She was alone.
The cold stone pressed against her spine no matter how she tried to shift, and the fetid air felt like an animal's breath against her cheek. If she closed her eyes, she could almost convince herself that the constant throb in her wrists and ankles was merely a fading sensation, that the bite of shackles was more memory than reality. But she had stopped closing her eyes long ago. In the darkness of this dungeon, opening or closing them barely changed the view; there was only the hint of watery torchlight filtering from a corridor she never saw.
Time was a fog. Days blurred into nights, or perhaps the other way around, because no one bothered to mark them for her. They gave her a bit of water and scraps of food when they remembered. Sometimes they forgot, and she drifted in and out of painful delirium, half convinced that she could feel sunlight. The old orchard came to her in half-dreams, bright petals floating on the wind, the scent of blossoms and honeybees alive in the air. Then a new wave of cramps or the grinding of iron on stone reminded her that her world was only this cell, thick with mildew and regret.
She never forgot the orchard, though it had vanished a century ago. She kept it in her mind as a refuge. She had to. There was so little else left. In those nightmares of orchard petals, she could almost see Queen Elaine as she once was, walking slowly among the hedges, beckoning with a wise smile. The orchard was a memory of gentleness that had no place in the monstrous realm above. But gentleness still existed somewhere in her—one corner of her soul she would not let them break.
She heard footsteps in the corridor long before she saw the torchlight. The scrape of leather soles seemed more purposeful this time, heavier, like someone with authority. Many times, soldiers had stomped by, but they tended to keep their distance unless commanded by the queen or the robed priests from the Church. She braced, pressing her shoulder blades against the clammy stone. Her wrists stung from the manacles, raw flesh protesting every motion, but she forced herself upright. If there were visitors, they would not see her sprawled and helpless. She would sit, at least, even if it meant agony.
The door groaned on its hinges, letting stale air swirl across the threshold. A tall figure stepped inside, cloak trailing in black folds, lines of silver filigree glimmering at the collar. Behind her, two guards hovered, armed with poleaxes. The woman was slender and upright, appearing no older than her mid-twenties, but she had not aged. The prisoner knew exactly who had come. Morgan—the queen of this twisted Camelot—tilted her head, regarding her captive with an unreadable expression.
For a moment, Morgan said nothing. She simply stood near the cell's threshold, letting the torchlight behind her cast her silhouette in a harsh outline. Then she took two steps forward, letting her cloak swirl around her calves, and a scornful smile curled on her lips.
"You look worse than usual," she said softly, voice reverberating in the enclosed space. "I'd say I've seen rats in better shape, but even that might be generous. You're nothing but a broken cunt on a chain. That's all anyone sees now—filth in a woman's skin, waiting to be scraped out."
The prisoner forced her jaw to set. In the early days, the insults had shocked her. Now she accepted them as rote, a script Morgan never tired of reciting. She swallowed, ignoring the dryness of her throat. Silence could be a shield, though it was a battered and thin one.
Morgan's gaze flicked across the cell, taking in the puddle of water seeping from a crack in the wall, the chain bolted to an iron ring near the prisoner's feet. Then her expression sharpened with a certain malicious glee. "You've been scratching at the edges of magic again," she said. "I can sense it, faint as it is. Did you think I wouldn't notice? It's sweet, really. You keep trying to call to him, to that fool who took the Pendragon name. But I suspect he's too far away to catch your little mental flares. The only thing you accomplish is entertaining me."
The prisoner raised her head, letting her tangled hair fall from her face. She had no illusions about how she looked—hollow cheeks, bruised arms, scabs on her wrists—but she refused to avert her gaze. Morgan took it for defiance, which it was.
Morgan showed her teeth in a harsh smile. "You won't ask me about the rumors, will you? Of course not. But I'll indulge you anyway, because I'm feeling generous. Word from my watchers in the Celeste Empire is that certain priests have taken a keen interest in Charlevoix. The Church is orchestrating a purge. Apparently, they suspect the Pendragon boy might pass through a gate near that region, and they want to root out any heresy in advance. Nimue's worship must remain pure, or so they claim. A delightful arrangement, don't you think?"
