Part I — The Amulet Directive
Present Day — Two Days After the Duel
The city never rested. Even at this hour, its heartbeat pulsed through the streets — a steady thrum of tires on wet pavement, the hiss of rain sliding down glass towers, the faint hum of neon that painted the skyline in colors too sharp to be natural. Two nights had passed since the duel, but for Lancelot, sleep had become a foreign word. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Arthur's face through the storm — the look of quiet disappointment that struck deeper than any blade. He had lived for centuries, fought wars that reshaped kingdoms, but this wound came from a friend, not an enemy.
He stood at the window of a high-rise apartment, watching the lights blur into streaks of motion across the glass. The reflection that stared back was not the knight of old but a man dressed in tailored black, his collar open, a silver chain glinting faintly at his throat. His armor was gone; his sword lay buried with history. Yet he could still feel the weight of steel in his hands, could still hear the call of battle echoing from a time when the world had believed in heroes.
The rain deepened. Far below, umbrellas bloomed like dark flowers, moving in perfect rhythm with the chaos of the city. Lancelot's hand brushed the comm-link at his ear. The voice that answered was smooth, cold, and familiar.
"Lancelot," Merlin said. "It's time."
He turned away from the window, eyes narrowing. "You always pick your moments."
"There's no perfect time. Only necessity. You know your task."
"The Amulet of Power," Lancelot murmured. "And the dragons."
"Retrieve it, secure them, and bring both under our control. Arthur moves faster than expected — his return is no coincidence. Balance must be restored before he tips the scales."
Lancelot smiled faintly, the expression devoid of warmth. "You sound like you believe in fate again."
"I believe in order," Merlin replied. "And you, my knight, are the instrument of it."
The line went silent.
Lancelot slipped on his coat, the fabric whispering against the faint hum of residual magic that still clung to his skin. The city outside felt wrong — alive in ways Camelot never had been. There was no rhythm of horse hooves or forge-fire glow, no sound of distant songs carried on wind. Just the heartbeat of machines.
He descended into the street, merging with the faceless flow of humanity. The glow of passing headlights briefly illuminated the scars on his knuckles — relics from another life. Every reflection that caught his eyes in the passing glass made him pause: for an instant, he saw not his face, but the ghost of his younger self — proud, unbroken, believing.
Draconis Industries towered above the skyline like a modern fortress. Its mirrored surface cut through the clouds, the emblem of a stylized dragon coiled around its topmost spire. To most, it was another multinational corporation — powerful, untouchable. To those who still remembered the old ways, it was something far older. The dragons had simply traded their scales for suits and their hoards for stock portfolios.
Lancelot crossed the marble lobby, the click of his shoes lost beneath the polished hum of the place. He nodded briefly to the receptionist, whose smile was too perfect to be human. "Leon Grant," he said evenly, flashing an identification badge forged with both code and charm. The scanner accepted it with a soft chime, its runes invisible to mortal eyes.
As he stepped into the elevator, he pressed his thumb against the call panel, tracing a sequence that shimmered for only a heartbeat before fading. The elevator began to descend, silent and impossibly smooth.
"Aria," he murmured.
Her voice filtered through the comm, low and precise. "Connected. The network's tougher than last time. They've reinforced their core firewalls with a magical lattice. It's half spell, half quantum lock."
"Then it should feel familiar," he said.
"Familiar doesn't mean easy. Stay sharp. If the AI identifies you as a foreign presence, it'll trigger the internal wards."
He glanced at his reflection in the elevator's mirrored wall. "I'm always sharp."
The descent slowed. The doors opened to reveal a corridor bathed in soft blue light. The air smelled faintly metallic, humming with quiet power. The walls were seamless — an alloy infused with protection sigils hidden just beneath the surface. Drones hovered near the ceiling, their red sensors sweeping back and forth in silent rhythm.
Lancelot walked forward, his presence measured, his movements deliberate. He could feel the ancient aura that clung to the place — faint traces of dragon magic interwoven with the precision of human engineering. The deeper he went, the stronger it became.
At the corridor's end stood a vault door, a fusion of science and sorcery. The circular frame pulsed with embedded glyphs, responding to the energy of whoever approached. He knelt by the control panel, producing a device the size of a dagger's hilt, engraved with Celtic runes that glowed faintly when his fingers brushed them.
"Ready when you are," he said quietly.
"Patching in," Aria replied. The device flickered, projecting a stream of holographic sigils as her system interfaced with the network. The hum of the building changed, deepened. "They've noticed us. Layered defense sequence. Stay steady."
The corridor dimmed as the vault's defenses awakened — rotating patterns of light and sound that rippled like a heartbeat through the air. Sparks flared as the device began to overload.
"Aria—"
"Almost there."
The lights surged, and then — silence. The vault door groaned and slowly slid open. A gust of chilled air swept past him, carrying the scent of something ancient — stone, smoke, and something darker, like the breath of a sleeping god.
