Published at 14th of October 2023 5:35 pm

Chapter 27: Despair

This chapter is updated by NovelFree.ml

Another arrow bounced off Arthur’s skin, repelled by his [Chosen One] Perk’s fate protection.

The invincible prince could barely see clearly, even with the lights summoned by his mages. The fog of war had spread through the mausoleum, as the living clashed against the armies of the dead. His sword [Excalibur] cut through the flesh of zombies and the bones of fiends, as he forced a path forward on the back of his [Legendary Unicorn] Llamrei; his steed's shining horn gored through any monster foolish enough to stand against Avalon’s heir.

At his back were his trusted fighters: riders who had followed him in his campaign for years; his dear thrall Ragnell, who cut skulls in half with her icy axe; priests from the Aesir, united in the fight against the Calamities. Their war cries and the clash of steel carried him forward, like the wind with an arrow.

This.

This was what Arthur was born for. To be the sword of the realm, and the shield of its people.

All his life, he had been trained to be the perfect king; warriors and mages from all corners of Avalon fought for the privilege of teaching him. Archmage Calvert, inspired by a vision from the Allfather Odin himself, led Arthur to claim the legendary sword he wielded. The prince’s scabbard, [Bedivere], had been gifted to him by a handmaiden of the goddess Freya to shield him from foul magic. All these years, all these stepping stones… all leading up to this day.

Unstoppable, Arthur single-handled forced a pathway through the enemies’ defenses, his soldiers struggling to keep up. As he cut down a mummy rising from below, the prince glimpsed at his friend and protector Lancelot, mowing through swathes of zombies and golems as he crossed the right bridge. Only a zombie [Fencer] offered some resistance, and even then, he would not last long.

No one lasted long against Lancelot.

“Your Majesty!” a knight behind him shouted a panicked warning.

A skull-shaped flail flew at Arthur’s head, the warrior-prince noticing it at the last second. His unicorn pulled away, sparing him from a full impact, but the blow smashed his helmet from the left side. The peerless steel strained under the sheer might of the attack, bone spikes piercing through the metal.

A strange, unpleasant sensation spread through the left side of Arthur’s face, as a liquid dripped down from his skin.

“I… I bled?” the prince observed the blood—his blood—falling from his cheek onto his chest plate.

The flail returned to its sender, a headless knight riding a ghostly steed. In his wake, a horde of screaming specters and shadowy mastiffs followed, assaulting Arthur’s cavalry and bodyguards from all sides before they could rescue their prince.

That Dullahan must have been Hagen of Vendemar, one of the undead commanders. Arthur had been briefed on his case; the Dullahan had once been the most villainous knight alive in his time, and a famed, treacherous bandit lord. He immediately singled out Arthur and engaged him.

“I have been waiting for you, princeling,” Hagen mused, the undead’s voice dripping with bloodlust. “Shall we dance? I’m afraid we killed our last fair maiden, so allow me to step in.”

Undead existed outside the cycle of life and death, and thus fate. Or so Archmage Calvert had warned the prince, theorizing that they might be able to harm Arthur in spite of his blessing.

He had been right. For the first time in his entire life, the chosen one had experienced pain.

Instead of fear, though, Arthur felt excitement. His heartbeat fastened, as he realized this was the kind of battle that would decide Avalon’s fate.

“I accept your challenge!” Arthur shouted to the Dullahan, riding forward to engage him personally. Since Hagen was obviously the enemies’ tactician, his demise would cause his forces to collapse. “Men, leave him to me!”

“Just you and me, princeling,” Hagen said, raising his flail. “You, me, and my hounds!”

As he said that, the shadowy mastiffs treacherously flanked the prince’s unicorn, attempting to forcefully dismount the chosen one and throw him to the ground.

“A dirty trick, how unexpected,” Arthur deadpanned.

The beast’s horn radiated a holy light, as did the prince’s [Bedivere]. A blinding halo of holy light surrounded the rider, vaporizing the hounds and causing ghostly smoke to spill from the Dullahan’s armor.

Unabated, the treacherous Hagen swung his flail, aiming not for Arthur, but for his horse. The prince raised his shield to deflect the blow, infuriated by the undead’s cowardly tactics. “You were a knight once!” Arthur shouted, as his sword came within range of Hagen’s chest. “Is there no honor left in your dead bones?”

