faintly on his forearm—soft, steady, like the pulse of something ancient watching. He stared at the light for a moment, then forced himself upright, groaning as pain lanced through his side. His hands were trembling.
He rose with a grimace, bracing against a tree, breath ragged.
There was no comfort left in sleep.
Only war.
No rest, not here.
Time lost meaning as the dance deepened into torment. The forest became a frozen theatre, and Eleven its star performer. She toyed with him like a bored god—flickering through trees, her silhouette gliding between branches like wind-churned silk. A flicker of her white robe. A gust of laughter. Then gone again.
She didn't run. She floated. She danced. Her presence always just beyond reach, just close enough to tempt.
He chased. No—he staggered, sprinted, skidded, fought his way forward with fists clenched and blade low. Each time he thought he had her, her form shimmered, blurred, and dissolved into mist.
She lured him in circles, a cruel spiral of shifting illusions. The forest seemed to warp with her will. Trees leaned in, branches creaking with whispered malice. The same clearing, again and again, cloaked in deception. He began to recognize the twisted oak with a hollow smile carved into its bark—though sometimes it faced a different direction, and sometimes it blinked.
Gnarled roots rose like serpents from the frozen soil, coiling around his boots with unseen intention. He tore them free with curses under his breath, but they returned. Always returned.
The mist thickened with each pass, coating his lungs and lashes, numbing his fingers. It crawled up his legs and arms in ribbons, forming vague hands, half-faces, crooked spines that leaned close to whisper falsehoods. Some tried to drag him down. Others merely watched.
His breath came in sharp gasps. His sword was heavy now, trembling in his hand. Snowflakes caught in his hair. Sweat soaked through his shirt, steaming faintly in the cold.
And still, he pressed on.
Every time her laugh rang through the trees—a high, crystalline sound—it needled deeper into his mind. Not playful anymore. Mocking. Sharp. A chisel wearing him down.
He caught another glimpse of her—closer this time. The hem of her robe fluttered just behind a birch. He charged, feet slipping on ice-slick leaves, body driven by rage, instinct, desperation. He slashed.
Nothing.
Only air and echo.
He spun. Another glimpse, farther now. Her pale hand beckoning from the shadows. He roared and gave chase.
His muscles burned. His knees ached. Branches tore at his skin like claws. Still, he ran. Stumbled. Cursed.
He hated her. He needed her. He had to end this.
But the forest was hers. He was prey. And she—she was enjoying herself.
The game would end only when she allowed it.
And the cold? The cold would outlast them both.
The tension ratcheted higher with every passing hour. It wasn't silence anymore—it was pressure, a low-frequency hum beneath the world. The forest's hush turned suffocating, heavy with unspoken violence. Even the birds had fled. Nothing moved. The stillness wasn't peace; it was prelude. Every breath Albion took tasted of iron and ash.
Then, in a wide glade ringed by the skeletons of dead oaks, it happened.
She stood there.
Eleven.
No illusions this time. No vanishing tricks. No warped trees or phantom projections. Just her—alone, arms crossed, eyes calm, like a queen awaiting a servant overdue for punishment. Her hair was loose, drifting slightly in the unnatural stillness, and her robe, once elegant, now hung like a burial shroud. She cocked her head to the side.
Like she was bored.
Like this wasn't even worth her full attention.
It felt like an invitation.
No—it felt like a trap.
Albion swallowed hard, the taste of bile rising in his throat. His fingers curled tighter around Excalibur's hilt, and the metal pulsed, alive with ancient light. The cold beneath his boots crackled—a thin film of frost coated the grass, brittle and sharp. He stepped forward, and it snapped beneath his weight like glass.
"Come on, Albion," Eleven called. Her voice was honeyed venom, sweet and corrosive. "Don't keep me waiting. Or are you thinking of running again?"
He flinched. The words cut deeper than they should've.
A wave of memory slammed into him—raw and blinding. The last time he faced her in open combat, her laughter echoing through the trees, his blade missing air while she danced circles around him. His blood on the leaves. The helplessness.
But this wasn't then. He wasn't that man.
He exhaled slowly, emptying the noise from his mind. Think. Adapt. Use what you've learned.
He stepped into the heart of the glade. Overhead, the oaks leaned in like voyeurs, their branches interlocking into a dome of splintered wood. The air inside was colder. The magic thicker. Time seemed to stretch, as if the forest itself was holding its breath.
Then—vibration.
