The air over Avalon hung heavy with the acrid tang of spent gunpowder and ozone—a cocktail that Captain Alastair Reid had come to associate with pyrrhic victories. He stood atop the fractured remains of the eastern watchtower, surveying the base below. The ley-lines beneath Avalon pulsed faintly, their blue-white glow dimmed by the ritual's backlash. Soldiers moved like ghosts through the wreckage, salvaging supplies from collapsed storage tents and tending to the wounded who hadn't yet been evacuated.
"Beautiful morning, isn't it?" Williams materialized beside him, holding out a dented canteen. "I'd say the ley-line storms really tie the whole 'post-apocalyptic chic' look together."
Reid accepted the canteen, taking a swig of water that tasted faintly of burnt copper. "If you're angling for a promotion to morale officer, I'll remind you that gallows humor doesn't count as job experience."
"Noted, sir. But if we're grading on technicalities, neither does 'preventing interdimensional apocalypse.'"
Reid's lips twitched despite himself. Below, Lance Corporal Singh directed a team of soldiers and druids in clearing debris, her voice carrying crisp commands over the din. To the untrained eye, she looked unshaken—but Reid noticed the tightness in her shoulders, the way her fingers lingered on the medical kit at her hip. Survivor's guilt, he thought. We're all fluent in it by now.
Dr. Eleanor Whitaker had claimed the least-damaged tent as her makeshift lab, though "lab" was a generous term for a space cluttered with scorched maps, cracked crystal orbs, and the faintly glowing remains of Excalibur. The sword lay across a workbench, its reforged blade etched with new runes that pulsed like a heartbeat.
"It's not a weapon," she muttered, tracing a finger over the inscriptions. "It's a warning."
Reid ducked inside, narrowly avoiding a precariously stacked pile of elven scrolls. "What've you found?"
Whitaker didn't look up. "The inscriptions aren't just instructions for using Excalibur—they're a historical record. The original druids didn't just seal The Weaver; they left breadcrumbs for us. Or, more accurately, for someone exactly like Maeve." She tapped a line of text. "See this? 'When darkness rises between worlds, seek the Forgotten Flame.'"
"Let me guess—another mythical artifact that's probably cursed, definitely explosive, and buried in the last place we'd want to go?"
"Volcanic region called the Ashen Spire." Whitaker's glasses slid down her nose as she grinned. "According to these texts, it's a nexus of fire ley-lines. The druids forged the Flame there to weaken The Weaver's prison during their first war. If we can find it—"
"We'd have a fighting chance." Reid studied the sword. "Why didn't the inscriptions mention this sooner?"
"Because Excalibur's power had to be fully unlocked first. It's like a… cosmic safety switch. No ritual, no revelations."
"Convenient."
"Or terrifying, depending on your perspective."
Outside, a sudden commotion erupted—raised voices, the clatter of gear. Reid and Whitaker exchanged a glance and stepped into the hazy sunlight.
Maeve stood at the center of a clearing, her back rigid, hands clenched at her sides. The ley-line markings on her skin writhed like living things, their glow shifting from blue to sickly green. Druids and soldiers alike had formed a cautious perimeter around her, weapons half-raised.
"Stand down!" Reid barked, shouldering through the crowd. "She's not a threat."
"Aren't I?" Maeve's voice echoed unnaturally, layers of sound overlapping. When she turned, her eyes were voids of emerald light. "The Weaver offers such gifts, Captain. Clarity. Purpose. No more fractures, no more doubt…"
Reid froze. He'd seen that vacant stare before—in the mirror, after Syria. "Maeve. Fight it."
She staggered, the green receding momentarily. "It's… everywhere. In the lines, in the air… It wants me to remember…"
"Remember what?"
"The first war. The screams. How easily it consumed them—" Her knees buckled. Singh caught her before she hit the ground, snapping orders for a medic.
Reid knelt beside them. "Can you purge the corruption?"
Singh's hands glowed faintly as she pressed them to Maeve's temples. "Temporarily. But each time it takes root deeper. She needs rest, and we need to move fast."
In the command tent, Singh slid a data drive across the table. "Crowe's latest orders. He's not even hiding it anymore—he wants Excalibur shipped to London by tomorrow, 'for analysis.'"
Reid scrolled through the files, jaw tightening. "And the spies?"
"Three confirmed in our ranks. They've been relaying everything—Maeve's condition, the ritual's aftereffects, even Whitaker's theories about the Flame."
"Lovely. So we're juggling cosmic horrors and bureaucratic ones." Reid leaned back, the chair creaking ominously. "Options?"
"Officially? We're obligated to comply."
"And unofficially?"
Singh's smile was razor-thin. "Unofficially, I've been teaching the druids how to disable tracking chips in our gear. Funny how often technology… malfunctions in Aeltheria."
A laugh escaped Reid—sharp, unexpected. "Remind me never to play poker with you, Singh."
"Noted, sir."
Whitaker's map of the Ashen Spire glowed on the holotable, casting jagged shadows. The volcanic region seethed on the display, rivers of magma cutting through cliffs of obsidian.
"Seraphine's forces control the eastern approach," Whitaker said, highlighting a path. "But there's a back route here—through the Ghost Canyons. The rock formations should mask our heat signatures from her scouts."
"Should?" Williams raised an eyebrow. "That's military for 'we'll die screaming, but scenically.'"
Reid ignored him. "How long?"
"Two days. Three, if the magma flows are unstable."
Maeve stood in the doorway, leaning heavily on a staff. Her skin was corpse-pale, but her gaze burned. "We don't have three days. The Weaver's closer to the surface now. I can… feel it pressing against the ley-lines."
A beat of silence. Then Reid nodded. "Pack light. Weapons, rations, Whitaker's toys. We move at dawn."
As the team dispersed, Maeve lingered. "Captain… if it claims me—"
"It won't."
"You don't know that."
Reid met her stare. "I know you survived Seraphine. I know you held Excalibur's power when it should've vaporized you. Whatever this thing is offering?" He tapped his temple. "You've already got better weapons."
For the first time in days, Maeve's lips quirked. "Your optimism is… tragically human."
"Stick around. It grows on you."
At dusk, Reid found Williams inventorying grenades behind the supply tents. The sergeant held up a canister with dwarven runes etched into its casing. "Runic incendiary rounds. For when you absolutely, positively need to piss off a volcano."
"Save a few for Seraphine."
"Oh, I'm saving all of them." Williams paused. "Sir… if Crowe's people come for the sword—"
"They'll find it's suddenly, tragically lost."
"And if they come for us?"
Reid gazed at the horizon, where the Ashen Spire's faint glow pulsed like a diseased star. "Then they'll learn why we're called Valkyrie."
Above them, the ley-line auroras shimmered—beautiful, lethal, and utterly indifferent to the ants scurrying beneath them.