“Fair enough.”
We reach the end of the corridor and then climb the spiraling tower stairs in silence, each step carrying us closer to something we all feel but cannot name.
The wolf within me grows quieter, strangely subdued, as if even it senses the gravity of what waits above. The ancient stone steps are worn smooth from centuries of vigilant guards, yet now they bear new wounds—hairline fractures that widen as we ascend, some large enough that we must step carefully to avoid catching our boots.
"The guards refuse to approach the tower anymore," Jarlath says, his golden eyes catching what little light filters through narrow windows.
"How long since anyone's been up here?" Hawke asks.
"Probably at least two weeks," Jarlath admits.
Boaz grunts with effort as we round another turn in the staircase, his stone-heavy limbs making each step more laborious than ever.
"I can feel it," Wraith murmurs, his voice hollow with exhaustion. "Something's changed."
He's right. The air grows colder as we climb, taking on a sharp metallic quality that burns in my lungs. My ears pop as if we're climbing a mountain rather than a tower, pressure building against my skull. The castle trembles again, but this time it’s a gentle vibration that runs through the stone like a living thing shivering.
We reach the final landing, facing an ancient oak door bound with iron. It stands partially open—a severe breach of protocol.
Hawke exchanges a grim look with Jarlath before pushing the door wider. It swings open with an ominous creak, revealing the circular chamber beyond.
The Round Table chamber. The heart of Camelot.
My breath catches in my throat as we cross the threshold, a reverence I can't suppress washing over me despite the centuries I've been entering this space. This chamber has witnessed the greatest triumphs and darkest moments of my life. The place where I first swore my oath alongside men who would become brothers to me, where we planned battles and celebrated victories, where we mourned fallen comrades and plotted the salvation of eight realms.
Bright afternoon sunlight streams through high windows, illuminating the familiar space now transformed by damage. The walls, once smooth seamless stone, are now webbed with cracks like a shattered mirror barely holding its form. Some fissures are thin as hair, others wide enough to slide a dagger through. But what draws my eye immediately is the far wall, where a doorway-shaped scorch marks blacken the stone—the portal to the Queen’s prison.
My chest tightens. This sacred space, this ancient sanctuary feels broken, wounded, even dying. My wolf’s hackles are raised, but you can't fight decay with teeth and claws.
"Gods above," Boaz whispers, moving closer to the burned outline. "It’s so much worse."
Fractures radiate outward from the scorched doorway, some glowing faintly with an otherworldly light. Three cracks in particular have widened enough that a sliver of... something... is visible beyond. Not quite darkness, not quite light, but a shimmer like heat rising from molten metal.
"Is that...?" I step closer.
We all fall silent, clustering around the largest fissure. Through it, we can see a fragment of what lies beyond—a grey, fog-filled void that somehow exists both right before us and impossibly far away. And within that mist, movement.
A figure.
She paces back and forth, visible only in glimpses as she passes the crack. A woman in tattered robes that might once have been white. Her skin is pale as death, hair a wild tangle around a face too beautiful to be real. When she turns, her eyes flash toward us—pure white, without pupil or iris, glowing with terrible awareness.
The Queen sees us watching.
A cold shiver races down my spine, my wolf bristling beneath my skin in immediate recognition of a greater predator. My muscles tense, ready for flight or fight, though neither seems adequate against what watches us through that crack.
Her mouth moves rapidly, like she’s speaking, but there’s no sound. No words. Her expression shifts between rage and something like desperation. Though no sound penetrates the barrier, I can feel the vibration of her voice in my bones, like the distant rumble of thunder before a devastating storm.
"She's awake," Wraith whispers. "She was supposed to be suspended. Frozen in time."
"Not anymore," Hawke says grimly.
My gaze shifts to the center of the room, where a massive stone sits like an altar. A jagged piece of Excalibur juts from the top of it. It glows with gentle golden light.
The heart of the chamber remains as it has for centuries. The great tree that is older than Camelot itself. Older than the entire universe. A massive stump rises directly from the floor, its surface polished smooth by countless generations of knights who have sat at its edge. The castle was built around this living connection to Yggdrasil, the well of power that has sustained the Knights of the Round Table since Arthur first gathered his champions and built the castle.
Five chairs grow seamlessly from the wood itself, each bearing our names etched in ancient runes across their high backs—names that appeared when we were first called to service. This place has been our sanctuary, our meeting ground, our direct connection to the World Tree that binds all eight realms together.
"Let us take our places," Hawke says quietly. "Perhaps Yggdrasil will grant us some clarity."