“Why do you think I ended up in Helheim to begin with?” the Dullahan mocked his rival, raising his shield. [Excalibur] cut through it like butter, but failed to harm the wicked knight. Instead, as both riders passed by one another, Hagen tossed the remains of his shield aside as he and Arthur circled around one another, his vile flail retracting into a ghoulish mace.

All around the ruins, the foul purple mists of Helheim had started to seep through tears in space, threatening to asphyxiate the living. While his protections shielded him from this effect, Arthur knew that he had to prevail quickly to spare his men; Gwen may be courageous, she could only hope to delay the ritual long enough for her elder brother to disrupt it.

In spite of the odds, the prince remained confident. This undead might be able to harm him, but he was a mere servant of the necromancer, an appetizer. The true challenge awaited the prince further down.

“We threw the fight last time, so you fools would leave us alone,” the Dullahan said, both riders clashing amidst the furious melee, mace against sword. Much to Arthur’s surprise, [Excalibur] didn’t cut through the enemy weapon as it did with everything else, although it damaged it with each swing. “But you couldn’t turn back, could you? You martyrs are all the same. You foolishly court death and call it bravery.”

“I would rather court death than cower before it!” Arthur replied.

“Are we really arguing about the cause?” Hagen chuckled. “If the chief succeeds, death is abolished. All our victims can be brought back; sure they served a little time in Helheim, but we handled it like champs! If you stop us, they will have died for nothing, princeling. We are on the side of justice, not you; who do you think is the true knight among us?”

The mockery infuriated Arthur; to watch this unnatural abomination spit on every code of chivalry filled him with righteous fury. He understood the villain wanted him infuriated, to slip up; he wasn’t the first one to try something like this.

But he may very well be the first one to succeed. For as their weapons kept clashing with no victor in sight, Arthur’s excitement turned to frustration. He had expected a quick if tense duel, not to be delayed for more than five minutes.

“You are strong but green. [Fright Knight].” An aura of pure despair surrounded Hagen, but Arthur’s magical protections shielded him from the brunt of it. His horse, however, grew tense and agitated. “Why don’t you run away and come back in a few years, when you will be a real challenge?”

“And let your victims go unavenged?!” Both cavaliers circled one another, two knights jousting to the death. “How many people did you kill?!”

“Countless,” Hagen of Vendemar mused, proud of himself. “And kill more I shall.”

At this point, nothing else mattered. He stopped paying attention to his men, to Ragnell and Lancelot, to the blood beneath his horse’s feet; not even the widening tears in the fabric of reality itself.

Arthur simply wanted to send this cruel, heartless man back to the hell where he belonged.

As if tiring of their endless joust, Hagen charged straight at Arthur, their mounts glaring at one another. The prince raised his blade and shield, preparing to deflect the enemy weapon and pierce the Dullahan’s wicked heart.

But instead of their weapons meeting, at the very last second, Hagen dived below [Excalibur] and tackled Arthur.

Before the prince knew what hit him, both knights fell onto the bridge, amidst the shed blood and the entrails of a slain demon.

Arthur’s unicorn let out a growl of panic, as its shining horn pierced through the Dullahan’s ghostly mount. A swarm of ghosts and specters immediately flocked to the horse, preventing him from assisting his rider.

Towering above the prince, Hagen raised his mace to bash Arthur’s skull. The lord of Avalon immediately raised his shield to protect himself from the blow, only to realize he had been tricked; the undead grabbed his scabbard [Bedivere] with a free-hand, ignored the holy magic burning his hand on contact, and tossed it off the bridge.

As one of his prized artifacts fell off the bridge, the prince realized that he may very well die. As this ugly truth hit him, an unknown feeling filled Arthur’s heart.

Fear.

“Second wave!” Arthur shouted, bashing Hagen with his shield to force him backward.

Immediately, the second half of the royal army poured into the tunnels, most of them spellcasters and summoned monsters. Angels, elementals, wooden leshy, and other creatures came to the struggling knights’ rescue, overwhelming goblins and undead with might and number. A rain of spells fell upon the defenders, a mighty fireball collapsing the left bridge and incinerating a dozen monsters.

Unmoved by this turn of fortune, Hagen attacked Arthur again, transforming his mace into a flail. "[Shatter Heaven]." The weapon smashed against the prince’s shield instead of his chest, caving the metal in. The chosen one tried to find an opening, but Hagen attacked, again and again, mighty strikes pushing Arthur near the bridge’s slippery edge.

How? How could some second-stringer push him this far?

