Chapter 16 #3
The memory of Astrid's eyes finding mine across her mother's yard flashes through my mind. The shock, the recognition, something beyond fear in her gaze. Hawke is right. I know he is. I have to believe he is. It’s the only thing keeping me going.
Another tremor interrupts my thoughts. A crack races across one wall, spider-webbing out from floor to ceiling. It makes me want to walk faster, even run, but I don’t.
When the shaking subsides, Hawke's expression is grim. "We need to see what's happening. Now."
"The queen can’t possibly know I’ve found my mate," I say, as we travel down another hallway and take a right toward the tower. I’ve been through this part of the castle many times before.
I catch Hawke's arm. "How is she really? Melinda?"
His eyes soften slightly. "Sick as a dog. Barely keeps broth down. And furious that I wouldn't let her come." A small smile touches his lips. "She's worried the Council might try something while I'm here at Camelot."
“Tell her we wouldn’t let anything happen to you.”
He chuckles. “I will. Perhaps that will soothe her slightly.”
"You can tell her my mate wants to kill me," I say, the ache in my chest throbbing like an open wound.
"I’ll have to prepare her for it. GUIDE killed her mother and hunted her as well," he replies. “One problem at a time, though. First you must win over your mate. Then we worry about Melinda.”
“Fair enough.”
We reach the end of the corridor and then climb the spiraling tower stairs in silence, each step carrying us closer to something we all feel but cannot name.
The wolf within me grows quieter, strangely subdued, as if even it senses the gravity of what waits above.
The ancient stone steps are worn smooth from centuries of vigilant guards, yet now they bear new wounds—hairline fractures that widen as we ascend, some large enough that we must step carefully to avoid catching our boots.
"The guards refuse to approach the tower anymore," Jarlath says, his golden eyes catching what little light filters through narrow windows.
"How long since anyone's been up here?" Hawke asks.
"Probably at least two weeks," Jarlath admits.
Boaz grunts with effort as we round another turn in the staircase, his stone-heavy limbs making each step more laborious than ever.
"I can feel it," Wraith murmurs, his voice hollow with exhaustion. "Something's changed."
He's right. The air grows colder as we climb, taking on a sharp metallic quality that burns in my lungs.
My ears pop as if we're climbing a mountain rather than a tower, pressure building against my skull. The castle trembles again, but this time it’s a gentle vibration that runs through the stone like a living thing shivering.
We reach the final landing, facing an ancient oak door bound with iron. It stands partially open—a severe breach of protocol.
Hawke exchanges a grim look with Jarlath before pushing the door wider. It swings open with an ominous creak, revealing the circular chamber beyond.
The Round Table chamber. The heart of Camelot.
My breath catches in my throat as we cross the threshold, a reverence I can't suppress washing over me despite the centuries I've been entering this space.
This chamber has witnessed the greatest triumphs and darkest moments of my life.
The place where I first swore my oath alongside men who would become brothers to me, where we planned battles and celebrated victories, where we mourned fallen comrades and plotted the salvation of eight realms.
Bright afternoon sunlight streams through high windows, illuminating the familiar space now transformed by damage.
The walls, once smooth seamless stone, are now webbed with cracks like a shattered mirror barely holding its form.
Some fissures are thin as hair, others wide enough to slide a dagger through.
But what draws my eye immediately is the far wall, where a doorway-shaped scorch marks blacken the stone—the portal to the Queen’s prison.
My chest tightens. This sacred space, this ancient sanctuary feels broken, wounded, even dying. My wolf’s hackles are raised, but you can't fight decay with teeth and claws.
"Gods above," Boaz whispers, moving closer to the burned outline. "It’s so much worse."
Fractures radiate outward from the scorched doorway, some glowing faintly with an otherworldly light. Three cracks in particular have widened enough that a sliver of... something... is visible beyond. Not quite darkness, not quite light, but a shimmer like heat rising from molten metal.
"Is that...?" I step closer.
We all fall silent, clustering around the largest fissure. Through it, we can see a fragment of what lies beyond—a grey, fog-filled void that somehow exists both right before us and impossibly far away. And within that mist, movement.
A figure.
She paces back and forth, visible only in glimpses as she passes the crack.
A woman in tattered robes that might once have been white.
Her skin is pale as death, hair a wild tangle around a face too beautiful to be real.
When she turns, her eyes flash toward us—pure white, without pupil or iris, glowing with terrible awareness.
The Queen sees us watching.
A cold shiver races down my spine, my wolf bristling beneath my skin in immediate recognition of a greater predator. My muscles tense, ready for flight or fight, though neither seems adequate against what watches us through that crack.
Her mouth moves rapidly, like she’s speaking, but there’s no sound. No words. Her expression shifts between rage and something like desperation. Though no sound penetrates the barrier, I can feel the vibration of her voice in my bones, like the distant rumble of thunder before a devastating storm.
"She's awake," Wraith whispers. "She was supposed to be suspended. Frozen in time."
"Not anymore," Hawke says grimly.
My gaze shifts to the center of the room, where a massive stone sits like an altar. A jagged piece of Excalibur juts from the top of it. It glows with gentle golden light.