A cold flutter gripped the prisoner's stomach. She had heard of Charlevoix, a border region known for quiet farmland and a modest cathedral that did not fully endorse Nimue's one-goddess rule. But she had never been there. She knew nothing of its people, except that they were presumably on the Church's new list of targets. Another wave of cruelty to plague the realm, all while she was chained in a dungeon, unable to act.
Morgan gave a mocking sigh. "I could name them, if you like. The ones singled out for the Church's purge. An archbishop is Winston Ryland, I believe. Then there's Rebecca Nox, Sebastian Tighe—he was once an archbishop, or so they say—and a handful more: a former Cardinal Mako Rahl, fallen Priest Nicolette Elise, Bishop Ian Leeds. The Church labeled them heretics and troublemakers. If the rumors prove true, the entire region will be cleansed of their influence. And if the Pendragon boy tries to meddle… well, we'll see how the Church deals with him."
A sliver of rage simmered inside the prisoner's chest. She kept her expression still, though. Morgan loved to see her captives crack.
Morgan waved a hand dismissively. "Useless do-gooders, the lot of them. We all know Nimue's truth is absolute, or so the Church preaches, and who am I to argue? They helped me secure Camelot a century ago, along with the Celeste Empire's armies. In exchange, they get free rein to root out heresy. It's a small price to pay for such effective alliances."
The prisoner fought the urge to speak. Sometimes, forcing Morgan to monologue offered the best chance of gleaning information. Morgan obliged, stepping closer until she stood over the prisoner's hunched form.
"You wonder what any of this has to do with you. Let's see." Morgan cocked her head. "Perhaps you'd like to stop them, to warn these fools about the Church's plans. But you can't, can you? You're stuck here, a vile, worthless bitch, locked in a corner of the fortress that no one remembers. Your orchard illusions can't help you. And your little mental calls to Albion Pendragon come to nothing."
The prisoner clenched her hands, nails digging into her palms. She forced herself to remain silent. Morgan leaned down, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "If it gives you any comfort, you can keep trying to contact him. But I doubt he'll ride to your rescue, or to theirs. He's too far away for that. And soon enough, the Church will list him too. Then it won't matter. He'll die like the rest. My continued reign assured."
Morgan straightened, letting out a short laugh. "But I have my own concerns. The Vault, for example. The Rift. The Tome. You recall the Tome of the Rift, don't you? I'm certain you do. I still believe it's sealed in there, waiting for me. And all these years, you've refused to open that door for me. You cling to illusions that you can keep me from the power that's rightfully mine."
A tremor shot through the prisoner at the mention of the Tome. Memories flickered: the night she fled through the Rift with it clutched to her chest, the swirl of energies cutting her off from Morgan's pursuit. She had hidden it beyond mortal reach, but Morgan's ignorance persisted: the queen truly believed the Tome was locked in Camelot's vault. That ignorance was the prisoner's only shield. If Morgan ever realized the Tome was gone, the prisoner's life would end. Because without that knowledge, Morgan still needed her alive—needed her to open the vault. A savage, ironic safety, perhaps, but it was all she had.
Morgan turned away, cloak sweeping the stone. "Rot here a while longer, then. And if you do manage to speak to little Albion Pendragon, give him my regards. Tell him the Church is waiting in Charlevoix. Perhaps it'll amuse me to learn if he tries to intervene." She halted in the doorway, half glancing back. "Though you can't help him, any more than you can help yourself." Her voice dropped again, dripping contempt:
"A saint in chains. How poetic. How useless."
Then she was gone, door slamming behind her, the echo reverberating in the cramped space. The prisoner let out a shaky breath, her pulse racing. She raised a trembling hand to her temple, massaging the dull ache that had become constant. Her attempts to reach Albion cost her dearly, draining what little magic she had left after the Church's repeated torments, yet she refused to stop. Morgan's arrogance only stoked her determination.