“Allfather!” Arthur shouted, raising [Excalibur] and summoning one of its special abilities. “Grant me your grace!”

Divine energies flowed into his body, the Aesir granting their champion victory once more.

All your stats are sharply raised. You recovered all HP and SP.

Empowered by newfound might, Arthur tossed his useless shield away and charged at Hagen, unleashing a whirlwind of strikes and blows. The surprised undead couldn’t match his speed and strength and was swiftly tossed to his back by a powerful swing.

And as the Dullahan collapsed, so did his cause. Everywhere, the royal army marched forward, always forward, an unstoppable tide of steel and spells. Lancelot tossed the zombie [Fencer] off the right bridge, and the undead were pushed back.

“Any last words?” the prince spat blood and saliva, as he raised his blade to land a killing blow upon the Dullahan.

“Let us kiss under the mistletoe!” Hagen shouted loudly, pointing a finger behind Arthur.

The prince froze for a second in confusion, before he sensed a hostile intent flare up behind him. He turned around, his sword deflecting a frozen axe aiming for his head.

Ragnell’s axe.

Everywhere, people had gone mad. Spellcasters turned their spells against good men, allies turned against one another, while panic and confusion spread through the ranks. Much to Arthur’s astonishment, a few fighters turned their back on the living and started to help the undead.

Betrayal.

And Ragnell had cast the first stone, somehow bypassing the enchantments enforcing her obedience to strike Arthur in the back.

No.

This wasn’t Ragnell.

His thrall’s flesh had started falling off, a husk revealing an ugly visage underneath. That of a meanest fiendish hag, a ruby shining on her forehead. Loathly, high priestess of the Calamity Loki.

“Surprised, kingly boy?” she asked Arthur, showing him her crooked, rotten teeth.

“Ragnell…” Arthur glared at the hag that stole his thrall’s shape. “What did you do to Ragnell?!”

“She begged me to grant her death’s sweet release! She gave her blood and flesh for a vengeful oath, and now her wish I will fulfill!” The hag cleared her throat as if preparing to sing.

Instead, she unleashed a most vicious spell.

“[Banshee’s Wail]!”

The hag screamed.

A ghastly, lethal wail powerful enough to break bones and shatter souls spread through the mausoleum, the royal army fighting in too close quarters to avoid it.

[Insta-death] negated by [Chosen One].

Once more, Arthur avoided death, but good men collapsed like flies around him. His unicorn fell off the bridge, dead meat pulled off below by cadaverous hands.

Only the undead and, for some unknown reason, the fleeing goblins, avoided the decimation. A few of Arthur’s forces, including Lancelot, some summoned angels, and the Hel Inquisitors, survived the death spell, but a force in the hundreds fell down to a few dozens.

Too few to stop the horde of the dead.

For as Loathly let out her deadly scream, the rifts seemed to pulsate with energy. Something vile on the other side answered, and the tears widened until one could cross over through them.

A torrent of specters, a hundred times more numerous than the defenders, escaped through the rifts; they swarmed Hel’s Inquisitors and the gods’ summoned angels with vengeful anger. Goat-like fiends and fiery serpents, the thralls of Calamity Loki, used the Convergence to cross into Midgard, attacking the surviving humans from all sides.

Within seconds, the mausoleum had become a tomb for the royal army, a bloodbath of macabre proportions.

And it made Loathly the Hag laugh.

“Monster!” The prince saw red, raising his blade to pierce the wicked hag’s heart with it.

A flail hit him from behind, shattering his ribs and spine.

Arthur went flying to his chest, slipping on the blood of his soldiers. The divine energies that fueled him abandoned his body, the gods’ favor beaten out of him. [Excalibur] flew out of his hand near the bridge’s edge, leaving him defenseless.

Arthur tried to rise up, to seize his weapon before it fell off, but his legs refused to obey him. They had become numb, like everything below the waist. The prince struggled, crawling towards the pommel as his men’s dying screams echoed through the mausoleum.

An iron boot kicked [Excalibur] off the bridge, and into a [Helheim] rift.

“Foolish child,” the Dullahan taunted Arthur, delighting in his despair. “A sword is only as powerful as its wielder.”

No, Arthur thought. No, it can't end like this!

Lancelot, seeing his prince in a terrible position, pushed back his current undead opponent with a swing and leaped over the right bridge. With inhuman strength and agility, he leaped on the central bridge, carrying his claymore with a cold, hard face. The hag smiled upon seeing him until she realized the knight aimed for her first.

