PROLOGUE #3
My lungs burned as I pushed through thorns that gleamed like silver and dodged hanging vines that reached for me. The ground beneath my feet felt spongy and alive, yielding with each step as though I were running across the back of some slumbering giant.
It was only when exhaustion finally forced me to stop that I realized where my desperate flight had led me. Rising from a circular clearing carpeted with moss stood the Standing Stones—ancient monoliths that marked the boundary between Logres and the forbidden realm of Annwyn.
My head throbbed with a relentless ache, each pulse behind my temples matching the disorienting rhythm of this place—Annwyn. Every attempt to make sense of the world around me sent sharp spikes of pain through my skull, as if my mind were rejecting what my eyes insisted was real.
What was up? What was down? The fundamental laws of nature I'd taken for granted—the solid certainties that had anchored my understanding of the world—meant absolutely nothing here.
I watched in bewildered fascination as streams flowed uphill.
Clouds above took all sorts of shapes—twisting and morphing, not just into animals but into fantastical creatures—a satyr playing a flute, a serpent with a mane of fire, and other creatures I had no names for.
They floated past as whispers of sound emanated from them, an eerie music resonating through the vibrant air.
Below, trees reached up with limbs entwined in unnatural patterns, their leaves shimmering in shades of lavender.
The forest floor was carpeted in moss so soft it felt like stepping on cotton, while birds of all colors of plumage darted overhead, their calls lilting and strange.
The air here was thick with a potent, otherworldly magic, humming beneath my skin.
Food was nearly impossible to find. Anything that appeared edible either shrank away or dissolved into mist when I touched it. Hunger gnawed at me, but there was little I could do about it, and I figured I would starve to death in this bizarre place.
But starvation was far better than being burned at the stake or ripped apart by the Iron Hounds…
I didn't know how much time had passed in Annwyn before they emerged silently from between the trees—tall, otherworldly beings with blue-gray skin and entirely silver eyes that reflected the sky like mirrors.
The Twilight Wardens—Merlin's elite guardians who patrolled the borders between realms. How I knew this information, I couldn't say; the knowledge simply materialized in my consciousness.
It wasn't a voice speaking the words, nor a memory surfacing from some forgotten lesson.
Instead, the understanding flowed through my mind with the same certainty as knowing my own name, as natural as breathing.
Their movements were fluid as they encircled me, speaking in a language that sounded like water flowing over stones. White markings stood out from their skin, glowing faintly against their deep blue flesh.
One stepped forward—taller than the others, with spiral patterns tracing up his muscled arms. The Warden reached toward me, palm extended as though offering me a hand up.
In response, my own magic surged—water from the dew-covered plants gathered around my hands in quicksilver streams that solidified into glacial daggers of ice.
The familiar chill spread up my arms. The forest, usually alive with whispers and rustling, suddenly fell into an eerie silence, as if every creature held its breath in anticipation of what would happen next. Even the luminescent flowers seemed to dim their glow, shrinking.
“Stay back,” I warned.
The leader touched one of the blades of ice I'd just created. In response, runes began to glow along its surface. I couldn’t read the strange markings, but I understood them all the same. Language through magic. Through water.
Strange.
More Wardens emerged, circling me. One summoned vines that twisted and curled through his fingers, responding to his touch as if they were extensions of his will rather than separate beings.
The vines shot forward, wrapping around my wrists with surprising gentleness despite their obvious strength.
I felt the plants adjust themselves against my skin, neither painfully tight nor loose enough to escape.
They weren't meant to harm. Just to contain.
The lead Warden tilted his head, studying me. His gaze lingered on my hair, then moved to my eyes. Something like recognition flickered across his otherwise impassive features. Then he spoke in perfect Common.
“You will be delivered to the one who has awaited you, white hair. To the Twilight Sovereign.”
To Merlin.
A death sentence. Or possibly worse.
Stories about Merlin clawed at my thoughts, tales spun in hushed tones from my childhood. The Archmage was spoken of like a nightmare, to frighten misbehaving children. He was a sorcerer so powerful and malevolent he'd turned against his own kind.
They said he could twist time, see into futures best left unspoken.
He aged his enemies to dust with a mere glance.