She closed her eyes. In the darkness behind her lids, she conjured the orchard. She saw flowering branches and bright green leaves. She breathed in the phantom scent of blossoms. Queen Elaine had once called that orchard the soul of Camelot, a testament to gentleness in a harsh world. Elaine had believed that empathy and careful stewardship could hold the realm together better than armies ever would. A century ago, that faith lost out to Morgan's ambition and the Celeste Empire's armies.
Slowly, she focused on that orchard memory like a shield, then attempted again to push her mind outward. Albion Pendragon, her thoughts called. Albion, if you can sense me, heed my words. Charlevoix is in danger… The Church hunts you. The Church hunts them all.
No response at first. She nearly gave up. Her body felt bruised inside and out, her magical reserves threadbare. Still, she pressed on, forming a mental image of farmland near Charlevoix, gleaned from half-forgotten maps. She pictured Winston, although she had no idea what he actually looked like. She whispered his name in her mind as a beacon. She named the others too—Rebecca, Sebastian, Mako, Nicolette, Ian—and she repeated them, letting her call swirl with desperation.
A faint echo quivered at the edges of her consciousness. She tensed, straining to hold it. For the briefest instant, she sensed confusion—a voice, male, uncertain. My head… Winston… what… Another voice, farther away, asked him what was wrong. Then the connection collapsed, leaving her panting. She slumped, nearly blacking out. The strain left her skull pounding, as though metal shards had been pounded into her temples.
She wasn't sure if that fleeting contact meant anything. Perhaps all she did was cause him a momentary headache. Perhaps the warnings were too fragmented to make sense. But she had tried. When her vision stopped swimming, she curled into herself, pressing her forehead to the gritty stone. Maybe that was enough.
Her next coherent memory came hours—or days—later, when rough hands seized her arms, dragging her to an interrogation chamber. This was not new. They had done it so many times that her body almost expected the routine. The corridor was dim, sporadic torches revealing old battle scars on the walls. Morgan had once let the Celeste Empire's war conjurers tear this place apart in the final push of conquest. The stone bore pitted marks and heat fissures from spells. Once, this fortress had boasted libraries and elegant cloisters. Now it was a labyrinth of half-ruined passages and hidden dungeons.
She was forced into a cramped room with a battered table and a single brazier. Two robed figures from the Church flanked Morgan. They bowed to the queen, then turned cold gazes on the prisoner. The stench of incense clung to them—holy rituals, they called it, though the prisoner knew only cruelty. One priest set a black bowl on the table, etched with runic lines that glowed faintly purple. The other placed a circlet of tarnished metal next to it. Nimue's tools, used to break the minds of heretics.
Morgan motioned to the prisoner. "Shackle her arms. We'll attempt a partial confession today." She paused, a faint sneer on her lips. "Or at least an appetizer. I want her conscious enough to see the illusions fail. We'll see if her orchard fantasies can block the Rite of Interrogation."
They chained her to the table, pressing her forearms flat so the priests could draw shallow cuts in her skin. She grit her teeth, refusing to grant them a scream. One robed figure held the black bowl under the cuts, letting her blood drip in. A hiss of vapor rose each time it hit the vessel's interior, swirling with flickers of memory. She had endured this so many times. She fought it by picturing orchard petals drifting lazily in the sunlight, a shield to blur the Church's attempts to read her thoughts.
Morgan watched carefully, scanning the bowl for glimpses that might reveal the Tome's whereabouts or how to open the vault. For a moment, swirling colors coalesced—flashes of leaves in dappled golden light, the hush of bees among blossoms—but no sign of a grand relic or hidden library. Morgan cursed, slamming the bowl onto the table. The prisoner took a ragged breath, chest shuddering. "You came down here again. Why? Not for the Tome. You're scared the orchard's still growing."
"Useless illusions," Morgan snapped, turning her glare on the robed figures. "Increase the incantation. Let's see if we can drown her orchard in blood."
