The forced, fragile revelry in the Hall of the Stone Table was broken not by a trumpet fanfare or a siege horn, but by the sound of desperation: the grinding, unequal rhythm of crippled footsteps on the polished basalt.
Every head turned. The minstrel's music faltered and died.
A figure stumbled into the pool of torchlight, a Knight of the Round Table, identifiable only by the shattered remnants of his gold-and-vermilion armour. His shield arm hung uselessly, his gauntlet had been ripped clean away, and the left side of his breastplate was peeled back like a metallic flower, exposing the raw, crimson ruin beneath. He was bleeding freely, staining the great stone floor as he dragged himself toward the dais where Arthur sat, his eyes wide with a terror that surpassed any mortal wound.
"Your Highness…" the Knight gasped, his voice a strained, wet rasp. He tried to kneel, failed, and collapsed heavily onto one knee, the impact of his remaining armour echoing painfully in the suddenly silent hall. "Our patrol… our troops came across things… people... hunting the kin of the Green, hunting the Fairies in the Great Forest."
He fought for breath, the words tasting like copper and ash. "We tried to intercede. To stop them. But they attacked us… with a fury, a power unnatural to men. They… they had… s-some sort of power. And their eyes… their eyes, Your Grace, they had red flames pouring out of them."
Arthur, who had been listening with rigid composure, the blood draining visibly from his face, now pushed himself back slightly from the table. The festive veneer of the banquet shattered completely, exposing the raw, terrifying truth of the council they had just concluded. He stared at the exhausted, bleeding man, the words "red-eyed beings" hammering against his mind, matching the chilling prophecies Merlin had delivered only hours before. This was not the Shadow-Brood; this was something closer, something born of corruption.
"The First Reaver," Azura whispered, but the fox-mask muffled the sound, and only Aza and Mel, standing closest, heard the terrible confirmation.
The silence that followed was broken not by Arthur, but by the cool, definitive click of a weapon being readied. Kai, the Prime of Law, stood fully upright, his bronze lion mask unwavering. He had abandoned his casual stance by the fire, and now moved with purpose, placing his large hands into the deep pockets of his heavy coat—pockets that were rumored to be dimensional spaces holding an arsenal forged in the first age.
"So, what are we waiting for?" Kai asked, his voice entirely calm, entirely ruthless, cutting through the hall's panic like a razor thread. "Permission to march? To bury their corpses? Those demons are not going to rid themselves of their vile existence by mere wishing, Pendragon. Action is the only antidote to poison."
Aron, the Tiger-Masked Prime, stepped forward, his calm a heavier, more resonant force than Kai's zeal. He assessed the Knight's wounds, the King's fear, and the scattered fear of the court. He knew Kai was right; every second of delay was a concession to Chaos.
"Quiet, Kai," Aron commanded softly, but with absolute finality. He turned to Arthur. "King, this is not a battle for your brave men. This is the seed of the calamity we spoke of. You will seal the hall and ensure no one leaves Camelot until we return. The integrity of your seat is now paramount."
He then looked to his cohort. "We shall be on our way. Alex, Kai, Ophilia, and I will go. Aza, Azura, and Melentha—you three will remain here. Stand sentinel on the gates. The threat may be a distraction designed to breach the core."
There was no disagreement. When Aron spoke with that tone, the Primes were soldiers again, instantly slotting into formation. Alexandra, the Prime of War, was already moving, her greatsword—which was less a weapon and more a slab of iron etched with runes—already strapped to her back. Kai nodded his fierce, bronze-lion assent, ready for the violence he craved.
The final figure to move was Ophilia. She was the Prime of Nature and Growth, the silent protector of the wild places, and the kin of the forest creatures now under attack. Her mask was the sharp, elegant head of a hawk, and as she heard the full horror of the Knight's words—hunting the Fairies—a terrifying, volatile transformation began.
Her hawk mask, which had been cast in brilliant white porcelain and laced with flowing gold filigree, suddenly began to darken. It did not fade or dull; the white and gold was consumed by a spreading, terrifying black, until the entire mask was the colour of pitch, the gold accents reduced to barely visible, fiery scars. Her aura, usually soft and verdant, became a palpable sheath of concentrated, destructive fury.
Her people. What right did these creatures have to lay hands upon the ancient, hidden kin of the forest? Her anger was a pure, unalloyed thing, born not of politics but of primal, territorial rage. What had they wanted with the fairies? Their magic? Their blood?
The four figures moved with urgent speed, leaving the shocked court and the wounded knight behind. They were quickly through the upper wards and into a discreet, enclosed courtyard used only for official departures.
Aron did not waste time with the great, slow-moving gates of Camelot. Stopping only in the center of the courtyard, the Tiger-Masked Prime lifted a single hand. The air around them began to thrum and vibrate, the raw energy of the earth—the stored power of the ley lines—being violently twisted and warped by his will. With a sound like a distant, impossible thunderclap and the blinding flash of white-blue light, Aron used his magic to rip open a shimmering, vertical tear in reality—a portal that would take them straight into the heart of the Fairy Forest.
The air on the other side was immediately colder, sharper, and filled with the scent of pine and something far darker: the metallic, acrid scent of ozone and spilled ichor. They stepped out of the shimmering gate, which instantly sealed itself behind them, and came immediately upon a sight of catastrophic, heart-breaking tragedy.
They had arrived in a wide, once-sacred clearing. The ancient, impossible great Fairy Tree—the arboreal heart of this domain, which had stood for ten millennia—was not merely damaged. It was brutally, systematically shattered. Its immense, white trunk was split open, blackened by cold fire, and its great, silvery branches lay scattered like the broken bones of a giant across the forest floor. Next to it, the delicate, soaring structure of the Fairy Tower, built entirely of woven light and polished river stones, had been pulverized, reduced to rubble and glittering, crushed dust.
