The interior of Seraphine's stronghold was a study in architectural contradiction. Soaring ceilings supported by columns of obsidian stone created an impression of grandeur, while the narrow, winding corridors forced Task Force Valkyrie to move in single file, vulnerable and exposed. Gareth led the way, his silver-white hair gleaming faintly in the sickly green light that emanated from ley-line patterns etched into the walls.
Captain Alastair Reid followed close behind, his dwarven rifle at the ready, eyes constantly scanning for threats. The sounds of battle still echoed from outside where Williams and Singh were holding the Death Knights at bay, but within these walls, an unnatural silence prevailed—the kind of quiet that made soldiers reach for their weapons without quite knowing why.
"Cheerful place you used to call home," Reid remarked to Gareth, his voice barely above a whisper. "Let me guess—the interior decorator was going for 'abandoned mausoleum' with hints of 'eternal damnation'?"
A ghost of a smile crossed Gareth's face. "Seraphine has always had a flair for the dramatic. Though I must admit, the decor has deteriorated since my departure. The corrupted ley-lines have warped the very stone."
Reid noticed it too—the walls seemed to pulse slightly, as if breathing, and in certain places, the stone had twisted into shapes that defied natural geometry. It was deeply unsettling, like walking through the arteries of some vast, malevolent organism.
Behind them, Dr. Whitaker moved with uncharacteristic silence, her usual academic enthusiasm tempered by the oppressive atmosphere. She trailed her fingers along the wall, occasionally pausing to examine the glowing patterns with intense concentration.
"These ley-line configurations," she murmured, "they're different from those in Avalon. More... deliberate. Engineered, rather than natural."
"Seraphine has been manipulating the ley-lines for centuries," Gareth confirmed, pausing at a junction where three corridors met. "Bending them to her will, corrupting their natural flow to fuel her necromancy."
"And which way now, Sir Knight?" asked Private Okonkwo, his voice carrying an unmistakable edge of suspicion. "Another convenient 'shortcut' through enemy territory?"
The tension that had been building among the squad finally surfaced. Several soldiers exchanged glances, their distrust of Gareth evident in their postures and tight grips on their weapons.
"You question my guidance?" Gareth asked, his voice cool but not angry.
"I question a lot of things," Okonkwo replied. "Like how we've faced three ambushes since following your 'safe route' into this hellhole. Or how you conveniently disappeared for days after that skirmish in the Bone Wastes, only to return without a scratch."
Reid raised a hand, silencing further discussion. "This isn't the time or place, Okonkwo. Gareth has earned enough trust to lead us this far."
"With respect, sir," Okonkwo persisted, "trust is a luxury we can't afford when we're surrounded by the forces he used to command."
Gareth's eyes flashed with something dangerous—a reminder that beneath his composed exterior lurked centuries of battlefield experience and power that none of them fully understood.
"I served the Eternal Court, yes," he said quietly. "I led armies against those who defied Seraphine's will. I have more blood on my hands than you could imagine, soldier. But I chose to turn against her when she ordered the slaughter of innocents. That choice cost me everything." He gestured to the scar visible at his collar. "Including my life, or what passed for it."
The corridor fell silent again, the tension thick enough to cut with a blade.
"Left passage," Gareth finally said, turning away from Okonkwo. "It will take us through the old archives. Seraphine rarely stations guards there—she considers knowledge a lesser threat than brute force."
"A mistake many tyrants make," Whitaker commented, her academic interest briefly overcoming her caution.
They proceeded in tense silence, the squad's formation tighter now, alert for any sign of betrayal—from Gareth or from the fortress itself. The left passage descended gradually, the ceiling lowering until even Reid, not a particularly tall man, had to duck his head in places.
"The archives were built during the early days of the Eternal Court," Gareth explained as they walked, perhaps hoping that information might ease the tension. "Before Seraphine's rise to power. They contain records dating back to the Sundering—the event that separated Earth and Aeltheria."
"The severance caused by Excalibur," Whitaker added, her voice brightening with scholarly interest. "If there are original accounts here, they could confirm my theories about the sword's creation and purpose."
"Focus on the mission, Doctor," Reid reminded her. "Historical research comes after we survive this."
"Of course," she agreed, though her eyes still darted eagerly toward the passage ahead. "Though I would argue that understanding Excalibur's true nature is essential to our survival."
The passage opened suddenly into a vast circular chamber lined with shelves that reached from floor to ceiling. Ancient tomes and scrolls filled these shelves, some glowing faintly with their own inner light. The air smelled of dust and old parchment, with an underlying hint of decay.