The priests obeyed, chanting in low tones, tracing sigils over the black bowl. One pricked the prisoner's arm again, deepening the cut, letting more blood pour across the runes. She trembled, focusing on Elaine's orchard. She would not yield. No matter how many times they bled her, the Tome's actual secret was locked behind layers of mental wards. Even if the orchard illusions cracked, Morgan wouldn't find the truth. At least that was the plan.
But the pain was real, and the circlet they secured around her head began to hum, cutting off what little magical strength she had left. A wave of numbness invaded her senses. Her orchard memory flickered. She pressed her eyes shut, refusing to let that final refuge slip away. She tasted blood on her lip from biting too hard. The swirl of chanting grew louder.
Morgan's hand seized her chin, jerking her face upward. "Tell me," she hissed. "Is the Tome in the vault or deeper beneath Camelot?How does one open the Rift? Speak." The prisoner managed to glare but said nothing. Morgan's grip tightened, nails digging into the prisoner's jaw.
"Some say the Rift is a prison, not a gate. That the Tome was written to keep it closed. What is it, tell me?"
She stayed hushed.
"Stubborn. You've always been this way, such a worthless bitch." Then she let go with a contemptuous shove.
They forced more of her blood into the bowl, the runes swirling in fractal patterns. Brief images flitted across the surface: orchard leaves, a flash of a library shelf, a swirl of deep shadows. Then the vision burned away into black. The ward inside the prisoner's mind scrambled every clue.
Morgan's lips peeled back in a snarl. "This is pointless. Bring her to the vault. Let's see if physical proximity might loosen her illusions. And if not…" She shrugged with the weight of finality. "We brand her mind. Nimue's priests have new methods that can break any living soul. She won't keep secrets from me for long."
They half-lifted, half-dragged her through corridors that stank of rotted wood and old ashes. She could barely stand, light-headed from blood loss. Their route wound deeper into Camelot's foundations, where the stones were older, carved with swirling wards from centuries past. The vault door loomed at the end of a wide passage. It was oak, heavily bound in iron, etched with intricate sigils that glowed faintly even in the darkness. Tiny cracks webbed across the surface from Morgan's repeated attempts to break it open.
Torchlight revealed robed priests already at work around the door. They had scrawled new lines of arcane script on the stones and set up a ring of runic markers. Morgan strode forward, letting the guards drop the prisoner at the threshold. The prisoner's knees banged stone, jolting fresh pain. She raised her head, focusing bleary eyes on the vault door. She recalled the day she'd last stood before it, forging illusions upon illusions so that if Morgan ever gained partial entry, she would find only empty corridors or false leads. A final trick. The Tome was far away, in a safe dimension that Morgan would never breach.
Morgan nodded for the priests to begin. They chanted, channeling energies into the door's wards. The air crackled with tension. The prisoner felt arcs of invisible force rippling across her skin, as though the fortress itself resisted. Then Morgan joined in, reciting lines gleaned from the Celeste Empire's war conjurers. The vault door groaned. Tiny shards of iron flaked off the bindings. Light spattered in fractals across the corridor.
A moment later, the wards pushed back with explosive force. One priest was knocked off his feet, tumbling into a brazier. Sparks rained on the floor. The prisoner shielded her face from the glare, but she heard Morgan curse viciously. When the smoke cleared, the door remained intact, though splintered further.
Morgan let out a ragged breath, trembling with fury. She turned on the prisoner, who cowered near the floor. "You keep reinforcing it somehow, don't you?" the queen said. She reached down and brushed a stray curl from her forehead, the way a nurse might tend a fevered child. Her hand lingered—then pinched the skin hard enough to leave a bruise. "I can taste your illusions at every layer. You cling to orchard fantasies, to worthless sentiment. Like a whore dreaming of hymns. You should be grateful anyone still bothers trying to pull truth from a slit like yours.
But illusions rot eventually. And you know what? I'm starting to think you like this. Being the last martyr in a fairy tale no one remembers. Is that it? You're not guarding a secret—you're guarding your purpose."