A low tremor rolled up his arm. Excalibur's runes flared, glowing like molten ice, casting blue and silver light across the frostbitten ground.
"Oh?" Eleven raised an eyebrow, smiling with disdain. "Is your little toy waking up?"
Albion didn't answer. He couldn't afford to. Every part of him was tensed, muscles coiled, blood thrumming like war drums. His fatigue dissolved into a single, primal instinct: strike first.
He lunged.
A diagonal arc, aiming to cleave her from shoulder to hip.
She didn't flinch.
She drifted out of reach with eerie grace, robes fluttering as if underwater. Her face was bored, unmoved, until Albion pivoted mid-strike, spinning low and fast. His blade sang through the air and—
Contact.
The tip of Excalibur tore across her shoulder, just barely, but enough.
She hissed. A sound like steam escaping flesh.
Her robe darkened where the blade had touched—thick, tar-like blood seeped through the fabric, black and viscous. Her calm cracked. Her eyes glowed from within, twin embers flaring red-orange, rimmed with white-hot hate.
"You'll pay for that," she said, voice guttural now. Not human.
Then she moved.
No wind-up. No warning. Just blur.
She lunged, impossibly fast, fingers extended into claws that aimed straight for his face. Albion barely dropped beneath her strike, the motion shaving hair from his scalp. She howled past him, but he twisted, dragging Excalibur up in an arc that scraped across her wrist, deflecting the blow.
Steel met flesh. Sparks exploded.
The sound echoed across the glade like a bell tolling death.
The impact jolted through his bones. Albion staggered, boots skidding across the frost. His lungs burned, chest heaving, vision swimming from the force of her assault.
But he didn't stop.
He couldn't.
He rose again, swinging high—then low—a feint, a gamble. She read it instantly, knocking the blade aside with a brutal flick of her arm, sending him off-balance again. Her grin widened, lips peeled back to reveal teeth far too sharp.
"Too slow," she mocked, her voice vibrating the frost. "Much too slow, Pendragon."
Branches groaned above him, thick with age and malice. They twisted unnaturally, dragging down like broken limbs reaching to ensnare him, joints cracking with every sway. He ducked low, rolled beneath one gnarled arc, then sprang forward as another vine snapped like a whip just inches from his throat. The forest breathed around him—alive, predatory, and ancient.
The air was wet with rot. Each step sank into moss and muck, and the earth trembled faintly beneath his feet, pulsing in rhythm with her power. Bark peeled itself back like skin, revealing weeping red beneath. Leaves murmured curses in a language he didn't understand. Shadows clung to him like oil.
"Bloody forest," he growled, sidestepping a thorned root that surged from the ground like a serpent. He swung Excalibur in a wide arc. Its radiant edge hissed as it cut through the thinner vines and undergrowth, severing them in flashes of pale fire.
Still, the forest didn't relent. If anything, it shifted around him—corridors closing, paths rearranging like a shifting labyrinth. The trees pressed inward, their trunks leaning unnaturally as if trying to crush the space around him. The deeper he went, the more the environment twisted, contorting itself into something out of a fevered dream.
And yet—something was wrong. Or rather, something had changed.
For all the forest's rage, its hunger, it moved slower now. The roots missed their mark by inches instead of hairbreadths. The vines came later, tangled in one another, confused. The trees still groaned, but it was more automatic—less deliberate.
She was losing focus.
Albion narrowed his eyes through the gloom and spotted her through a haze of mist—Eleven, barely breathing, holding her ground, eyes locked on him. She was panting harder now, her brow slick with sweat, her shoulders stiff from effort. Her lips moved, muttering incantations to the wood, but they no longer stirred the world with the same force. She was too busy. Too distracted. The duel had fractured her attention.
Good.
He surged forward.
This time, he didn't wait for her to strike. He feinted left, forced her to react. She twisted to block, but he was already past her guard. The runes on Excalibur flickered as they met her magic head-on. Sparks ignited as claw and blade collided, and Albion didn't relent—he pressed, drove her backward, making her move, making her bleed focus.
She snarled, retreating into the writhing roots—but they didn't part quickly enough for her now. One vine tangled around her foot, slowing her just long enough for Albion to slash again. She ducked, barely, the blade singing past her ear.
"You're slipping," he said, voice low and sharp. "The forest isn't listening anymore."
Her eyes blazed in fury, but it was the kind born of desperation. He could feel it. The forest had been her sanctuary, her weapon, her world. Now it was just ground and bark and leaves—slow, heavy things that couldn't keep pace with the speed of war.