"The Great Archive," Gareth announced. "We can cut through here to reach the inner sanctum. But be wary—Seraphine may have set traps for the unwary."
"Magical traps?" Reid asked, signaling for the squad to secure the perimeter.
"Of a sort," Gareth replied. "The archives contain knowledge from many realms and eras. Some texts are imbued with magic that responds to readers' fears or desires. They can create illusions powerful enough to drive the unprepared mad."
"Wonderful," Reid muttered. "Haunted books. Just what this mission needed."
"Stay close, touch nothing, and keep your minds focused on our objective," Gareth instructed. "The illusions feed on doubt and fear."
They began moving through the archive, keeping to the center of the chamber where they could maintain formation. Despite Gareth's warning, Whitaker couldn't resist examining the titles on nearby shelves, her academic curiosity overwhelming her caution.
"These texts," she whispered excitedly, "some are written in Old English! And there—that's proto-Celtic script that hasn't been seen on Earth for millennia!"
"Doctor," Reid warned, but it was too late.
As Whitaker's fingers brushed against a particularly ancient tome, its cover glowing with faint blue runes, a shimmering distortion rippled through the air around them. The chamber seemed to shift, the shelves receding into darkness as new scenes formed in the space around each member of the squad.
Reid found himself suddenly standing in a dusty compound in Syria, the failed hostage rescue playing out before his eyes in excruciating detail. He could see the hostages, could hear their screams as his hesitation cost them their lives. The illusion was perfect, down to the smell of cordite and blood in the air.
"It's not real," he growled, forcing himself to focus on the physical sensation of his rifle in his hands, the weight of his pack on his shoulders. "Focus, people! These are illusions!"
Around him, other soldiers were similarly affected. One young private was on his knees, reaching out to someone only he could see. Another was backing away from an invisible threat, his weapon raised defensively. Whitaker stood frozen, surrounded by the spectral forms of academic colleagues laughing and pointing at her in mockery.
Only Gareth seemed unaffected, moving through the illusions as if they were no more substantial than morning mist. "Your minds give these visions power," he called out. "Focus on something anchoring—a memory of strength, not weakness."
Reid forced himself to turn away from the Syrian compound, concentrating instead on the weight of responsibility he carried for his team. Not guilt—responsibility. There was a difference, one he was still learning to recognize. The illusion wavered, then dissipated around him.
One by one, the squad members fought through their personal nightmares, some more successfully than others. Reid moved among them, offering gruff encouragement and, when necessary, a sharp order to snap them back to reality.
As the illusions faded, Whitaker approached Reid, her face pale but determined. "Captain, I apologize for triggering that... unpleasantness. But look at this." She held up a scroll she had somehow managed to collect during the chaos. "These glyphs match exactly the patterns we saw in Avalon, but they're older—much older. They confirm my theory about Excalibur's creation."
"Save it for the debrief, Doctor," Reid replied, though not unkindly. "Right now, we need to keep moving."
As they regrouped, Corporal Zhang approached, her expression troubled. "Sir, you should see this."
She led Reid to a section of the archive that appeared to have been recently disturbed. Unlike the ancient texts surrounding it, these documents were modern—military reports, maps, and what looked disturbingly like personnel files from Task Force Valkyrie itself.
"Someone's been feeding Seraphine information about our operations," Zhang said quietly. "These contain details about Avalon's defenses, our weapons capabilities, even psychological profiles of key personnel."
Reid examined the documents, a cold weight settling in his stomach. The information was comprehensive and recent—far too detailed to have been gathered through magical scrying or battlefield observation.
"We have a mole," he concluded grimly. "Someone within Valkyrie has been working with Seraphine."
"Or someone in London," Zhang suggested. "These reports bear Ministry of Defence formatting."
Reid thought of Crowe's increasingly aggressive demands for results, his insistence on exploiting Aeltheria's resources regardless of the consequences. Was the Prime Minister playing both sides? Or was there another explanation?
"Bag everything you can carry," he ordered Zhang. "We'll sort this out after we deal with Seraphine."
As they prepared to leave the archive, Gareth suddenly raised a hand in warning. "We're not alone," he whispered.
The shadows between the shelves seemed to deepen, coalescing into humanoid shapes that moved with unnatural fluidity. They were neither living nor undead, but something in between—creatures of pure shadow given form by corrupted ley-line energy.
"Shadow Walkers," Gareth hissed. "Seraphine's elite assassins. They can move through solid objects and strike from any angle."