“What are you—”

Lancelot savagely backhanded her with his gauntlet, sending teeth flying and the hag reeling.

“Your punishment will wait, but you shan’t escape it.” Lancelot stepped towards Arthur without waiting for the hag to respond. He shielded the prince’s body with his own, howling ghosts and fiends stepping away from him in dread.

Lancelot and Hagen faced one another, the Dullahan weak and craven, the Royal Knight strong and confident.

Then, perhaps in realization of how outmatched he was, Hagen of Vendemar burst out laughing. “He’s all yours!” the false knight cackled at Lancelot, raising his hands in surrender. “I won’t get in the way.”

“Lancelot, I need your hand,” Arthur pleaded while extending his hand, unable to stand on his feet without help.

The Royal Knight didn’t move an inch.

“Lancelot?” Arthur repeated, confused, as the mists obscured the mausoleum so much, he couldn’t see straight anymore.

“A few months earlier than I planned,” his bodyguard said, an ugly intent in his eyes. “But this will do. This will do.”

“What do you—”

SLASH!

Arthur didn’t register the pain until the blade was halfway through his chest.

Claws grazed her right cheek, narrowly avoiding the eye.

Having [Hastened] herself, Gwen managed to keep up with this lethally fast undead, but only barely so. Her blade had bit his dusty flesh two times, once at the ankle and once at the shoulder… but his sharp claws had lacerated her armor a dozen times.

[Poison] negated by [Amulet of Avalon].

If it hadn’t, she would have collapsed already.

“I will… kill you… kill you! Kill you!”

The assassin was a furious beast, always on the offensive, his clawed hands oozing poison while Gwen only survived by remaining on the defensive. The mummy never gave her any opening nor respite, not even to cast spells; he didn’t tire, and his violent hate gave him a sharp, unnatural focus.

How long could she keep this up? Her [Hasten] spell would run out at one point, and then she wouldn’t be able to dodge or parry anymore.

The princess glanced at her allies, and to her horror, the odds looked terrible.

This mission was a bloodbath. Morgane had turned traitor, Annie had been possessed, and only Lady Yseult remained to shield Takeru from hostile spells cast by their former allies. The vampire rat swarm devoured the last Hel Inquisitor alive, the chewing sound echoing in rhythm with the tremors shaking the dungeon.

And corpses, corpses everywhere she looked.

“Annie, wake up!” Gwen shouted, trying to break her friend’s possession. “You are the strongest of us! You can resist!”

“Her level is too low,” the ghost possessing Annie replied through her lips, casting a spell towards Lady Yseult. “[Enhanced Thunderbolt]!”

Her fingers unleashed a mighty lightning bolt, just as Morgane cast a fireball. Both spells crashed against the priestess’ magical barrier, unable to pierce it, but keeping Lady Yseult out of the fight.

Gwen paid for this moment of inattention with blood and pain.

Moving around her sword like a viper, the mummy’s claws slashed the left side of Gwen’s face, tearing out an eye.

The princess screamed, as half her vision turned dark red and black. An agony greater than anything she had ever experienced raced through her head, her body in a state of shock.

“You… killed me… killed my god…” the mummy hissed, blood dripping from his weapons. He halted his assault for an instant, as if savoring the princess’ pain. “But he returned… he always… returns…”

The mummy exploited Gwen’ newfound vulnerability by moving left, trying to stay in Gwen’s blind spot. The wounded princess had to keep rotating to see attacks coming, exposing her back to counterattacks. She already heard the rats abandoning the inquisitor’s corpse to move towards her.

She wouldn’t make it.

The realization hit Gwen like a brick wall, as she was forced to face her own mortality. Years-long plans would go unfulfilled; all her hard work, all her struggles, would be for nothing; all her ambitions would perish with her, and if nothing was done, everyone she had ever loved would follow.

But she wouldn’t give up. Even if the very gods betrayed her, Gwenhyfar would still fight to the bitter end.

“Stop the ritual!” Gwen ordered Lady Yseult, the only priest with any chance whatsoever to stop the necromancer. “I will hold them off!”

“But if I drop my barrier, Takeru will—”

“Save the realm!” Gwen shouted, knowing perfectly what it would entail. “This is an order!”

A horrifying conflict tore apart the priestess’ face, as she realized what needed to be done. While Gwen had long resolved herself to make sacrifices, Lady Yseult was a priestess of Balder, the gods’ kindest. She had sworn to protect life.