The heart of the chamber remains as it has for centuries.
The great tree that is older than Camelot itself.
Older than the entire universe. A massive stump rises directly from the floor, its surface polished smooth by countless generations of knights who have sat at its edge.
The castle was built around this living connection to Yggdrasil, the well of power that has sustained the Knights of the Round Table since Arthur first gathered his champions and built the castle.
Five chairs grow seamlessly from the wood itself, each bearing our names etched in ancient runes across their high backs—names that appeared when we were first called to service.
This place has been our sanctuary, our meeting ground, our direct connection to the World Tree that binds all eight realms together.
"Let us take our places," Hawke says quietly. "Perhaps Yggdrasil will grant us some clarity."
Boaz approaches his chair without hesitation, the one bearing his name in elegant flowing script. These seats have supported us through council and crisis. He lowers himself into his designated seat with a sigh of familiarity.
The moment he makes contact, the wood seems to glow beneath him.
A gasp tears from his throat—not of pain but shock.
Golden light travels up his arms, encircling his stone-grey limbs.
The petrification that has been creeping ever higher suddenly recedes like a tide pulling back from shore, revealing healthy flesh beneath.
I stare, transfixed. For years we've watched the stone claim more of him, faster and faster. How many times had I caught Boaz staring at his greying hands with quiet despair? How many flasks of ambrosia had we emptied together, knowing they offered only temporary reprieve?
"I don’t believe it," Boaz stares at his hands in disbelief, turning them over as tears stream freely down his face. "It's completely gone. The stone is gone. It’s been so long… I didn’t realize the table could help."
Wraith moves quickly to his own chair, dropping into it with eager recognition. The effect is immediate—the shadows beneath his eyes fade, his posture straightening as energy visibly flows into him. "I feel like I've slept for a week," he says, voice stronger than I've heard in months.
I approach my seat with a sense of homecoming.
As I settle into the wooden chair that bears my name, warmth floods through me.
The constant, clawing presence of the wolf—the beast that's been fighting for control every waking moment—suddenly quiets to a gentle hum.
For the first time in years, I feel... whole.
Balanced. The wolf is still there, still part of me, but no longer fighting against my control.
"Yggdrasil is giving us strength," Hawke says, taking his own seat at what would be considered the head of the table, though the circular arrangement makes such distinctions meaningless. "To continue the fight."
"Look," Wraith points to the sword fragment in the stone. It pulses now. "Is it responding to our presence?"
Hawke stands and approaches the stone altar, stopping just short of touching it. "When Melinda and I bonded, this piece appeared. When my soul was made whole and joined with hers."
"And every time one of us finds our mate and bonds—"
"Another piece of the sword will return," Wraith finishes, the implication hanging heavy in the air.
"And as the sword rebuilds..." Boaz stares at the cracked barrier containing the Queen.
"The seal weakens," Jarlath concludes, his golden eyes reflecting the pulsing light of the sword fragment. “And Aena becomes more powerful.”
The castle shudders violently beneath us, dust raining from the ceiling. Through the widest crack, the Queen's eyes appear again. Wild. Angry. Haunting.
Each reunion brings her closer to freedom.
"We've made a terrible mistake," Wraith says quietly, still seated at the table, his hands no longer trembling with exhaustion. "Our salvation comes at the cost of her freedom."
"Perhaps that was always the bargain," Hawke replies, his expression solemn. "We bought the universe nearly five hundred years. It was never going to last forever."
The implication sits heavy between us. To save ourselves—to find our mates, to break our curses—we will potentially release something far worse on the whole universe. Except there’s no guarantee. We’ve triggered a change. Quitting now doesn’t mean the queen will stop destroying the castle.
“It changes nothing,” Jarlath says, crossing his arms over his chest.
“How can you say that,” Wraith snarls. “It changes everything. We can’t do this. We should stop.”
No. Not acceptable.
“And do what? Put you down? Your sister would never forgive me and neither would Yggdrasil. The World Tree calls Knights, not kings. It is not my place to say otherwise, Wraith.”
“And I won’t let that come for those I love,” he shouts back, pointing at the outline of the cell door.
“She’s already coming,” I growl.
"What if Wraith is right?" Boaz asks, studying his healed hands. "If finding our mates frees the Queen..."
"No. You must continue," Hawke says firmly. "You don’t know that the Queen won’t be freed whether we all find our mates or not. Fen is right. She’s already coming. We can’t stop now."
“And our mates may literally be the key to stopping Aena. We won't know until we find them. This is a risk we can’t afford not to take, Wraith," I say, rising slowly from my seat.
Wraith shakes his head. "We still don't know who or what the Queen truly is."
“Yggdrasil brought Melinda to me. She was not a mistake. We must be the Knights we were called to be and have faith. The Universe is crying to be made whole again. First our souls then we save the world again.”
“Agreed,” Boaz says, his voice stronger than I’ve heard it in months.
“Agreed,” I say too.
Wraith shakes his head again, but doesn’t speak aloud. We’ll convince him. He’ll get there. He has to.
There’s so much more at stake than just our individual souls.