The tower trembled under the weight of magic and dread.
Twelve witches stood in a wide circle, their cloaks torn and their breaths heavy, each one pouring the last remnants of their strength into the summoning rite. Flickers of blue fire spiraled up from the engraved runes beneath them, and the air buzzed with raw energy.
At the center of it all stood High Witch Althera, ancient and regal, her silver braids bound tightly behind her hood, her hands raised toward the swirling portal forming in the air. Around her stood the youngest: wide-eyed apprentices, hands joined, their lips quivering as they chanted in unison. Among them—Irdra, the smallest of them all, her voice barely audible, her fingers clenched in fear.
She wasn't supposed to be here. Not truly. She hadn't even passed her binding trial. But they needed power—any power—and so Irdra was summoned with the others.
"Irdra," whispered Caela, another young apprentice beside her, "is it true? We're going to the human world?"
Irdra swallowed hard. "I think only one of us is. Maybe High Witch Althera. She... she said it would be her."
Beyond the inner circle, older witches formed a secondary ring, channeling protective enchantments into a dome of force. The howls outside the tower were growing louder—deeper. More guttural. The magical beasts of Varania had found them.
"Hold the barrier!" barked Mother Anwyn, her voice sharp as a sword. "We only need minutes!"
Cracks began crawling up the marble pillars as the very foundation of Camelot's last standing tower groaned in protest. Outside, the sky was red with ruin. Below, the beasts surged—a tide of claws, fangs, and hunger.
"Don't stop chanting," Althera called, her voice calm, steady, cutting through the terror like a torch in the dark. "The spell is almost done."
But Irdra trembled. Her knees felt weak. Every part of her ached from the strain. She could feel the older witches burning their lifeforce just to keep the magical dome intact. She didn't want to be brave. She wanted to run.
Althera turned her head, locking eyes with her.
"You are doing well, child."
Irdra bit her lip. "M-Mother Althera... will we all be going?"
Althera's expression softened. "No, my little moon. Only one may go through. I was meant to bear the burden. But the threads of fate are never neat."
That was when it began.
A thunderous boom shook the tower. The outer dome shattered as three beasts crashed through the stone arches—horrors of black sinew, glowing scars, and twisted bone. They let out guttural screams that rattled the bones of every living thing.
Screams erupted.
The outer witches surged forward, casting chains of light and fire—but were torn down, one by one. Flesh ripped. Stone shattered. The tower itself cracked at the base as a fourth beast slammed into its foundation. The magic circle flickered.
"Hold the formation!" Althera shouted.
But it was too late.
The floor split. Runes exploded in sparks. The ground gave way—and they fell.
******************
Darkness.
Then—
Screams.
Pain.
Smoke.
Irdra gasped, coughing up blood. Her limbs were twisted awkwardly beneath fallen stone, but somehow, she had survived the collapse. Around her, the tower was a ruin. Half the circle was gone—crushed or silent. The sky above was open, and firelight flickered off the scales of a beast wandering just outside.
She dragged herself free, vision blurring. Blood streamed down her cheek, and one of her legs refused to hold weight.
She heard it then—a whisper. A moan.
"...Irdra..."
She turned.
Beneath a broken beam lay Althera, crushed from the waist down. Her hands were slick with blood, her face pale, but her eyes—her eyes still burned with power.
"No... no, please!" Irdra scrambled to her side. "I'll get someone! I can still—"
"There is no one left, child." Althera reached weakly toward her. In her hand, she held a small, leather-bound bag. Inside was the knight's blade—ancient, silver-forged, with the crescent sigil glinting like moonlight. "The portal... is still open... barely."
Irdra looked up.
Through the broken arc of the ceiling, the shimmering portal hung—shrunken, flickering. Fading.
"I was meant to go. But I cannot." Althera coughed, spitting red into the dust. "You must take the blade... find a knight on the other side. Train them. Return."
"I can't!" Irdra shook her head. "I'm just a—just a child! I'm not ready! Please... don't make me go alone..."
"You are more ready than you know." Althera cupped her cheek with a trembling hand. "This is the end of Camelot, but not the end of magic. You are the thread now. The one that must not break."
Tears streaked down Irdra's face. "I don't know how to be brave."
"You don't need to be. Just do what you can. One step at a time. The world on the other side has forgotten us... but you will remind them." Her smile faltered as her eyes began to close. "Now go... before the beasts come. Make this fall... mean something."
Footsteps. Heavy. Getting closer.
Irdra's hand clenched the bag. She leaned forward, pressed her forehead to her master's—and whispered:
"I will come back. I promise."
Then she ran.
Broken. Bloody. But determined.
She limped into the portal, and the last light of Camelot vanished with her.