"Two hundred within three days," Carlisle said slowly. "Maybe another hundred within the week if we call in markers from the eastern provinces." He paused. "We would be calling in everyone loyal to the rebellion."
I shook my head. "Three hundred won't be enough to storm Camelot."
Especially when Arthur employed at least five hundred soldiers at Camelot alone. And these were the best of the best. Between the wall patrols, gatekeepers, barracks guards, night watch, plus Arthur’s personal household guard, his archers, riders, and runners, it would be an enormous risk. Not to mention the newly formed Knights of the Round Table.
Our numbers were still too small. Though we had gained traction over the years, the rebellion only comprised one hundred or so militia fighters—men who were not trained as soldiers but who knew how to use basic weapons—men like farmers, hunters, blacksmiths, and shepherds. They weren't elite, but they were fierce and believed in the cause. We did have forty or so trained warriors, some of whom were deserters from Arthur’s army or knights who had refused his tyranny. These men would be the backbone of the rebellion. We could only count twenty rogue mages within our number, owing to how many had died during Arthur's purges. The rest were refugees seeking asylum from Arthur's tyranny in the wilds of the North.
"Who said anything about storming?" Melisande's smile held no warmth, cutting across her sharp features. "We're not fools, Vaelen. A direct assault would be suicide—throwing awayevery life we've carefully gathered, every sacrifice made to reach this point. But there are other ways to free a prisoner—quieter ways that don't require battering rams and sieges."
Carlisle leaned forward, his voice barely above a whisper. "Ways that use Arthur's own arrogance against him. The man believes his castle is impregnable, his dungeons inescapable. That confidence breeds complacency, and complacency creates opportunity."
I nodded slowly, feeling the familiar satisfaction that came from working with true strategists. This was precisely why I valued the two of them as allies above all others in our fractured rebellion. They understood strategy, nuance—the delicate art of war that went far beyond swinging swords and charging gates. They knew when to strike with the fury of a storm and when to move like smoke through the smallest cracks in enemy armor. This was undoubtedly a situation in which smoke was called for, not thunder.
"Then we move in two days," I said, my mind already racing through the possibilities, calculating routes and timing.
"Two days?" Carlisle repeated.
I nodded. "Any longer, and the Thorn might not still be alive."
"He's right," Melisande said to Carlisle with a nod.
I faced them both once more. "I'll get you the information you need—guard rotations down to the minute, cell locations including the forgotten chambers beneath the main dungeons, and weak points in the castle's defenses."
Then I stood, not wanting to waste another precious second. Not when there were plans to be made, contingencies to consider, and a thousand details that could mean the difference between success and catastrophe.
I would not allow Guinevere to rot in that fetid dungeon, forgotten and abandoned like so many others who had dared todefy the king's iron will. And I certainly wouldn't allow her to die.
She was more than just another prisoner to be rescued. She was the key to everything we'd been fighting for, the spark that could ignite the rebellion into something truly powerful. But beyond strategy and politics, beyond the grand plans and noble causes, there was something deeper driving me—something that made the air taste bitter when I imagined a world without her in it.
-VAELEN-
When I left Carlisle and Melisande, I immediately started for the west coast of Logres, and more specifically, Tidefall Keep—the home of Morgan Le Fay, which existed on the Isle of Avalon.
Carved into the basalt cliffs where the land abruptly dropped into the violent, steel-gray sea, Tidefall Keep was a good day's ride. But it was a necessary visit. I had been hoping to find Morgan at Camelot, hidden as Elenora, but she had been absent these past few days when she was needed most.
Avalon was a place of dreams—and never located in the same place. It shifted magically through time, tide, season, and magical currents. Yet, it always obeyed Morgan. She alone could pull someone through, open the veil with a gesture, command the mist to part, and draw someone into her realm through dream or trance.
In my case, I had an invitation. Or I'dhadone—one I hoped hadn't expired even if Morgan's interest in me had.
When I finally hit the abandoned Roman road that led to the Keep, it was just prior to dusk. My horse had to navigate the overgrown road (which was half swallowed by the moor) carefully and did not seem eager to do so. Perhaps halfway down the road, my horse refused to continue forward, so I left her tethered to the remains of an ancient tree.
The coastline here was considered to be cursed—storms gathered without warning, and the wind carried strange whispers. The air tasted of salt, iron, and ancient magic.
When I reached the clearing—a circular void in the earth where nothing grew—I stepped into the middle. Immediately, I was surrounded by mist. Those who had an invitation to Avalon and knew the spell could invoke the mists to part. But they first had to pass through the Weirstone.
Almost immediately, the Weirstone began to rise up from the earth. It broke through the soil like a bone pushing through flesh—silent, inevitable, wrong in the way all truly ancient things were wrong. It stood taller than a man, black basalt veined with silver that pulsed faintly. Runes covered its surface, languages older than Logres, older than the kingdoms that had risen and fallen before Arthur's grandfather's grandfather had ever drawn breath. Some of the symbols shifted when I looked at them directly, refusing to be pinned down by mortal observation.
The stone was ice-cold when I pressed my palm against it.
Then it warmed.
Heat spread through my fingers, up my wrist, into my forearm—not uncomfortable, but searching. Testing. The runes flared silver, bright enough to make me squint.
Would she grant me entrance? I wasn't certain.
I spoke the words Morgan had taught me years ago.
"Ava'len dré mha'il. Téren va'shall. Open by blood, open by will."