"Wonderful," Reid muttered, signaling his squad to form a defensive circle. "Any weaknesses I should know about? Silver bullets? Garlic? Tax audits?"
"Light," Gareth replied, drawing his sword. "Pure light disrupts their form. And they cannot cross uncorrupted ley-lines."
Whitaker's eyes lit up. "I can work with that." She reached into her pack, pulling out a small device covered in elven runes—one of her many experimental contraptions. "This was meant to stabilize ley-lines, but with some adjustments..."
She twisted something on the device, and it began to emit a soft blue glow that intensified rapidly. The Shadow Walkers recoiled, their forms wavering at the edges.
"It won't hold them for long," Whitaker warned. "We need to move!"
They began a fighting retreat toward the far side of the archive, where Gareth had indicated an exit would lead them closer to the inner sanctum. The Shadow Walkers pursued, flowing around Whitaker's light rather than through it, searching for weaknesses in their formation.
One lunged at Private Okonkwo, its arm elongating into a blade-like appendage. Reid fired his dwarven rifle, the enchanted rounds tearing through the creature's shadowy form and momentarily dispersing it.
"Keep moving!" he ordered as more Shadow Walkers emerged from between the shelves. "Whitaker, stay in the center. Your light is our best defense."
They fought their way across the archive, each step contested by the increasingly aggressive shadows. Gareth moved with lethal grace, his sword leaving trails of silver-blue energy that seemed to wound the creatures more effectively than conventional weapons.
Just as they reached the exit—a narrow doorway leading to another corridor—a massive Shadow Walker rose before them, twice the size of the others. Its form was more defined, almost solid, with a face that resembled a distorted version of Gareth's own.
"Seraphine's little joke," Gareth said grimly. "She creates these mockeries of those who betray her."
The shadow-Gareth attacked with frightening speed, its movements mirroring the real knight's fighting style perfectly. Gareth met it blade to blade, the clash sending sparks of conflicting energy across the chamber.
"Go!" he shouted to Reid. "I'll hold it here!"
Reid hesitated, remembering how Gareth had "sacrificed" himself once before, only to return days later with no explanation. Was this another betrayal in the making?
As if reading his thoughts, Gareth locked eyes with him. "Trust goes both ways, Captain. I'll be right behind you."
Reid made his decision. "Whitaker, Zhang—with me. The rest of you, give Gareth covering fire and follow when you can."
They pushed through the doorway into another corridor, this one sloping upward toward what Gareth had called the inner sanctum. Behind them, the sounds of battle gradually faded, replaced by an eerie silence broken only by their own footsteps and labored breathing.
The corridor ended at a massive set of double doors inscribed with complex ley-line patterns that pulsed with sickly green energy. The doors were slightly ajar, revealing glimpses of a vast chamber beyond.
"Seraphine's throne room," Whitaker whispered, studying the inscriptions. "These glyphs... they're channeling enormous amounts of ley-line energy. Whatever she's doing in there, it's big."
Reid checked his weapon and surveyed his reduced squad—just Whitaker, Zhang, and two other soldiers who had made it through with them. The others, including Gareth, were either still fighting in the archive or had fallen along the way.
"We can't wait for reinforcements," he decided. "Whitaker, any insights on what we might face in there?"
The historian adjusted her glasses, examining the door inscriptions more closely. "Based on these patterns, she's attempting to channel ley-line energy directly from the nexus beneath the fortress. It's similar to what we saw at the Gate, but more controlled, more focused."
"Trying to open another Gate?" Reid asked.
"Possibly. Or something worse." Whitaker's expression was grim. "These configurations suggest she's trying to harness The Weaver's power directly, without fully releasing it."
Reid considered their options, none of them good. They were outnumbered, separated from half their squad, and about to confront a sorceress with centuries of experience in her seat of power.
Just another day at the office.
"Zhang, take point. Whitaker, stay behind me. We go in fast and quiet, assess the situation before engaging." He checked his dwarven rifle one last time. "And if anyone sees Seraphine, don't hesitate. Take the shot."
They pushed the doors open wider and slipped into the throne room—a cavernous chamber supported by twisted columns that resembled petrified trees. At its center, a raised dais held not a throne but a complex apparatus of crystal and metal, pulsing with the same sickly green energy that permeated the fortress.
And surrounding the dais, arranged in a perfect circle, stood Seraphine's elite guard—Death Knights whose armor seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it, their empty eye sockets fixed directly on the small squad of intruders.
They had walked straight into a trap.
"Well," Reid muttered, raising his rifle as the Death Knights began to advance, "I suppose a warm welcome was too much to hope for."