Page 1 of Secrets of Avalon

Episode 1

CHAPTER 1

The Door Calls My Name

Hawke Stormblood

Leaving Camelot isn't a mere departure—it's a raw, jagged tear in the fabric of my soul, the severing of a lifeline.

And this year it’s even worse. This year it is an evisceration. A treacherous thrust of my own sword to my heart.

This pain doesn't ebb like it normally does. This time it's a relentless suffocating anguish, an unyielding vice that whispers of death if I don't act with haste.

Desperation. Lack of control. These are shadows and weaknesses that have no place in my life, yet here they are, larger and more foreboding than the towering spires of the castle itself.

Fuck. I slam my hand against the stone balcony, where the history of my ancestors is etched into every crevice. A piece breaks off, crumbling to dust—a harbinger of potential ruin. But with a mere flicker of intent, I command the fragments to coalesce. The air crackles with my silent fury. The stone fuses, flawless once more, leaving only the ghost of my wrath behind.

From this vantage point, the view of the heart of Camelot is unobstructed. The Earth-Realm door stands below, a monolith of bygone oaths and silent accusations. Its forbidding presence is the source of all my current frustration.

The Upir began arriving days ago, their arrival marking the beginning of the end of the Fae stewardship of Camelot for the year. The castle, a nexus of cosmic pathways, hums with a tension so palpable, it’s as if the stones themselves brace for the impending change.

No longer will the Fae command the nexus of the Universe, no longer will my word be law. This forced agreement and sharing of Camelot still cuts deeper than any blade.

Camelot was breathed to life by Fae hands, infused with our essence. We created and built the doors—portals that stitch the fabric of realms together. Yet even the most enduring of legacies can falter, just as the stone beneath my touch gave way.

I love this castle—it is the crowning achievement of my people, my legacy. And though I can mend its fissures with a thought, there are some cracks that even a prince cannot repair, nor a politician.

In a mere three days, following the ceremonial handover, I’ll be no more than a prince without a kingdom, a knight without a charge. And Camelot, with its resplendent spires that claw at the skies and its gardens, lush with enchanted flora, will pass to the custody of the Upir. Then, in turn, to the Asgardians, the Vanir, and the Olympians.

The Fae’s home is a house of many masters.

Today, my duties should have me readying the castle for the influx of guests. I’m tasked with ensuring their comfort and making sure the transition and ceremony goes smoothly. Yet, the only thing I crave is to touch that forbidden-fucking-door.

I’ve been around it all year, never once tempted. I’ve never thought about running my fingers over the enchanted locks, sculpted to resemble dragons entwined in eternal combat across its surface. The Drakonem-forged metal, impervious to any magick save for the fire of their creators, has always been just a part of the scenery—until today.

But today has unraveled unlike any other. Since dawn, I’ve been fixated on the Earth-Realm door, yearning to touch it. Each task I set out to complete only leads me back to the Hall of Realms, back to the door’s siren seduction.

There’s no law against touching it. The High Council would not need to condemn the act—my very touch would be a silent scream of defiance, a stain upon my parents’ and house’s honor, upon the Fae people as a whole.

I should not do this thing…but, I know I will.

A creeping dread, a madness insidious as the winter’s first frost, seizes me. Get to the door. Now. It’s a deafening roaring command in my mind.

As I fixate on the Earth-Realm door yet again, a new kind of fear begins to take root, one that extends beyond the present moment and into the essence of who I am, who I am destined to become. It’s been a millennium since the Knights of the Round Table sacrificed a shard of our souls to lock away an evil that threatened to consume our world.

That sacrifice stopped her, but also shattered magick and destroyed the soulmate dreams our universe depended on. And now, with each passing century, the absence of that piece of my soul eats at me, threatening to unravel the very threads of my being.

The dread of going feral haunts me—a whispered tale among my kind, the fear of losing oneself entirely. It's the kind of slow, creeping terror that slithers into a warrior's heart and whispers of madness.

And what happens today, with this door calling to me with a siren’s insistence, stirs that ancient fear even more. I struggle with loss of control, but it’s few and far between. Nothing like the crazed need I have today. The inability to focus on anything other than the door.

My brother Destrien’s approach is as familiar as my own heartbeat. His concern, thick in the air, only fuels my self-loathing. To be seen in such a state by him is a vulnerability I can’t afford. I can’t let anyone suspect I’m not in control.

“Hawke,” he begins, his voice carrying the smooth cadence of a diplomat, “We have things to do. Why are you lurking here again? His tone holds the patience of a man accustomed to mediation, a glaring opposite to my natural simmer of high intensity.

“This is the second time I’ve found you in the Hall.” His bright blue eyes probe, searching for an answer I’m not fully prepared to give.

I deflect with a casual shrug, my gaze drifting to the Upir moving below us. “I’m just watching them,” I reply, a lie smooth as the marble floors below. The Upir, clad in their traditional attire of white satin and leather, adorned with silver weaponry and diamonds, move like a shining tide through the Hall with a precision and silence that is ethereal.

---