Ryland's footsteps pounded the frostbound stone corridors of the fortress as he made his way to the council chamber. The cold pressed in like a war that refused to end.

It had been months since Charlevoix's fall, and every rumor now pointed to one truth: Albion Pendragon, our long-awaited savior, was nearing the edge of the White Desert. In that vast, icebound wasteland—where magic lay dormant beneath endless drifts of snow and every gust of wind carried the sorrow of lost kingdoms—destiny itself was being forged.

Inside a sparsely lit antechamber, illuminated by the weak, wavering light of ancient braziers, Winston found Alen waiting. Alen stood by a frost-crusted window that overlooked the distant expanse of the White Desert—a barren, merciless frontier that stretched like a sleeping god, its frozen surface concealing a power both ancient and unyielding. His gaunt features, etched deeply by hardship and countless battles, gave nothing away, yet his eyes—dark and haunted—spoke of secrets and regrets that time could not erase.

"Winston," Alen said, his voice measured and somber, as if reciting a long-forgotten oath. "I assume you bring news of great import."

Winston's jaw set, his expression grim as he stepped closer. "Grave, indeed," he began, his tone low enough to rival the howling winds beyond the window. "Cindy's plan has finally been revealed—and it is worse than any of us feared." He paused, choosing each word as if carving it from ice. "She intends to drain the enchanted forest—the very heart of Avalon's magic—and use that stolen power to annihilate the Celeste Empire. But in doing so, she will collapse both realms. Avalon and Celeste will perish together, swallowed by her apocalyptic revolution."

Alen's eyes darkened, and for a moment the silence between them grew heavier than the cold that seeped through the fortress walls. "You mean to say she wishes not to rule but to end everything?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper. "She believes both realms are too broken to save, that the only way forward is to burn them down completely?"

Winston nodded slowly, his gaze hardening. "Precisely. She is not manipulating the vanguards behind closed doors as we once feared. This is her overt declaration—a declaration of war against magic itself. I have already dispatched six of the twelve vanguards, but the remaining six are still out there, hidden like malignant seeds waiting for the right moment to sprout chaos."

The gravity in Winston's voice was unmistakable—a grim promise of devastation if they failed. "If we let Cindy's plan come to pass, magic in Avalon will be drained from its roots, and nothing will remain but ashes and silence. I cannot—will not—allow that to happen. Innocents, entire peoples, will fall by our inaction. Even if I despise the Church's hypocrisy, I cannot stand by while our world is consumed by its own ruin."

Some dark part of Winston, unspoken even to himself, wondered if Cindy was right. Maybe both Avalon and Celeste deserved the pyre she promised.

But he smothered the thought like a spark in dry grass. As long as Albion still stood, hope was not dead.

Alen folded his arms and looked out at the frozen wasteland beyond the window. "I have heard whispers, fragments of rumor. The vanguards—besides those you have already struck—are said to be hiding in the crumbling ruins near the Eastern Mire, deep within the caverns of the Ashen Mountains, and there are even murmurs of a secret gathering in the far North, where a faction calling itself the Reclaimed lurks. These are mere shadows, but in the midst of our current calamity, even the faintest trace is a beacon for disaster."

Winston's eyes flashed with steely determination. "I need to track them down, Alen—every last one of them. And there is one more task, one of personal import. I must insist that you keep a vigilant eye on Albion and his companion, Adele. They are our last, fragile hope in these dire times. Albion Pendragon is nearing the tundra, and I fear that without proper guidance, neither he nor Adele will survive the unforgiving winter storm. A queen and a newcomer traversing that wasteland unprotected… it is a death sentence."

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

They weren't ready. Albion didn't even know what was coming. But sometimes, Winston thought grimly, gods didn't ask if you were ready. They handed you a sword and pointed to the fire.

Alen's gaze grew resolute as he met Winston's hardened stare. "I understand," he replied in a low, steady tone. "I will dispatch my finest scouts and inform my contacts among the Knights of Gorre. I will comb through every whisper and every hidden enclave until I locate the remaining vanguards. And I promise, Winston, that I will see to it that Albion and Adele are guarded with the utmost care until they have crossed the Silentmad safely."

He inclined his head in acceptance. But just for a moment—so brief Winston might have missed it—something clouded Alen's gaze. Not doubt. Something heavier. Guilt, perhaps. Then it was gone, tucked neatly behind the armor of duty. Alen bowed his head slightly—an old habit from a time when obedience had been simpler, cleaner. Before duty started tasting like betrayal.