The prisoner whispered hoarsely, "You can't… open what isn't… there."
"Do you think I don't dream about it? About tearing your mind apart and finding… nothing? Do you think I don't wonder if I've already lost and just haven't realized it yet?"
She stayed silent.
Morgan's face twisted. "Still defiant." She signaled the guards. "Take her to the old library chamber. We'll attempt Domination with the newest runes from the archives. If that fails, we brand her mind. Either way, I get the secret. Enough of this play."
They dragged her back the way they'd come, retracing corridors thick with dust. The prisoner's feet barely touched the ground. Past a corridor that once led to a reading hall, now caved in. Past the orchard courtyard exit, boarded shut. Even a whiff of fresh air would have been a mercy, but Morgan's illusions of generosity were gone.
The old library was a shell of blackened timbers and collapsed shelves. A ring of flat stones at the center served as a dais for the Church's darkest rites. Flickering orbs of conjured light floated near the ceiling, illuminating the wreckage. They chained her to a ring set in the dais, forcing her knees onto the cold floor. Morgan stood at a short distance, arms folded, while the robed priests prepared chalk lines and incense. She recognized the swirl of glyphs. She had seen it all before, felt it carve into her consciousness like searing knives.
Morgan lifted a single finger, halting the chanting. "Let me speak to her first," she said, a quiet menace in her tone. The priests obeyed, stepping back.
For a long moment, Morgan just stared. The prisoner fought the urge to drop her gaze. At last, Morgan said, "I'm going to open the Rift. And you're going to tell me how."
Silence.
Morgan's eyes glittered. "You think your orchard illusions and your mental calls to Albion Pendragon matter? They don't. He's far from Camelot, probably tangled in his own troubles. Meanwhile, Charlevoix burns if the Church wills it. Winston Ryland and that lot will be executed. The Celeste Empire doesn't care. And I hold the throne, unopposed."
The prisoner felt tears prick her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She recalled the orchard, Queen Elaine's gentle teachings, the vow she had taken to guard Camelot from outside horrors. But the true horror had grown within, wearing the face of a woman she once trusted. She pressed her lips together, summoning the last scrap of her voice. Her words emerged softly, a tremor threading each syllable.
"You've already lost," she said, letting the hush of the library cradle her vow. "And you don't even know it yet."
Morgan didn't move. For a breath. For two. Then she turned away too quickly, barked a command.
Her nostrils flared. For an instant, rage contorted her features, and the prisoner half expected a bolt of lethal magic. But Morgan exhaled, hands shaking with suppressed anger. She turned sharply to the guards. "Throw her back in the cell. Let her rot. We'll brand her tomorrow if I see fit."
The chain at the prisoner's ankles rattled as two men jerked her up. Her battered legs stumbled. The library's gloom spun in her vision. She caught a fleeting glimpse of a collapsed bookshelf where once Queen Elaine's records of orchard cultivation might have been stored. Another piece of the old monarchy's grace, ruined. Then the guards hauled her away, the priests muttering in frustration behind them.
They dragged her to the cell, slammed the door. She toppled onto the cold floor, body shaking with exhaustion. At least she hadn't needed to endure Domination, not yet. Perhaps Morgan's fury would overshadow everything else. Perhaps that was a mercy.
Time drifted. She lay there in the darkness, arms curled around her bruised torso, lost in an odd mixture of numbness and defiance. In a faint doze, she conjured the orchard again: trees in bloom, warm breezes, bees drifting in lazy arcs across the blossoms. She heard Elaine's voice reminding her that compassion could mend the realm if given time. She remembered Elaine's quiet hums while pruning, how she always paused to ask how Adelaide had slept, as if sleep could matter when war loomed. She imagined telling Elaine how the orchard was gone now, burned away by Morgan's war. She thought how Elaine might weep at what had become of Camelot—a citadel forced to kneel under the Celeste Empire's might and a religious purge.
