Prologue

The air hung heavy with the stench of blood and burnt earth. Acrid smoke, the remnants of a burning village, stung the eyes and clogged the lungs. The once vibrant green fields of Camlann were now a churned and trampled mire, crimson with the lifeblood of fallen warriors.

Arthur, King of the Britons, stood amidst the carnage, his armor battered, his once-gleaming chainmail a patchwork of dark stains. He was a lion weathered by a storm, his golden hair plastered to his brow with sweat and grime, his normally bright blue eyes burning with fierce intensity. Every swing of his legendary blade, Excalibur, cleaved through Saxon flesh, each strike a desperate act of defiance against the encroaching tide of darkness.

Around him, the battle raged. Knights, both friend and foe, clashed in a brutal ballet of steel, their war cries echoing across the desolate landscape. Horses, maddened with fear and pain, reared and screamed, their hooves pounding the earth into a muddy quagmire. The air thrummed with the chaotic energy of clashing swords, the sickening thud of bodies hitting the ground, and the anguished cries of the dying.

Mordred, Arthur’s traitorous nephew and the architect of this bloody rebellion, fought like a man possessed. His eyes, once filled with youthful idealism, now burned with a cold, malevolent fire. He parried Arthur’s every blow, his hatred fueling his strength.

“Yield, Arthur!” Mordred roared, his voice raspy with exertion and malice. “Your reign is over! The throne is mine!”

Arthur met his nephew’s gaze, his own voice filled with sorrow and resolve. “Never, Mordred. You will not win this day. Your treachery will consume you.”

“Treachery?” Mordred spat, a cruel smile twisting his lips. “You speak of treachery? You, who stole my birthright! You, who denied me my place at your side!”

“You chose this path, Mordred,” Arthur countered, his voice heavy with regret. “I offered you forgiveness, a chance to redeem yourself. But you chose darkness.”

“Darkness?” Mordred laughed, a chilling shriek that ripped through the battlefield. “Darkness is all I have ever known, thanks to you! Today, I claim what is rightfully mine!”

With a guttural roar, Mordred lunged, his blade flashing in the fading light. Arthur, sensing the desperation in his foe’s attack, sidestepped with a speed that belied his weariness. Excalibur met Mordred’s blade in a shower of sparks, the force of the impact jarring both men. Arthur, with a final surge of strength, twisted his blade, disarming Mordred and leaving him open.

“This ends now, Mordred,” Arthur declared, his voice filled with grim finality.

“No...it can’t...” Mordred gasped, his eyes widening in fear as he saw the killing blow coming.

In a swift, decisive motion, Arthur thrust Excalibur forward. The blade pierced Mordred’s armor, sinking deep into his flesh. Mordred’s eyes widened in shock and pain, his lips parting in a silent scream. He stumbled back, his hand clutching the gaping wound in his side, and collapsed onto the blood-soaked earth.

But the victory was a pyrrhic one. As Mordred fell, his own blade, coated in a dark, venomous magic, found its mark. It sliced through Arthur’s defenses, burying itself deep in the king’s side. Arthur gasped, his breath catching in his throat, searing pain radiating through his body. He looked down at the wound, his fingers tracing the dark, swirling patterns etched into the blade.

“This...this isn’t...fair...” he choked out, his voice barely a whisper.

Mordred, lying on the ground, his lifeblood pooling around him, managed a weak, triumphant smile. “Neither...was...life...”

The world around Arthur seemed to tilt and blur. The sounds of battle faded into a distant hum, replaced by a ringing in his ears. He swayed, his legs threatening to give way beneath him, and fell to his knees, his hand clutching the wound, his lifeblood staining the ground.

A wave of despair washed over the battlefield. Knights threw down their weapons, some weeping openly, others staring in horrified silence as Arthur fell. But amidst the chaos, a new figure emerged. Morgan Le Fey, Arthur’s sorceress half-sister, rode into the heart of the battle on a magnificent black stallion, her eyes blazing with a mixture of fury and desperation.

Ignoring the carnage, she dismounted and rushed to Mordred’s side. With a strength that belied her slender frame, she lifted his limp body and carried him away, disappearing into the swirling smoke and dust, leaving Arthur to his fate.

Inside Arthur’s tent, the air crackled with desperate energy. Flickering torchlight cast long, dancing shadows across the canvas walls. Arthur, his armor removed, lay upon a bed of furs, his face pale and drawn, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The once vibrant king, the symbol of strength and unity, was now a shadow of his former self, his lifeblood slowly ebbing away.

Sir Bedivere, Arthur’s loyal knight and closest confidant, knelt beside him, his weathered face etched with grief. “My liege,” he choked out, his voice thick with emotion, “what are your orders?”

Arthur’s lips curled into a weak smile. “Bedivere, my faithful friend,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “There is much to be done, even in this defeat.” He coughed, a spasm of pain contorting his features. “Excalibur...it must not fall into the wrong hands. It must be destroyed.”

Bedivere’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Destroyed, sire? But Excalibur is the symbol of our kingdom, the source of your power!”

“Its power is too great, Bedivere,” Arthur rasped, his voice growing weaker. “It cannot be wielded by any mortal man, not even myself. It must be broken, its pieces hidden where none can find them.” He beckoned Bedivere close, whispering, “Take four of our most trusted knights...Sir Lancelot, Sir Gawain, Sir Percival, and Sir Galahad. Each will take a piece of the shattered blade and hide it in a place known only to them.”

Arthur’s eyes flickered open, a spark of his old fire returning. “Tell them the locations are sacred. They must be protected for all eternity. For when the world needs Excalibur again, it must be reforged by those worthy of its power.”

He paused, his breath coming in shallow gasps. “And Bedivere...take me to Avalon.”