Winston allowed himself a brief nod, a rare softness touching his otherwise grim features—a flicker of paternal concern in a man long accustomed to the weight. "Then I shall see you in Cornwall," he said, his voice thick with determination. "Report back with every scrap of information you can gather. We have no time to lose. Cindy's plan is not one of domination—it is one of total annihilation. If her machinations succeed, magic will be drained from Avalon, and both realms will crumble in the inferno of her revolution."

A heavy silence fell between the two men as the implications of his words sank in. Winston's mind churned with grim possibilities and the relentless ticking of a metaphorical clock that threatened to run out. The twelve vanguards, now scattered like cursed embers, were a threat not only to the balance of magic but to the very fabric of existence. Cindy's revealed intentions were a harbinger of an extinction event—a deliberate, apocalyptic act born of a twisted ideology that believed destruction was the only path to rebirth.

Winston's voice dropped, laden with both anger and sorrow. "I cannot—will not—stand by while Cindy burns away the magic of Avalon. Every life, every soul, depends on our success. If the enchanted forest, the heart of our world, dies, then Avalon and Celeste will follow. Innocents will perish, and the old world will be lost forever."

Alen's gaze lingered on the frozen horizon, where the desert stretched like a vast, unyielding ocean of ice—a realm where every gust of wind bore the secrets of a long-forgotten age, and every snowflake whispered of destiny. "I promise, Winston," Alen said, his voice low and imbued with a quiet determination born of relentless battles and personal loss. "I will root out every last vestige of that corruption. I will track down every vanguard until the shadows they cast are no more. And I will ensure that Albion and Adele—our final hope—are kept safe until they cross that cursed expanse."

Winston's eyes, hard as the frozen stone around them, met Alen's with an intensity that brooked no opposition. "Then I take my leave," he declared. "Avalon hangs in the balance, and I cannot—must not—allow Cindy's apocalyptic vision to become reality."

Winston paused at the threshold, one hand braced lightly against the ancient stone door.

The wind howled beyond the fortress, tearing at the battlements like the gnashing of invisible teeth. Without looking back, he said:

"She thinks ending the world is courage."

"…She wants to burn the world?

I'll make sure she burns with it."

"I'll show her what survival looks like."

And then he walked into the storm—like a man daring the gods to blink first.

With that, Winston departed, his resolute footsteps echoing down the long, frost-bound corridor—a rhythmic promise of action and retribution. Outside, the wind roared over the fortress battlements, a vast, merciless wasteland where the very fate of magic was suspended in cold silence.

Left alone in the quiet chill of the antechamber, Alen stared out the frost-lined window. The White Desert loomed beyond—a desolate, endless frontier where ancient magic lay dormant under layers of ice, waiting for the moment it might be unleashed. In that expanse, every gust of wind seemed to murmur secrets of fallen empires and forgotten heroes, and every drifting snowflake carried a prophecy of doom and rebirth.

He closed his eyes for a moment, his mind heavy with the memories of battles lost and comrades fallen. He recalled the faces of the vanguards he had once known, the bitter taste of defeat, and the relentless hope that had driven him to fight on. "I will find them," he murmured to the silent room, a vow forged in the crucible of despair and determination. "I will protect Albion and Adele as if my own life depended on it." And if the cost was his life, so be it. It was a small enough price for the only hope left.

Rising slowly, Alen turned from the window and stepped into the cold night. The corridors of the fortress receded behind him as he walked out into the open air, where the White Desert stretched before him like a vast, frozen ocean—a realm both beautiful and deadly, where the secrets of Avalon lay hidden beneath a brittle crust of ice and shadow. Every step he took was measured and heavy, a quiet promise to fulfill his duty and restore balance to a world teetering on the brink of annihilation.

His mind flickered briefly to Cindy's dark vision—a plan not of domination, but of total annihilation. "She plans to drain the heart of Avalon—the enchanted forest itself—and use that power to obliterate the Celeste Empire," he recalled her words in a cold, detached tone. "But in doing so, she'll unravel both realms. If the forest dies, Avalon will die… and Celeste will burn with it." The revelation had sent a shiver of dread through him—a promise of destruction that could end everything.

With the storm rising and destiny etched in every flake of falling snow, Alen walked into the Nameless Cold—alone, but not unarmed.

The desert winds rose to meet him, curling around his cloak like grasping hands. In their moan, he almost thought he heard a name— a name the desert winds should have buried.

But Avalon never forgot its traitors.

A reminder that in Avalon, the past was never buried. Only waiting.

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