Yet even if the orchard was gone in the real world, it lived on in her. She had carried a piece of it into the Rift a century ago, a silent vow to keep Camelot from total ruin. She had hidden the Tome so deeply that even Morgan's cunning and Celeste's priests could not find it. That was her orchard now, the orchard of illusions inside her mind, preserving secrets that might one day bloom again.
She didn't know if Albion would truly heed her warnings about Charlevoix, or if Winston and the others might escape Nimue's hounds. She didn't know if Morgan's next attempt to open the vault would tear half the fortress down. She only knew that each day she survived, she kept that last spark of hope alive. Morgan believed she had won. But no matter how many times she spat the word worthless at her, no matter how often she boasted of her unstoppable rule, the queen could not claim the one treasure she craved above all: the Tome of the Rift. By believing the vault still held it, Morgan trapped herself in a labyrinth of endless frustration.
Alone again in the cell, the prisoner closed her eyes, letting the orchard carry her away from the stench of damp stone and the sting of her cuts. She recalled how a century ago, Morgan had led the Celeste Empire's legions into Camelot's chambers. The orchard fields had been trampled, the Church proclaiming Nimue's worship was the only truth. The realm had tried for peace, but Morgan seized the throne, forging alliances with war conjurers and zealots.
Yet in the chaos, she stole the Tome, slipping through the Rift in a final gambit. She had hoped to remain free, to keep that power from Morgan forever. But Morgan's hunters tracked her down, dragging her back to Camelot's dungeons. The secret was never discovered, no matter how they tortured her. If she had to endure years in chains, so be it.
A faint scuff outside her door jolted her from the orchard reverie. A guard peered through the grate, sneering. He probably wondered if she was dead yet. She didn't move, feigning deeper unconsciousness, letting him mutter curses under his breath. Her mind drifted back to the orchard. The hours bled into each other, her body too wracked by fatigue to do anything but doze, wake in pain, doze again.
Sometime later, footsteps sounded again, accompanied by the rasp of the door's latch. She forced herself upright, swallowing a groan. Morgan's silhouette appeared, rigid and agitated, though the queen tried to hide it under a veneer of calm. The guards waited behind her. Morgan stood in the cell, lips pressed thin. She glared at the prisoner as though measuring how much effort to bother with.
"They say you tried your little mental trick again," Morgan said. "Half the fortress felt a ripple. Are you still calling out to that fool Pendragon? Do you truly believe he'll answer?" She huffed. "I doubt he's anywhere near Charlevoix now, or that he can stop the Church's purge. Winston, Tighe, Mako, Nox, Leeds… they'll all burn or be locked away soon enough.Perhaps you want them here to keep you company in the dungeons."
The prisoner studied Morgan's face. No. There was more behind that harsh tone. Morgan was unsettled. Perhaps something had happened in the fortress. Maybe there were rumors that the Church's purge wasn't going exactly as planned, or that the Celeste Empire's watchers had spotted fleeting sabotage. The queen's composure had cracks.
Morgan made a dismissive sound and turned to leave. "I can sense you're dying to know. But I won't indulge you any further. Stew in your ignorance." She paused at the threshold, adding under her breath, "Queen Elaine would have pitied you. But she disappeared. Her orchard and ideals disappeared with her. You cling to illusions of that orchard, illusions of a monarchy that ended a century ago. You're a husk, a bitch chained in the dark."
Then she swept out, letting the door slam shut. The prisoner waited for the sound of receding footsteps. She exhaled, pressing a hand to her trembling chest. Elaine was gone, but not forgotten, not while the orchard lived in her mind. Not while the Tome stayed hidden, preventing Morgan from unleashing unthinkable horrors. She stared at the flickering torchlight beneath the door. Part of her wanted to try sending another call to Albion, to warn him further, but the headache from the last attempt still pounded behind her eyes. She had to reserve some strength in case Morgan brought the brand to carve wards into her skull.
The memory of that threat made her shiver. If Morgan or the Church's conjurers burned runes into her brain, she might lose the orchard illusions. She might lose herself. She would be unable to block them from discovering the Tome's true location. That, more than any physical torment, made her blood run cold. She had to stay alert enough to defend her mind if they tried it.