But this wasn’t about vows.

This was about the world.

Lady Yseult closed her eyes, as she canceled her barrier. “[Sunburst]!”

The priestess’ body erupted in light and fire, divine flames that harmed the wicked and spared the servants of the gods. While the paralyzed Takeru and Gwenhyfar suffered no ill-effect, the vampire rats turned to dust with a final hiss, while the mummy screamed as it caught fire. In spite of her vampiric nature, Morgane somehow avoided the same fate, although the flames propelled her backward alongside Annie.

Exploiting their confusion, the priestess reluctantly left the wounded Takeru behind, Gwenhyfar moving to cover her back. The purple ghost that possessed Annie left the witch’s unconscious body behind, moving to intercept Yseult.

“I am sorry,” Lady Yseult muttered to herself, before intoning a strange song. “[Balder’s Lament].”

She unleashed a sad, single-note hum carrying magic. The purple ghost was repelled backward, while the mummy let out a screech.

“I am sorry,” Yseult kept telling herself, her face pale and frozen in horror. “I am so sorry.”

The mummy let out a snarl but pursued the two women, even as his body became a living candle. Positioning herself in a way that allowed her to shield both Takeru and Yseult, Gwen stopped him, parrying his blades with her own.

“I have to stop him,” Lady Yseult told herself, as she unleashed a mighty spell. “I have to stop him.”

The priestess waved her hand at the hall’s back wall, the source of the seeping mist—and the way to the ritual. A blast of holy light flashed from the priestess’ fingers, shattering stones.

A giant, undead dragon waited behind the broken wall, keeping watch over a stairway leading down a dark abyss. The same [Linnorm Demilich] Gwen’s party had defeated, the first time they raided the dungeon.

“Nidhogg…” the beast rasped, seemingly in some kind of meditative trance. “Nidhogg…”

Lady Yseult’s eyes widened in panic, as the beast’s empty eye sockets burst with unholy light. “[Turn Und—

Faster than lightning, the monster’s tail hit the priestess in the stomach like a whip, throwing her against one of the crimson pillars holding the ceiling. The frail lady crashed against the stone with a sickening noise and fell on the ground, unconscious.

The dragon let out a furious roar that made the ceiling tremble, opening his maw to devour the priestess whole. “Stop!” Morgane screamed in panic, having recovered from the [Sunburst] while the purple ghost hovered above Annie’s body. “He wants her alive! Alive!”

The [Linnorm Demilich] stopped its fangs within an inch of Lady Yseult’s head, and then simply pinned the unconscious priestess to the floor with his claws.

At this instant, surrounded from all sides, Gwen prayed to the gods like never before.

Had their previous victory been all a sham? A stroke of luck, a meaningless delay?

“Don’t take it personally, Gwen,” Morgane raised her hands to blast her ‘sister,’ who was now the last one standing. “You never had a chance.”

The burning mummy’s claws tore through the vampire’s visage, making her squeal in pain and surprise.

Even the purple ghost was almost shocked beyond words. “Spook, have you gone mad?”

“Mine…” the mummy rasped angrily, Morgane covering her bleeding face. The vicious undead waved his claws at the [Linnorm] threateningly. “My sacrifice...”

His ‘allies’ wisely backed off.

And then, without skipping a heartbeat and ignoring the flames slowly consuming him, the mummy returned to attacking the princess.

Either way, one of them would die today.

Blood. Blood everywhere.

The blood of the wicked flowed into him like water into a whirlpool. Murderers, oathbreakers, adulterers… their sins weighted on their flesh and mind, like spice salting meat. They fueled his magic, and their whispers splintered his soul.

Memories flowed in his mind, those of a past life. Mere fragments, the remains of an existence long forgotten. Such were the woes of undeath; few of them remembered the dream of life.

But he remembered enough. He remembered the hideous crimes the forever serpent committed, for he could only feed on the corpses of the wicked; he remembered his first death, starving inside his own lair by the will of the gods; yet his immortal soul refused to be trapped in Helheim, escaping to take refuge in a man’s skin. A serpent endlessly shedding his skin, an undying existence fueled by a single desire.

To survive.

“Twice…” His vocal cords were still incomplete, his body slowly taking form. His soul had long shed his [Ankou] shell, the husk joining the flesh of his new, enormous body. The Philosopher’s Stone floated at the center of the necromantic storm, its crimson hue now tainted black. “I died twice…”

“You were always the stubborn one.”