Albion advanced again, no hesitation, forcing her to parry, to fall back, to defend ground she no longer owned.
Under strain, she conjured illusions—desperate, cruel ones. Winston's face appeared before him, twisted in agony, mouth smeared with blood, eyes wide and accusing.
"Why didn't you save me?" the phantom rasped.
Albion flinched. His boot caught a root, and he nearly stumbled into the false image. But he grit his teeth, driving the memory down with a growl. Grief would come later. Now there was only the sword. He roared and swung it forward, angling for her chest.
But she was gone before the steel could sing. A blink. A flicker.
She reappeared behind him like smoke re-coalescing, claws slicing through the air toward the base of his spine. He spun on instinct, steel shrieking as it met her nails, sparks dancing between them. She hissed and jumped back, her stance lower now, more cautious.
"Persistent," she muttered, the mockery still present but strained. Frustration had begun to erode her confidence, curling at the edge of her voice.
Then her eyes narrowed.
Another illusion pulsed into existence—no longer just figures from his mind, but the entire world shifted around him. The glade shimmered and broke apart like shattered glass. The trees elongated and bled color, their trunks twisting into pillars of obsidian. Roots rose from the ground, then retreated like serpents. The air grew thin and alien.
The forest was gone. In its place: a cathedral of mirrors and motion. The sky above vanished, replaced by a swirling sea of stars. The ground crumbled beneath his feet, and for a heartbeat, maybe longer, Albion felt himself falling—not physically, but existentially. Like his soul had been ripped from time and cast into the void.
"Join your dead friends," she whispered, her voice now all around him, layered in echoes. One voice behind his ear. Another under his skin. A third whispering like his mother once did, singing lullabies in a world that no longer existed.
Albion's knees buckled. Sweat beaded down his brow, freezing instantly in the cold magic of her illusions. His grip faltered—but only for a second. He clenched the sword tighter. Felt the runes pulse against his fingers, reminding him who he was.
"You'll have to do better," he growled, pushing through the vertigo. "They're waiting for me to win."
And with that, he hurled himself forward into the nightmare.
Albion closed his eyes, focusing on Excalibur's hilt, letting the sword's glow orient him. The illusions flickered.
He opened his eyes and saw the glade again, as real as ever, with Eleven standing a short distance away, lips twisted in annoyance.
He slashed at her arm again. She moved to dodge, but this time he anticipated her shift—a feint to the left, a pivot to the right—and he was already there. The blade met flesh with a sickening hiss, parting robe and skin like paper. A dark arc of blood sprayed across the air, striking the snow-covered ground with a wet splatter.
Eleven shrieked. Not a theatrical cry, not one of her usual hisses meant to unsettle him—but a raw, guttural scream, animal and human all at once. She staggered back, clutching her wounded arm. The fabric of her sleeve was shredded, hanging limp from her wrist. Beneath it, her skin had split open in a jagged line, blackish blood bubbling up from the gash and steaming in the cold.
Albion didn't move. His breathing was ragged, frost curling from his lips. He kept his blade raised, the runes along its edge glowing faintly, pulsing with residual heat from the strike.
She looked at the wound as if she couldn't believe it was real. As if the pain itself was some kind of betrayal. Then her eyes snapped up to meet his, and they were no longer playful or mocking. They were wide, furious, and full of something ancient.
Her voice, when it came, was low and trembling, nearly a whisper.
"Oh, Albion…" she said, her tone laced with venom and hurt. "You've just made a very big mistake."
Her shadow twisted behind her like it had a mind of its own. The snow around her feet began to melt in a perfect circle. Her breath came slower now, deeper, as if she were calling something up from within her—something neither of them could put back.
"You should've let me walk away."
The wind changed. The trees groaned. And Albion felt, for the first time since drawing the sword, that he might've gone too far.
She blinked out of sight, then reappeared in front of him in a single breath. Her speed was so disorienting that he could barely raise the sword in time. She hammered at him with both hands, nails slashing across the metal. Sparks flew, and a savage jolt numbed his arms.
Albion dug his heels into the frozen grass, refusing to be knocked off balance. He roared, pouring all his desperation into a forward thrust. The blade caught her torso, shallow but painful. She hissed again, face contorting into something monstrous.
"You can't keep this up forever!" she shrieked.
Her voice echoed, and the forest responded with a violent quake. Branches snapped overhead. Vines thrashed at his legs, tangling around his ankles. For a heartbeat, he was immobilized. Eleven lunged, nails aiming for his unprotected chest.
