Page 2 of Secrets of Avalon

Destrien cuts through my pretense with a dismissive snort. “Bullshit. We have things to do and you need to stop growling about the Upir being here. They know better than to break our accords here.”

He sees only the surface—our father’s son, yes, but the second-born, unburdened by the full weight of our legacy. He does not have the constant tug of a missing piece, a void where part of his soul should reside. Nor does he battle the encroaching darkness that now whispers of liberation through the very door I’m forbidden to touch.

Destrien navigates our world with a politician’s grace, smoothing over rifts I would confront with steel and my iron will.

If any will remained within me.

I often wonder if we were born out of order. Destrien, with his innate aptitude for governance, seems the better fit for the throne, while I struggle against its confines.

Would our father prefer him, the silver-tongued diplomat? Perhaps this madness overtaking me will be a blessing in disguise.

Normally he would be right about why I’m concerned. Usually I do worry about the Upir arriving at Camelot—that the dream-walking, energy-sucking vampires will feed on the Fae who live outside the castle. They have in the past. Patterns of repeated behavior rarely lie.

But that’s not what’s taking space in my brain this year. My brother’s worries are misplaced. If only he knew the true source of my unrest…

I steal another glance at the Earth-Realm door, and a new wave of pain clenches in my chest, so intense it threatens to bring me to my knees. With considerable effort, I force my feet to move, step by agonizing step toward the stairwell, distancing myself from Destrien’s perplexed scrutiny.

“Hawke, what the hell? Are you just going to walk away from me now?” Destrien’s voice cascades down the stairs after me, tinged with incredulity and brotherly concern.

Pain screams in my head, becoming a deafening roar. Now. Now. Now.

“I must touch it,” I grit out between clenched teeth, the words tearing from my throat as if they too are part of the compulsion. “There’s something…there I need.” My response is cryptic, even to my own ears, but it propels me into motion.

I break into a sprint. I leap down the stairs two or three at a time, touching down on the landing with a loud resonating thud.

The Upir pause, their predatory instincts alerted by my sudden dash. Their gazes are penetrating, suspicious, and question my erratic behavior.

I’m acting strange. I’m well aware of how I must look to them. To Destrien. To any onlooker. A prince unhinged, a Knight of the Round Table behaving like a feral madman.

The Hall of Realms stretches out before me, its grandeur lost to my singular focus. This place, designed to be wide open like a throne room, lacks the expected regal dais. Instead, massive doors of wood and steel line the walls, each concealing a portal to another world. The power and energy that hums in this room makes it so very alive.

The Earth door looms at the end of the Hall, its call now a roar in my veins. It beckons with a pull more potent than any enchantment, an urge that tugs at the marrow in my bones. It whispers of forgotten ties and unspoken longings. It is as though the very essence of Avalon, Camelot, and the sacred Tree itself, demands my attention.

With each step toward the door, the compulsion strengthens, taking more control and the grip of pain loosens. Each stride brings relief, each movement a promise of release from the agony that’s claimed me.

I weave through the Upir and the guards, their presence now just a peripheral blur, my gaze fixed on the door.

My resolve hardens, as unyielding as the magick-forged metal and carved-oak I’m compelled to touch, to understand, to conquer.

If the darkness is coming to claim me today, I’m going toward it with my sword drawn. I’ll not be taken without a fight.

CHAPTER 2

The Door At The End Of The World

Melinda Mayweather

The mountain air around me crackles, a pull so strong it’s almost tangible. My heart races, every beat echoing in my ears, drowning out every other thought.

“It’s here, dad. It’s close,” I whisper to my stepfather, Michael, who’s been my dad my entire twenty-five years on the earth. My birth father died when I was born–because I was born. Literally cursed to die because of me.

“Good, Mel. This is what your mother and I always wanted. She would be so proud.” His voice breaks, but he does a good job of hiding it behind an encouraging smile. “It’s what we all wanted for you,” he said referring to the entire family group making the hike with us today.

Last week my mother was executed by the Inquisitors. Burned at the stake.

Because of me. Because of my inability to control my stupid fucking magick. Because everything and everyone I love eventually ends up dead.

I take a deep breath and will the wild vibrating magick inside of me to settle. If I lose control now it would make everyone around me sick. It would kill plants. Animals.

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