Hours or days later—time was meaningless—guards arrived to escort her into a narrower passage that sloped downward. She recognized it from previous torments: a route leading to a deep interrogation chamber. The air smelled of damp stone and magical residue. They jostled her along. She heard distant thunder from somewhere above, or perhaps it was just the fortress groaning under the strain of so many wards. Sometimes, the line between real and conjured blurred.
They shoved her into a half-collapsed antechamber with a single brazier. Morgan waited, face tight with impatience, two robed priests at her side. The black bowl rested on a table, next to a twisted rod that glimmered with runic script. The prisoner recognized it as a psychic scourge used by the Celeste Empire's war conjurers. It was said to tear mental wards as easily as flesh.
Morgan greeted her with a humorless laugh. "We've done this so many times, haven't we? But each time you cling to illusions. I'm bored. So, let's skip the pretense: tell me how to open the Rift. Tell me how to harness the Tome. Do that, and I'll spare you the brand."
Morgan ran a single finger along the prisoner's collarbone, as if searching for a hidden clasp.
The prisoner stared at that rod, lips parting in silent dread. She pictured orchard blossoms swirling behind her eyes, forging a mental wall. Morgan's question hung in the stale air. The prisoner answered with emptiness.
Morgan's lips curled. "Fine. Then we do it the hard way. Shackles."
The robed priests chained the prisoner's arms to a ring in the floor. One pressed the rod to her temple, and searing agony lanced through her skull. She cried out, orchard illusions fracturing under the onslaught. She struggled to reassert them, but the pain was overwhelming. Morgan watched, not blinking.
"You see, little bitch, illusions break," Morgan said. "I'll find the truth eventually."
But even in that storm of anguish, the prisoner managed a shaky mental pivot, burying the true knowledge deeper behind swirling orchard images. Let Morgan believe those illusions were her best defense. Let her focus on them. Let her never guess the Tome was nowhere near the vault at all. She refused to scream further, biting her tongue until copper flooded her mouth. The rod's runes glowed more fiercely, and her vision spotted.
Morgan smiled and whisper in her ear, "You know what the priests call you? A soul-sick slit. They say once we're done, your cunt'll forget magic ever touched it."
At last, the robed priests drew back, panting. They muttered to Morgan that the wards were thick, that another approach might be needed. Morgan swore, stepping forward. She seized the prisoner's chin, forcing eye contact.
"Fucking illusions," the queen spat. "You keep them close like a dog with a bone. Fine. I'll brand your skull tomorrow. Let raw magic corrode your thoughts until you forget everything but what I need."
She snapped a command to the guards, who unlocked the shackles and hauled the prisoner back into the corridor. The walk to the cell felt endless, her limbs trembling with exhaustion. Each step jolted her battered body. By the time they threw her onto the cell floor again, she was halfway unconscious, orchard petals flickering through the edges of her mind.
She sank into restless darkness. Now and then, she heard distant clangs or rumblings from beyond the fortress walls. A storm, an army, or conjured illusions—she couldn't tell. Her dreams came in fragments. She pictured Morgan calling her worthless, pictured the orchard, and in one corner of her nightmares, she saw flickers of Charlevoix in flames. She couldn't tell if it was real or a product of her fear. She tried again to reach Albion, but her battered mind offered only static. Maybe she had done enough. Maybe not. She whispered a spell. Her outer wounds healed slowly.
At some point, the door opened again. Torchlight spilled in. She raised her head to see Morgan alone, stepping into the cell with a quiet deliberation, as though she had come for a final conversation. The queen's face looked drawn and pale, but there was a cold triumph in her eyes.
"They say Charlevoix was attacked at midnight," she said. "The Church killed and captured some of the heretics. Others fled. I wonder if your Pendragon friend appeared or not. Perhaps he's nothing but rumors. Either way, it won't matter. Nimue wants absolute devotion."
