Before they set out, Morgan managed to prepare a simple breakfast—scrambled eggs, something vaguely resembling bacon, and a small assortment of fresh fruit. The warm food felt like a small comfort, a fragile thread to normalcy in the shadow of what was to come.

Once they finished eating, Morgan began mixing strange liquids in glass bottles, each glowing with a different hue. The colors flickered softly, from deep violet to shimmering emerald, some swirling like living smoke within their confines.

“What’s all that for?” Alaric asked, raising an eyebrow, watching her carefully.

“Well,” Morgan said with a mischievous grin, “sometimes chanting a spell takes too long, or it’s too risky to say it out loud. So, I created these potions. They can make someone sleep, float, or even forget—among other things.”

Alaric nodded slowly, hoping he’d never find himself on the receiving end of one.

“Just let me know when you’re ready,” he said, watching as Morgan secured the last bottle to a leather belt around her waist. They flickered like candle flames, inky black, vibrant green, soft purples—each promising power and mystery.

“Ready!” Morgan exclaimed at last.

They stepped toward the door together. The moment their hands touched the cold knob, the world around them began to ripple and shift. Unlike before, when the forest had simply materialized, this time the shattered ruins of Alaric’s manor slowly coalesced into form.

“Why did we end up here?” Alaric asked, furrowing his brow. “I thought the door just led to the forest?”

Morgan grinned broadly. “If you must know,” she said, “the door leads to wherever you’re thinking of.”

Alaric blinked, surprised. Had his thoughts really been so powerful? Shaking off the strange feeling, he faced what remained of his home. The once-grand manor was now little more than charred rubble and ash.

“Father’s study was on the second floor, a few doors past my mother’s room,” Alaric said quietly.

Morgan looked around at the blackened remains, then raised her hands. “I can try to reverse the damage—just for a short time—so we can look around. But we have to be quick.”

She chanted softly, “Reverse statum loci huias, donec tempus est abrumpere!”

The earth beneath them trembled. Slowly, debris shifted and rose, piece by piece reassembling the manor before their eyes. Walls rebuilt themselves, windows shimmered into clarity, and the manor stood once more—whole and untouched by fire.

“Let’s hurry,” Morgan urged. “The spell won’t last more than a few hours.”

Alaric pushed open the restored front doors. The interior was immaculate—the grand chandelier swayed gently overhead, familiar paintings hung on the walls, and the velvet carpet softened each step on the staircase.

“Lead the way,” Morgan whispered, breaking Alaric from his reverie.

They climbed the stairs quietly, creeping down the long hallway. Alaric paused at a door.

“I used to try and sneak in here,” he murmured. “Father never locked it. I think he left it open so he could visit Mother’s room...” His voice faltered, eyes misting. He wiped them quickly. “Let’s keep moving.”

Finally, they reached the study—two massive wooden panels carved with intricate sword imagery.

“Alaric, that’s the sword!” Morgan suddenly exclaimed, pointing at the left door.

“Are you sure?” Alaric asked, doubtful.

“Yes! It looked just like that!”

Alaric chuckled. “Morgan, your knowledge of swords is... lacking. That sword is part of our family’s history. It’s been lost for centuries and was rumored to be Excalibur—the sword the Lady of the Lake gave to King Arthur.”

Morgan tilted her head in confusion. “What about the other sword?” she asked, pointing to the right door. “It looks the same, but the gem is triangular instead of round, and the inscription says Gladius Magus instead of Gladius Regis.”

Alaric frowned. “That one... I don’t know much about it. It was said to belong to a powerful mage. Both swords were supposedly forged together, but Father only ever made me study the first.”

He turned the knob and stepped inside. “You coming?”

Morgan hesitated, then followed him into the study—only to freeze in shock. The room was chaos: papers scattered, books in disarray, the desk rummaged through as if someone had been searching frantically.

“I thought your spell restored everything?” Alaric asked.

“I did. Which means... this was how the room looked before the fire,” Morgan said, unease creeping into her voice.

They carefully stepped over piles of parchment toward the desk. Alaric picked up a sheet covered in strange symbols.

“Do you recognize this language?” he asked.

Morgan squinted. “It looks... familiar, but I can’t place it.”

Suddenly, Alaric pointed to another page. “This one shows a sword in a lake! That must be the Lady of the Lake—it matches the stories!”

His face lit up with boyish excitement, like he was glimpsing a long-lost fairy tale come to life.

“We should search for this sword, Morgan,” he said firmly. “I think Father was trying to find it—and now it’s our turn to finish what he started.”

Before Morgan could answer, footsteps echoed down the hall.

They froze.

The study doors creaked open.

“I thought you said this place burned down,” a gruff voice called.

“I-It did. I was here the night it happened,” another voice replied—one that sent a chill down Alaric’s spine.

“Do you think we’ll find anything in this mess?” a woman’s voice asked.

Morgan nudged Alaric sharply and mouthed, Time!

His eyes widened. The spell was running out.

Morgan’s hand slipped to a bottle at her belt. She gave Alaric a signal—a silent promise that she was ready.

Alaric crawled forward as quietly as possible, Morgan close behind. From behind the desk, they peeked out.

Four strangers were rifling through the room.

Alaric gasped—one had a crooked nose. One of the men from that night—the one who had been with Kirt.

“That’s the boy!” the crooked-nosed man shouted. “The one Kirt was looking for!”

All eyes snapped to Alaric, who stood frozen.

“You shouldn’t have come back here, boy,” sneered the woman. She was short, blonde, and wore tall black boots and a bright red shirt. A dagger glinted in her hand as she twirled it expertly.

“Don’t let him escape this time!” barked the gruff man. Tall, dark-haired, wearing an eyepatch over one eye, he raised a crossbow and aimed it directly at Alaric.

Alaric backed away, scanning desperately for the fourth stranger—but they were nowhere to be seen.

Just as Morgan began to rise, a rough hand yanked her backward by the hair.

She winced, meeting Alaric’s wide, panicked gaze.

How were they going to get out of this?