The devastation was thorough, almost ceremonial in its violence.
Ophilia, her pitch-black hawk mask obscuring the raging fire in her eyes, stopped dead. The destruction of the tree and tower was an assault upon her own ancient core. It was the deepest act of blasphemy against her domain.
"When I get my hands on those demons," Ophilia spat, her voice tight and low, vibrating with controlled, lethal power that cracked the earth beneath her boots. "They will be in a new kind of hell. They will pray to the Outer Reaches for a quick death, and they will receive neither mercy nor rest."
"Cool it, Prime," Kai interrupted instantly, his voice carrying a note of real, unsettling seriousness. He was already scanning the forest edge, his hands now resting lightly on the handles of two long, heavy daggers pulled from his coat pockets. "You're starting to scare me, and believe me when I say I'm never afraid. We need focus, not fury. Rage is a clumsy tool for the precise work ahead."
"Kai is right," Aron agreed, stepping past the enraged Ophilia. He approached the broken remains of the Fairy Tree, examining the strange, crystalline wounds left in the ancient wood. "You need to stay calm, Ophilia. Uncontrolled power draws attention, and we are hunting shadows. We will find these demons and retrieve your people. But first, we need to gather what intelligence we can, and then we need to get back to the others so we can sort this together."
The four Primes conducted a swift, silent survey of the wreckage. There was no one in sight, not even the faint residual scent of the attackers' magic. They were ghosts, leaving behind only the wreckage and the chilling signature of a power that felt terrifyingly familiar to Mel's family legacy. With a final, shared look of cold resolve, Aron opened a new portal, and the reconnaissance team stepped back into the relative chaos of Camelot.
Meanwhile, at the heavily guarded main gate of Camelot, the remaining three Primes maintained their cold, silent vigil. It was the beginning of the Full Moon Festival, which meant the air was clear, and the great, flawless disc of the moon hung high and cold in the deep indigo sky, pouring down a liquid, silvery light that turned the dark stone walls into pale, haunted monuments.
Aza, Melentha, and Azura stood on the battlements overlooking the lower bailey and the massive iron gate. Aza, the Dragon-Masked Prime, stood nearest the parapet, her bronze mask reflecting the moonlight in chilling highlights. She was utterly still, listening not to the silence of the night, but to the subtle, almost inaudible shifts in the flow of ambient magic across the land.
Azura stood next to her. Her small, finely detailed mask was the head of a silver and gold fox, fitting her nature as a creature of subtle wisdom and quiet, intense observation. Her pointy, elfin ears—a rare visible trait of her pure, deep lineage—protruded slightly from beneath the mask's hood, twitching at every gust of wind. Her light blue eyes, wide and unnervingly bright, seemed to gather the moonlight, competing with the lunar glare as she gazed fixedly into the empty, frozen valley beyond the walls. She was seeing far more than the King's battlements and the frozen forest; she was reading the unfolding, predetermined future.
"When do you think the others are coming back?" Mel asked her, her voice conversational, trying to dispel the suffocating silence. Mel wore a simple, unadorned mask of polished mahogany, symbolizing the Balance she desperately sought, but it could not hide the anxiety in her movements. She paced a short distance along the wall, her energy restless.
Azura remained completely still, her fox mask pointed toward the east, toward the direction of the coming storm. She stayed quiet, said nothing, offered no prophecy, and shared no comfort. Azura was notoriously quiet; she only spoke when compelled by the gods or the terrifying certainty of the future. The others, used to her intense, withdrawn nature, did not mind her silence, understanding it as a form of sacred protection.
Mel, on the other hand, loved to make conversations, to fill the voids with human sound, to distract herself from the chilling, cold weight of her brother's shadow.
"I hate this waiting," Mel confessed to the empty air, turning to face Aza's silent, unmoving dragon mask. "It feels like the true battle is already decided, and we're just here, holding the door open for the inevitable slaughter. My brother… his touch is already on this land. The red flame in their eyes—that is his calling card, isn't it, Aza? The chaos, the senseless destruction… it's him."
Aza shifted, finally breaking her rigid posture, and turned her mask slightly toward Mel. "It is the signature of his work, yes," she confirmed, her voice a low, dry murmur. "But even the First Reaver is not foolish enough to show his true hand yet. This is a testing. He seeks to break the will of this kingdom, to sever the connections between Arthur's court and the wild magic. He seeks to draw out Aron and Kai, leaving the heart of the kingdom unguarded."
She pointed a gauntleted hand toward the valley below. "See the beauty of the moon, Mel? The festival is upon us. Chaos thrives on belief and despair. If they can destroy the very idea of hope—the fairies, the gentle magic—they create a vacuum. And into that vacuum, they pour the burning shadow."
Mel looked at the distant, silent figure of Azura, whose eyes were fixed on the sky. "And what does the little prophet say of all this?" she asked softly.
Azura suddenly let out a small, chilling gasp. She did not look at Mel. Her gaze was still locked on the distant horizon, but the light in her blue eyes seemed to intensify, momentarily eclipsing the moon's soft glow.
"It is done," Azura whispered, the first words she had spoken all night, her voice thin and high, laced with genuine fear. "The cost has been paid."
A sudden, sharp flash of silver light tore the air far above the forest, a silent explosion of arcane energy that signaled the return of Aron's team. A moment later, a great, booming sound of thunder, the residue of the portal's closing, rolled across the distant hills and echoed against the walls of Camelot. They were back, but Azura's chilling pronouncement suggested they had paid a steep, immediate price.