He could siphon life from the land, leaving it barren and gray.
The darkest stories hinted at his cruelty—whispered that he ruled Annwyn like a tyrant, bending magic and people to his will through fear alone.
A monster in the shape of a man. A shadow you could never outrun.
And now each step I took brought me closer to that living nightmare—through landscapes that defied reason—waterfalls rising upward, rocks suspended midair, trees growing sideways. A cluster of luminous butterflies flew past, their wingbeats leaving trails of light.
I don't know how long we walked in silence before we crested a ridge, and a fortress rose from an outcropping of iridescent black stone that caught the dusk light and fractured it into colors I had no names for.
The structure itself was almost indescribable—half-grown, half-built, with sections that shifted between states of solidity.
As I watched, an entire wing became translucent, revealing inner chambers and stairways before hardening again into solid stone.
Towers spiraled upward, their spires twisting into strange forms. Gardens bloomed along vertical walls, with plants growing sideways and upside down.
"What is it?" I asked.
"Caer Gwyll. The Castle of Twilight."
It was wild. Beautiful. Free. Much like Annwyn itself.
And Arthur would burn it to the ground if he could.
-GUIN-
When we entered Caer Gwyll, I felt like I might pass out. Because now, I stood in his domain, awaiting his judgment, my knees threatening to buckle.
And I was completely alone. The silence pressed against me, making me acutely aware of my own ragged breathing echoing in the vast chamber.
I didn't know when they'd taken their leave of me—one moment the Twilight Wardens had been flanking me, their silver eyes watching my every move, and the next I found myself standing solitary in this mystical throne room.
Bookshelves lined the walls, all the way to the clouds that formed a nonexistent ceiling, the books alive with subtle movement.
As I watched, several tomes gently dislodged themselves, hovering momentarily before settling into different positions.
Some opened their covers, pages fluttering as though caught in a breeze I couldn't feel.
At the center of this chamber stood a throne. Carved from what appeared to be a single massive piece of heartwood, the wood had petrified to stone-like hardness, yet somehow remained alive—tiny green leaves sprouting from the armrests.
My attention shifted to the tapestries hanging from the walls between the bookshelves.
Each depicted scenes of magical conflict, rendered in shimmering threads.
One depicted a young Merlin standing shoulder to shoulder with a golden-haired boy I assumed was Arthur, both facing shadowy creatures with staffs raised.
Another portrayed these same men locked in combat against each other, the towers of what must have been Camelot crumbling between them.
A third tapestry caught my eye. This one depicted a blue-haired woman rising from a lake, offering a sword to a young Arthur. The legendary sword in the stone—Excalibur.
Without conscious thought, my magic stirred. The binding vines around my wrists couldn't prevent the moisture in the air from gathering around my fingers, forming delicate droplets that orbited my hands like tiny moons.
"Isn't she lovely?" came a soft voice. "The Lady of the Lake."
An old woman stepped from the shadows. Her skin was the color of aged parchment, mapped with countless fine wrinkles, but her eyes were clear and kind, observing me with gentle curiosity.
“I am Eliora, historian of Caer Gwyll."
She studied me, then the vines around my wrists, and seemingly in response, they unwound themselves, retreating like obedient pets.
“Am I a prisoner?”
“Neither prisoner nor guest. Not yet. That depends on the Sovereign.” She paused. "Though I suspect he already knows exactly who you are."
I frowned. “The Sovereign knows who I am?”
“There is very little the Sovereign does not know.”
Before I could ask what that meant, the great doors opened. The Twilight Wardens entered in perfect formation, their movements synchronized as though they shared a single mind. They formed a path between the doors and the place where I stood, silver eyes fixed forward, expressions unreadable.
And then he entered—Merlin, the Twilight Sovereign, the Archmage of Annwyn. The figure who had haunted countless sleepless nights throughout Logres.
Yet the man who walked toward me now bore little resemblance to the nightmarish stories that preceded him.
The whispered legends spoke of glowing eyes that could peer into souls, of withered hands that left decay in their wake, of a voice that could compel the dead to rise and serve.
But this figure moved with quiet dignity rather than menace, his presence commanding yet oddly comforting.