“Avalon, sire?” Bedivere’s voice trembled. “But...it is just a legend.”

“Perhaps,” Arthur whispered, a faint smile playing on his lips. “But even legends offer hope. Take me to the Isle of Avalon where I may find peace.”

Bedivere, his heart heavy with sorrow, nodded. “It shall be done, my liege.”

He rose and, with the help of the other knights, gently lifted Arthur onto a stretcher. They carried him out of the tent, into the fading light of the battlefield. As they moved, Arthur’s gaze drifted towards the west, towards the setting sun, a whisper of hope in his eyes.

Meanwhile, Lancelot, Gawain, Percival, and Galahad, their faces grim with determination, watched Morgan Le Fey disappear into the distance.

“We must follow her,” Lancelot declared, his voice filled with cold fury. “She cannot be allowed to escape with Mordred.”

“She will pay for what she has done,” Gawain growled, his hand tightening around the hilt of his sword.

“But where would she go?” Percival wondered, his eyes scanning the desolate landscape.

Galahad, the purest and most noble of the knights, stepped forward. “I know where she is going,” he said, his voice filled with quiet certainty. “There is an ancient castle, hidden deep within the mountains. It is a place of dark magic, a place where Morgan often sought refuge.”

Without hesitation, the four knights mounted their steeds and set off in pursuit, their hearts filled with a burning desire for vengeance and a sense of foreboding that clung to them like a shroud. The setting sun cast long, ominous shadows across their path, as if the very land itself mourned the fall of its king and the looming darkness that threatened to engulf the world.

The air within the ancient castle hung thick and heavy, a cloying blend of dust, damp stone, and something indefinably unsettling. Torches, placed haphazardly along the damp stone walls, flickered erratically, casting grotesque, dancing shadows that seemed to writhe and twist with a life of their own. The four knights, Lancelot, Gawain, Percival, and Galahad, moved as one, their footsteps echoing eerily through the cavernous halls. A palpable sense of unease settled upon them, a feeling that they were trespassing on something ancient and powerful.

"This place reeks of dark magic," Gawain muttered, his hand instinctively resting on the hilt of his sword.

"Indeed," Lancelot replied, his gaze sweeping across the decaying tapestries that adorned the walls, their faded images depicting scenes of forgotten rituals and strange, otherworldly creatures. "I feel as though we are being watched."

As they descended deeper into the castle's bowels, a low, rhythmic thrumming began to resonate through the stone, growing steadily louder with each step. It was a strange, pulsating noise, like the heartbeat of some immense, slumbering beast, a sound that vibrated not just in their ears, but in their very bones.

"What is that infernal noise?" Percival asked, his voice tight with apprehension.

"I do not know," Galahad replied, his usually serene face etched with concern. "But I fear we are about to find out."

The thrumming led them to a vast, subterranean chamber. The air here was stifling, the oppressive weight of the earth pressing down on them. And in the center of the chamber, bathed in an unnatural, crimson glow, they saw her.

Morgan Le Fey.

She knelt before a massive stone wall, its surface shimmering and undulating with an eerie, internal light. Beside her, his life ebbing away, lay Mordred. The wall pulsed with a malevolent energy, the crimson light radiating outwards like heat from a forge.

"Mordred!" Gawain exclaimed, a surge of anger coursing through him. He took a step forward, but Lancelot held him back.

"Wait," Lancelot hissed, his eyes fixed on Morgan. "Look."

As they drew closer, the heat radiating from the wall became almost unbearable. It washed over them in waves, forcing them to shed their heavy armor. The chamber felt less like a dungeon and more like the entrance to some infernal furnace.

Morgan, her face pale and gaunt, was chanting in a low, guttural tongue. The words, though foreign, seemed to vibrate with a dark power, each syllable resonating with the pulsating energy of the wall. In her hands, she held a large, obsidian stone, its surface as black as night. The stone throbbed with a faint, inner light, mirroring the crimson glow of the wall, and she seemed to be channeling energy from it, directing it towards the shimmering surface.

"She's performing some kind of ritual," Percival whispered, his eyes wide with a mixture of awe and terror.

"We must stop her," Lancelot declared, drawing his sword.

But before they could move, the wall exploded.

The chamber was filled with a blinding flash of light and a deafening roar. Sparks flew in all directions, showering the knights with fragments of stone. They instinctively turned away, shielding their eyes from the intense burst of energy.

When they finally dared to look back, the sight that greeted them was impossible.

Morgan Le Fey and Mordred were gone.

The wall, just moments before a swirling vortex of crimson light, was now solid, seamless, and utterly unremarkable. There was no crack, no fissure, no indication that it had ever been anything other than a solid, unyielding barrier of stone.

"Where…where did they go?" Gawain stammered, his voice laced with disbelief.

"I…I don't understand," Percival whispered, shaking his head in confusion.

Lancelot, his face grim, examined the wall closely. "There's no sign of an opening," he said, his voice low. "It's as if they vanished into thin air."

Galahad, his eyes filled with a deep unease, spoke softly. "This is not the work of mortal magic," he said. "This is something…else."

A heavy silence descended upon the chamber, broken only by the echoing drip of water and the faint, lingering hum of residual energy. The four knights stood there, bewildered and shaken, their mission incomplete, their questions unanswered. They knew they had witnessed something extraordinary, something that defied all logic and reason.

With a sense of foreboding weighing heavily upon them, they turned and made their way back up the dark, winding stairs, leaving behind the secrets of the glowing wall and the chilling mystery of Morgan Le Fey's disappearance. They returned to their scattered duties, each carrying the weight of their failed pursuit and the chilling knowledge that something ancient, powerful, and utterly unknown lay hidden within the depths of the castle, a force that threatened to plunge the world into darkness.