The survivors' camp, nestled within the protective magic of the Magus Order, thrummed with an energy born of both relief and lingering sorrow. Makeshift tents and lean-to shelters sprawled in deliberate disarray—a sanctuary for those who had escaped the inferno of Charlevoix. For a moment, Albion paused amid the subdued chaos, absorbing the familiar faces, each a silent testament to resilience. These were the people he'd sworn to protect, souls who had danced with death and yet found life to fight another day.

As Albion, Winston, Becca, and Sebastian advanced toward the heart of the camp, the murmur of conversation hushed, replaced by a ripple of recognition. Eyes, wide with both disbelief and gratitude, turned toward Vicar Sebastian. In that charged moment, every survivor's face shone with relief, their reunion a fragile triumph over the flames.

"Vicar Sebastian!" a voice called out, echoing through the gathered throng.

An elderly woman surged forward, tears streaming freely as she grasped Sebastian's hand. "We thought… we thought you were lost in Charlevoix. That you hadn't made it." Her voice cracked with emotion—a raw mix of fear and overwhelming relief.

Sebastian's composed demeanor melted into quiet vulnerability. "I couldn't let that happen," he murmured, his tone imbued with a fierce protective love. "I swore to guard you all."

Around him, more survivors stepped into the circle—kneeling, bowing their heads, their voices joining in a chorus of gratitude and blessings. In that moment, the bond between the Vicar and his people crystallized into something enduring and unbreakable.

From amid the crowd, two figures emerged with purposeful strides. Thalia and Sicily, their expressions solemn yet emboldened by admiration, halted before Albion. Thalia's eyes shone not only with the weight of the past but with pride as she regarded Winston. "Albion," she began, her voice steady and resolute, "we owe you—and Winston—a debt beyond words. His unwavering skill and calm resolve have saved us more times than we can count."

Sicily nodded, her smile softening the hardened lines of battle. "Your prowess in combat, Winston, inspires us. We pledge not only our loyalty to Avalon and Charlevoix, but also our eagerness to learn from the very best." Her gaze lingered on him with a mix of respect and quiet admiration.

Winston's arms, crossed in a familiar stance, softened into a grin. "Train you, huh? Well, you'll have to keep up with me. But I have no doubt we'll make it work." His tone held both challenge and warmth, inviting them into the fold.

In the midst of this heartfelt reunion, Guildmaster Rahl—Mako—approached with hesitant steps. His face was drawn tight with guilt and a heavy burden of regret. As he neared, his eyes widened in disbelief at the sight before him: Winston and Sebastian standing side by side, their camaraderie a testament to battles fought and bonds forged. Overcome by a raw surge of emotion, Grandmaster Mako's eyes brimmed with tears. In that vulnerable instant, the hardened leader wept openly, his tears a silent ode to the two he considered his own sons—a poignant acknowledgment of his failures and hopes for redemption.

"Becca, Winston…" Mako's voice cracked, each word trembling with unspoken pain. "I… I was a coward. I lost you, Winston. I wasn't strong enough to protect you, or the town. I failed… I failed all of you."

Winston stepped forward, his hand finding Mako's shoulder in a gesture that was both firm and forgiving. "You didn't fail, Mako. You did what you had to in a time of desperate need. Charlevoix may be gone, but its spirit—and these people—live on. You're still here, still fighting."

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Mako's tears flowed freely as he whispered, "I… I'll do better. I promise, I'll fight harder."

A murmur of relief and renewed hope rippled through the crowd as the tension lifted. Cheers erupted—a symphony of survival and gratitude that seemed to momentarily drown out the ghosts of destruction. Yet even in this fleeting joy, Albion sensed a shadow lurking at the periphery—a subtle, dissonant note that hinted at a threat waiting in the wings.

Later, as the celebration waned and the campfires cast long, dancing shadows, Albion gathered Sebastian, Winston, and Becca away from the jubilant throng. In a quiet enclave near the camp's edge, the soft hum of the survivors offered a fragile backdrop to their somber planning.

Albion's tone was measured as he addressed Sebastian. "I need you to take us to Charlevoix—the gate near Lake Ire. We must open the Rift again, as I did at Stonehenge. I have to find the Pendragon sigil."

Sebastian's brow furrowed in thought. "The Pendragon sigil?" he echoed, already knowing the unyielding determination in Albion's eyes.

Albion nodded. "It's said to lie with my father's grave on Earth. Nimue told me it's essential. To wield Excalibur fully, I must reclaim it."

A brief silence followed, heavy with the implications of Albion's quest. Becca's gentle voice broke the quiet. "You know we're coming with you, right? You're not venturing forth alone."

Winston's gaze, usually light and teasing, now bore a somber resolve. "We're with you, Albion. No matter what it takes."

A warm smile spread over Albion's face as he acknowledged their loyalty. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

Sebastian, his expression a mask of deep concentration, finally spoke. "I can take us there. The gate at Lake Ire still stands, even after all that transpired in Charlevoix. But this journey—it will require every ounce of strength we have. Prepare yourselves."

Albion's hand rested firmly on Sebastian's shoulder in silent gratitude. "Thank you. This is vital. We must press on."

With a measured nod, Sebastian closed his eyes and summoned the ancient power. The air shimmered, reality warping as space itself bent under his command. For a heartbeat, Albion thought he saw a fleeting shadow—a reminder that unseen forces might be tracking their every move. Then, as quickly as it appeared, the vision faded.

Yet the whisper of it—the lurking malice—lingered in the back of Albion's mind, like a phantom fingerprint pressed against his soul.

In an instant, the group found themselves on the shores of Lake Ire. The ethereal glow of twin moons bathed the water, their light intermingling with the haunting ruins of Charlevoix in the distance. Albion stepped forward, his heartbeat echoing the ancient rhythm of the runes that now pulsed on his forearm.

He raised his hand and whispered, "Excalibur," as the air around him buzzed with raw energy. The runes flared, spiraling upward into a portal framed in luminous blue. Through it, Albion caught sight of the timeless landscape of Stonehenge—the ancient stones standing as silent witnesses beneath a sky streaked with rain clouds and mystery. Turning to his friends with a wry grin, Albion quipped, "Looks like I'm making an entrance."

Becca's soft chuckle was the only reply, the ease of humor mingling with an undercurrent of apprehension. With the portal's glow casting strange, dancing patterns on his face, Albion stepped through—aware, if only for a moment, of that lingering shadow that hinted their trials were far from over.

Within seconds, Albion stood on the rain-drenched platform of the Stonehenge train station. The damp chill of the morning air mingled with the steady drum of rain against the ancient stones. As he paused to steady himself, his thoughts churned—a maelstrom of hope, trepidation, and an almost imperceptible sense of foreboding. A mysterious figure, cloaked in the early fog and marked by an archaic symbol, lingered in the distance, a silent omen that his journey would prove even more perilous than he dared imagine.

Taking a deep breath, Albion drew Excalibur from its scabbard, the enchanted steel hissing as the rain kissed its glowing runes. His eyes narrowed with resolve. "San Francisco," he murmured to himself—a single word that carried the weight of legacy, destiny, and a search for truth buried deep within his own past. With the portal's light fading behind him and the promise something new ahead, Albion looked through the glass of a red phone booth into the rain-soaked streets of Stamford. "Welcome to London," he muttered under his breath, his mind alight with purpose and the haunting knowledge that a step forward was both a reckoning and a rebirth. Far off in the mist, the figure moved — not toward him, but into the shadows — as if daring Albion to follow.

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