In a burst of adrenaline, he wrenched free of the vines, ignoring the burning pain as they tore at his calves. He slammed Excalibur upward, meeting her slash mid-air. The collision unleashed a shockwave of energy—her frosty magic against the sword's luminous power.
Time seemed to slow. He locked eyes with her: wide, furious, almost childlike in her rage.
He pushed forward. For an instant, her illusions faltered, and a swirl of black hair brushed against his arm. He brought the blade around in a punishing arc, aiming for her heart.
Eleven's face twisted in panic.
She barely managed to twist aside, and the strike carved a ragged gash across her ribs instead of a fatal blow. She let out a ragged scream that reverberated with ancient fury.
Blood poured, inky and thick, steaming in the cold air.
She staggered backward, clutching her side.
"You think this changes anything?" she spat, voice trembling. "You think you can win?"
Albion said nothing. He could barely breathe, sweat and blood streaking his face. But he stood tall, Excalibur's tip quivering in his grip.
A malignant haze shimmered around Eleven. She bared her teeth, a feral expression, then lunged at him again with desperate speed. Their clash was a blur—he blocked, she twisted, each locked in a violent dance of slash and parry.
They fought for what felt like an eternity, the glade's edges dissolving into frost and swirling blackness. Once, she nearly tore out his throat—her claws grazed the flesh at his neck. He felt blood trickle down his collarbone. But he managed to pivot, slicing across her thigh. She stumbled, shrieking.
Bit by bit, her composure shattered.
Where once she laughed and teased, now she snarled and spat, eyes wild. It was as if centuries of arrogance were crumbling under the sting of real pain.
Albion pressed the advantage. If she retreated for illusions, he pursued. If she tried to vanish, he guessed her next angle, forcing her to blink again. Each exchange drew more blood—some of it his.
The sword felt alive in his hands. Excalibur's runes glowed bright, forging a link between his determination and its ancient magic. In fleeting glimpses, he felt a presence in the blade—something urging him on, pushing him to stand firm.
Eleven let out a ragged gasp, stumbling in the center of the glade. A ring of frost and churned earth circled them. She was panting, eyes wide with hatred.
For the first time, Albion saw fear in her expression.
He advanced, lifting Excalibur. "Enough," he rasped.
Her face contorted. "Never."
She hurled herself at him in a final desperate charge, arms outstretched, nails like daggers. Albion steadied the blade. Their clash sent a shockwave that cracked the ice underfoot. The blow forced her back, and she struggled to remain on her feet, black blood staining her robe.
With a trembling snarl, she vanished into the swirling darkness.
Silence fell. The forest's illusions faded slightly, the frost thinning, revealing the battered clearing beneath. Albion stood there, chest heaving, blood dripping from his neck and arms. He waited, sword raised, for her next strike.
But it never came.
A brittle hush replaced the chaos. He pivoted slowly, searching for any sign of her presence. Nothing.
Then her voice drifted from the shadows, cold and cruel:
"You may have won this round, Albion… but the game isn't over. Not yet."
He spun, heart lurching. She was nowhere to be seen. Only the echo of her threat remained, fading into the darkness.
The wind died. The trees ceased their awful groaning. Slowly, the suffocating air lifted, replaced by a more ordinary stillness.
Albion's grip on Excalibur slackened. The sword's glow ebbed, though it still felt warm in his hand, a subtle reassurance that he was alive.
He dropped to his knees, exhaustion crashing in. His lungs burned, and every muscle trembled. But he was alive. And, miraculously, he had driven her away—if only for now.
For a long time, he simply knelt there in the battered glade, letting the tension drain from his body. The forest was quiet, as though it, too, breathed a sigh of relief at Eleven's retreat. The oppressive weight of her presence had lifted, if only temporarily.
At last, he managed to stand, leaning on Excalibur like a cane. An ache ran through his entire body, but a stubborn ember of hope burned in his chest.
"I can't keep this up forever," he muttered, voice raspy. "But I don't have to."
He remembered his mission: Fellsmere. Winston, Adelaide. He took a shaky breath.
That's right. Survive. Keep going.
He looked to the roiling darkness at the edges of the clearing, half-expecting her to appear again. She did not.
Slowly, carefully, he limped toward what he hoped was the north edge of this nightmare. If the illusions truly were weakened by her absence, maybe he could find a path to the real world again—where he could continue the fight for Winston, for Adelaide, for anyone who still believed in him.
He wasn't done yet.