The prisoner tried to gather enough air to speak but managed only a ragged whisper. Morgan shrugged, approaching until she stood just out of reach of the prisoner's chain. "In any case, I grow tired of waiting. I'll see the brand done. Once your illusions break, you'll give me the words. Then I'll open that Rift and claim the Tome. And if the orchard was truly precious to you, well, it's gone now. You're gone, too. You're a husk stuffed with orchard lies. A slut for sentiment. The kind of woman history forgets—except to mock."
"Rot, saint. See where that gets you." Morgan snapped her fingers, and all of the runic lanterns exploded. The prisoner didn't even flinch. She turned on her heel, cloak brushing dusty stone. The door shut behind her, leaving the prisoner alone again with the gloom. She slumped against the wall, shivering. Each time the door slammed shut, she imagined the hourglass tilting. Another grain spilled. Another step toward the brand. She pictured molten runes searing into her flesh, vile magic severing her from the orchard illusions. If that happened, Morgan might catch a glimpse of the truth—that the vault was empty, that the Tome had been taken. That knowledge would be the prisoner's death warrant. But better to die than let Morgan reclaim the Tome.
She drifted in and out of a tortured doze, half hallucinating orchard blossoms. She saw Elaine's face, remembered how the queen once praised her for her steadfast heart. Then the orchard gave way to swirling shapes of brimstone and ash, nightmares of the purges. She had no sense of how many hours passed. Time had long been meaningless. "A willow tree had wilted in the corner of her mind's orchard. Just one. But she couldn't remember when it started."
When she next roused, she felt a burning ache in her arms, as though invisible pins jabbed every nerve. The corridor outside was unsettled. She heard shouting, the clang of weapons. Possibly some minor skirmish or sabotage attempt. Or maybe—not sabotage. Maybe something else was moving. Something that didn't belong to the Church. She forced herself upright despite the pain. If there was chaos, maybe it would delay her branding. She listened for news of infiltration, for mention of the Pendragon name, but only muffled curses and running footsteps reached her. Then the corridor quieted again, and only the dripping of water in the cell remained.
Time slid sideways in this cell, but she knew the hourglass had nearly run out.
She imagined the hourglass again, but now each grain was heavier. Slower. Like the world was waiting for something to shift.
She let her eyes slide shut. She had done all she could do, tried to warn Charlevoix of the purge, kept the Tome secret from Morgan, resisted the repeated Rites. If tomorrow meant an end to her illusions, so be it. At least she had not surrendered the orchard. That belonged to her alone, locked deep inside. She exhaled, letting exhaustion blanket her.
In that final hush, she thought of the orchard and the day she first realized how savage the world could be. She and Morgan had once strolled the rows of blossoming trees, an awkward companionship overshadowed by envy. Morgan complained about needing to memorize laws and alliances while the orchard reminded the prisoner of Elaine's patient philosophy. Then war came, and everything shattered. Now, almost a whole century later, Morgan reigned, the orchard burned, Elaine lost forever. But illusions could outlast even tyranny, if one clung hard enough.
She dozed, arms cramped from the chain's pull. A faint trickle of torchlight bled through the cell's barred opening. She had no idea if it was nearing dawn. The brand might come at any hour. A muted sense of peace stole over her. She had fought long enough. Even if Morgan's brand severed her orchard illusions, the Tome remained hidden. Morgan would face emptiness behind the vault door.
Somewhere beyond Camelot's ruins, perhaps Albion Pendragon still carried her warning. Perhaps Winston and the others found refuge, or maybe they fell to Nimue's zealots. The prisoner did not know. She let out a final breath, letting darkness wrap her up. Her last flicker of consciousness was a mental whisper: orchard petals swirling in warm sun.
She was not worthless, no matter how many times Morgan hurled the word. She had guarded the last key to keep Morgan from unleashing unthinkable horrors. She had refused to betray Elaine's orchard and the monarchy's vow to protect the land. She had tried to warn Charlevoix. She was battered, but not broken. The caged bird still sang, not because it hoped to be heard—but because silence meant surrender.
Her name was Adelaide.