Inside, the Amulet of Power hovered above a pedestal carved from black crystal. Its glow filled the chamber in waves, the colors shifting from deep crimson to pale gold. The light wasn't just illumination; it was alive, aware.
Lancelot stepped forward, feeling the pull before he touched it. His hand trembled, a rare crack in his composure. For a moment, he thought he heard whispers — fragments of voices long dead: Arthur's command, Guinevere's laughter, the solemn hymns of the Round Table.
Merlin's voice slipped through the air like a thought given form. The amulet knows intent. Do not approach it as a thief. Claim it as one who bears the burden of purpose.
He hesitated only a second more, then reached out. The light exploded around him, filling the chamber with a blinding radiance. Images tore through his mind — Camelot burning, knights falling, the sea swallowing Avalon. And through it all, Arthur's eyes, clear as the sky, filled not with anger but sorrow.
When the vision ended, he was kneeling, breath ragged, the amulet heavy in his palm. Its surface pulsed against his skin like a living thing. He rose slowly, slipping it over his head. The metal — if it could be called that — warmed to his touch, the chain sealing itself like a vow.
"Aria," he said softly, "it's done."
"Confirmed. I'm locking down the traces now. You've got maybe sixty seconds before their systems reboot."
"Plenty," he replied. But his eyes stayed fixed on the amulet's glow, the light flickering in rhythm with his heartbeat.
Far away, in the depths of his crystalline sanctum, Merlin stood over a pool of liquid light. Aria's reflection hovered beside him, her features strained.
"It's reacting to him," she said. "Almost like it recognizes him."
"It does," Merlin murmured. "Lancelot has always carried a piece of its design."
"Or its curse," she countered.
"Every gift worth having carries one."
The surface of the pool rippled, showing Lancelot leaving the vault, the amulet's glow hidden beneath his shirt. "He'll need time to adapt," Merlin said. "The alliance with the dragons will come next."
"And if the amulet rejects him?"
Merlin's gaze darkened. "Then it will consume him. Either way, the outcome serves the purpose."
Rain had begun to fall again when Lancelot stepped back onto the street. The tower of Draconis Industries gleamed behind him, its glass walls reflecting streaks of lightning. The city moved on, oblivious to the theft that had just reshaped destiny.
He walked aimlessly for a while, letting the storm soak through his coat. The air smelled of concrete and distant thunder. In the blur of headlights, he caught glimpses of ordinary life — two lovers sheltering beneath a single umbrella, a child pressing a hand against a toy store window, a violinist playing an old tune on the corner. For an instant, the melody pierced through the noise, stirring memories of a song once played in Camelot's great hall.
The amulet throbbed faintly against his chest. Its warmth spread, not comforting but possessive, like fingers tightening around his heart. He closed his eyes, hearing a whisper not in words but in sensation — power, control, inevitability. He took a deep breath and exhaled. "If this is the price," he murmured, "so be it."
High above, lightning forked across the clouds.
In the crystal cave, Aria watched him through the scrying pool, unease creeping into her voice. "He's changing already. The resonance between them is unstable."
Merlin turned from the vision, his expression unreadable. "Change is inevitable. Evolution always begins with imbalance."
"You're playing with forces that even you don't fully understand."
"Understanding is irrelevant. Control is what matters."
Aria hesitated, then whispered, "You sound less like a mentor and more like a king."
Merlin's eyes flicked toward her, the faintest shadow of a smile on his lips. "Every kingdom needs one."
The rain thickened, a curtain of silver between the streets and the stars. Lancelot moved through it like a phantom, the pulse of the amulet steady beneath his shirt. Somewhere, far away, Arthur stirred — drawn by a presence he couldn't yet name.
Part II — The Fires Beneath the Storm
Lancelot did not stop walking. The storm had swallowed the city whole, drowning the neon under rivers of light. Tires hissed over the pavement, horns blared in the distance, and every window reflected some ghost of his past life — a thousand versions of himself walking the same street in different centuries. The amulet beat like a second heart against his chest, leading him forward with an instinct older than thought.
His path carried him away from the heart of the metropolis to its ragged edge — where the lights ended, and the dark began. A forgotten airfield waited there, carved into cliffs that overlooked the restless sea. The old runways shimmered faintly under the rain, traced with residual sigils from the days when dragons once landed here in their true forms.
Lancelot adjusted the collar of his coat, feeling the sting of salt in the air as he crossed the cracked tarmac. Ahead, a hangar stood alive with quiet energy. Its roof glimmered with protective wards that bent the lightning away, and beneath its eaves, a man waited — tall, motionless, and wrong in a way only the ancient can be.
Drakon.
Even in human form, his presence was monumental. His eyes burned faintly gold beneath the storm's reflection, and each breath seemed to disturb the rain, bending the air around him. When he spoke, it was with the resonance of fire echoing in a cavern.
"You walk on dangerous ground, human." His voice rolled through the wind like thunder. "Few are invited here."