He felt her presence intrude upon his domain, her divine stench poisoning his well of power. The cathedral’s wards had folded before her… for she helped make them.

Hel had come to take her ‘due.’

“You would rather shed your newfound humanity rather than accept my embrace, Walter?” she asked, both amused and bitter. “Although I cannot begrudge you. I made your life painful.”

Shedding humanity? She was mistaken. He was strengthening it. He had no desire to return to a previous state, no matter how powerful. This new skin would be better than the old.

“Coming to take my soul…" he rasped, "when I am on the verge of victory?”

So cruel.

So obvious.

So expected.

“Your soul belongs to me by right,” she said, her cold hand approaching his stone, his phylactery, his naked essence. “You surprised me a little, Walter, but I tire of distant torment. You will learn to give me proper respect, in the dungeon of my castle.”

Her fingers started rotting.

Her grey skin and flesh peeled from her bones, her blood drained into the blackened stone. The surprise startled her, and for the first time in her eternal existence...

Hel seemed afraid.

“What is... wrong?” the necromancer rasped, the storm echoing with the mocking laughter of a thousand evil spirits as Hel pulled her hand away. “Feeling your lifeforce… drained away?”

“Clever,” the goddess said, as her forearm kept rotting; her illusion of life flayed away by Nastrond’s dark magic. “Clever, clever. But I brought protection.”

She cast a spell to shield her divine essence, of the highest tier of magic. The stone ate it away all the same. It bypassed all her immunities and defenses, blood calling to blood.

“You are the daughter of Loki… too…” So many evils, coming from the same loins. “The same blood that flows in your veins… powers my stone... as my [Lifedrain] devours mortal life… this artifact will feed on your unyielding essence…”

He had always wondered how a god would taste. Now he knew.

Gods tasted wonderful.

“You fear my touch that much?” Hel mused. That madwoman… the more he resisted her touch, the more it amused her. “You will not hold me at bay forever, Walter. I will always wait around a corner, a shadow haunting your steps.”

Empty threats. Even Odin had dared not to show up, perhaps foreseeing that as a blood brother of Loki, the stone might consume his power too. The gods who defied fate by sealing away his old self, before the serpent could fulfill his destiny, now saw their old forgotten fears awoken.

As for Hel, Walter Tye gave her the worst insult one could inflict upon an enemy.

He ignored her.

And she hated it. He could see the long silence weight upon her emotionless face, as the necromancer focused on the tense and difficult ritual. The goddess wanted his attention, craved it in an ugly, unnatural way the necromancer did not understand.

In a fit of jealousy and cruelty, the goddess turned her attention to the cities he loved. The mists of Helheim erupted from below Nastrond and soon would claim Lyonesse above; the Convergence would worsen, monsters escaping through the tears to consume the living. Maybe Hel hoped to break his focus, to make him reconsider his path by making it as bloody as possible.

She failed.

Many would perish, but once the ritual ran its course, death would be vanquished at last.

Sacrifices must be made.

“I may not be able to touch you so long as you hold the stone, Walter,” she said softly, her voice heavy with menace. “But does this protection extend to my hounds, I wonder?”

“Death… can no longer claim me.”

“I will concede you victory in this battle, my thrall,” Hel whispered with a coy smile, before vanishing through a tear in space. “But the war is far from over.”

And so, she left him alone to complete his transformation. Nastrond resonated with magical energy, as the very fabric of existence rippled.

[Philosopher’s Stone] upgraded into [Necromancer’s Stone].

Your [Ankou] racial levels are being changed into [Calamity (Nidhogg)] levels.

The black stone unleashed a pulse of darkness, and the Nine Realms trembled.

Gwen felt it before the notification appeared.

She felt it in her blade’s steel, as she struggled to keep bloody, poisoned claws from her chest. She felt it as she saw the mists of Helheim spread into the room, filling the air with the stench of death. She felt it as she noticed the Linnorm gently carry Lady Yseult and Annie into the fog, the purple ghost following.

She felt it as an ashen woman’s hands grabbed Takeru’s living body and dragged him into Helheim, while ‘Morgane’ cradled her bloody face in a corner. She felt it in her bones, as dark magic erupted all around her, a promise of death for Lyonesse above.

And then, Gwen saw.

Quest: The Helheim Convergence.

Failed.

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