Lancelot stopped a few paces away. "I didn't come uninvited," he said, his tone calm but deliberate. From his coat he drew a shard of crystal, pulsing faintly with blue flame — a relic inscribed with the runes of the Old Speech. "Merlin sent me."
Drakon's head tilted slightly. "Merlin." The name left his mouth like smoke. "I remember that one. The king-maker. The betrayer. Why does he seek the dragons now?"
Lancelot met the dragon's gaze without flinching. "Because he knows the world is shifting again. He offers you a chance to rise above the ashes this age has buried you in. Power. Protection. A seat at the new table that's coming."
The dragon's nostrils flared, amused and unimpressed. "You speak as if mortals hold dominion over fate. Tell me, knight — do you even understand what you carry around your neck?"
Lancelot's hand brushed the amulet beneath his shirt. The pulse quickened under his touch, answering to his thoughts like it recognized its own. "I understand enough," he said.
Drakon's eyes narrowed. "Then you understand the danger. That relic was forged before memory — from the bones of gods and the first fire of creation. Its power was never meant for human hands."
"And yet here we are," Lancelot replied quietly.
A low growl rumbled from the dragon's throat, though whether it was laughter or warning, Lancelot couldn't tell. "You sound like him," Drakon said. "The sorcerer who thought himself equal to the dawn."
Lancelot took a step closer, his boots splashing in the rain. "I don't think myself equal to anything," he said. "I think myself necessary. The world's changing whether you join us or not. Merlin offers alliance. You'd be wise to take it."
The air between them vibrated, rain freezing midair for half a heartbeat. Then Drakon exhaled, and time resumed. "Show me the proof of his promise."
Lancelot drew the amulet out fully. Its glow swelled, throwing molten light across the wet concrete. The sigils on the hangar's roof answered it, flaring to life in echo.
For a moment, the storm quieted — as if even nature itself bowed before the thing he held.
Drakon regarded the light with something that might have been reverence, or fear. "That power should have been lost to time," he murmured. "How did your master reclaim it?"
Lancelot said nothing. Merlin's voice answered for him — soft, disembodied, sliding through the sound of the rain like silk.
"Because time bends for those who remember how to listen."
Drakon's eyes flashed upward. The presence pressed in on him — not fully there, not entirely gone. The scent of lightning, the whisper of fire, and a single ripple through the fabric of reality announced Merlin's awareness.
"Still meddling in what you do not understand," Drakon said to the empty air.
Merlin's voice lingered, calm but iron-edged. "Understanding is a luxury. Survival is a necessity."
Drakon's jaw tightened. "And what happens when your necessity burns the world?"
Lancelot stepped between them, breaking the moment. "Then I'll make sure it burns in the right direction."
For a heartbeat, nothing moved. Then the dragon smiled — not kindly, but with the weary recognition of one predator acknowledging another.
"Very well, Sir Lancelot," Drakon said at last. "We will listen. But understand this: dragons bow to no man, not even your master. We will fight beside you — never beneath you."
"That's all Merlin asks," Lancelot said.
The rain lightened, and the hangar's inner lights flared, illuminating the others — Brimscythe, silver-haired and broad as stone; Veyra, whose amber eyes flickered like fire trapped in glass; and three more dragons cloaked in human shape. Their gazes were heavy with memory — ancient beings wearing suits like armor, still carrying the scent of mountains and sky.
Negotiations lasted hours. Words became weapons sharper than swords. Promises were drawn in circles of smoke and blood, every syllable measured, every vow spoken with the gravity of worlds.
When it was over, an accord had been struck — fragile as glass, powerful as wildfire.
As the dragons departed into the thinning rain, Drakon lingered. "Tell Merlin this," he said, voice low as thunder rolling across water. "If he betrays this pact, the fire he wields will turn on him. And there will be nowhere left in heaven or hell for him to hide."
Lancelot met his gaze. "Then we'll make sure there's no need for hiding."
Drakon studied him for a long moment. "You carry his ambition," he said softly. "But I see something else in you. Something that even he doesn't."
"What's that?"
"Doubt."
Lancelot's silence was answer enough.
When Drakon finally disappeared into the mist, Lancelot stood alone at the edge of the cliff. The sea below was restless, each wave striking the rocks like a heartbeat. He stayed there for a long time, feeling the wind tear at his coat and the rain wash the blood and grime from his hands.
The amulet burned faintly against his chest, not in warning but in reminder — of duty, of consequence, of how far he had already fallen into the shadow of Merlin's design. He wondered if there was still a line between loyalty and blindness, and if he had already crossed it.
The rain eased to a whisper. The hangar's lights dimmed behind him. In the distance, the city breathed — unaware of the forces gathering just beyond its borders.
Lancelot turned his gaze toward that sleeping skyline, the glow of its towers flickering like embers waiting to be fanned into flame. Somewhere out there, the next move in this long war was already being set in motion.
And when it came, he would be ready — or he would be consumed.