To Intervene Or Not To Intervene
The Round Table flickered, its ethereal chamber adrift in the void between time and space. Shadows and light twisted across the vast, translucent floor, mirroring the chaos below.
A battlefield stretched beneath them—jagged earth, blackened skies, and the relentless clash of steel against bone.
Mercenaries, adventurers, and scholars formed the last line of defense before their dwindling sanctuary, a long-forgotten keep with walls of crumbling stone. A towering orc wove between the undead, her twin axes carving through skeletal warriors in a whirlwind of steel. A goblin darted between the fray, snarling a taunt that drew hollow-eyed ghouls toward her. A wolf-kin archer loosed her arrow, its steel tip piercing a ribcage and snapping the spine in two. Nearby, an elf’s voice rose in arcane command, her magic streaking across the battlefield—fire searing through rotting flesh, ice splintering bone.
Yet for every foe felled, more rose—clawed hands dragging themselves from the ashen soil, empty sockets fixed hungrily on the living.
At the heart of the horde, a necrotic lich loomed, its withered form draped in tattered robes. Hollow eyes burned with violet fire. A grotesque staff, crowned with a mummified skull, lifted high, channeling the weight of death itself into the silent command. The tide of the dead surged forward.
The Round Table trembled.
A thunderous crack shattered the chamber’s hush as Karnak’s colossal fist struck the table. The battlefield map flickered, distorting under the force of his fury.
"Good riddance!" His molten eyes blazed like smoldering coals. His voice rumbled, deep and final. "Let them all die as they deserve."
Camelyn flinched, her satin dress rustling as she turned to face him. The light in her eyes flickered, a candle against the storm. But she did not retreat.
"Let them die?" Her voice was soft but unwavering. "Is that what Grant would do? Would he just watch?"
Karnak’s fury did not fade—it shifted, simmering into something darker, a slow and seething boil.
Theia did not move. Did not flinch.
Her thousand eyes shimmered, each reflecting a different future—some bright, most dark. In the chaos below, she saw every possibility, every outcome.
"Intervention comes with a price," she murmured. "If we act too soon, we may undo everything."
Silence. A single heartbeat stretched thin.
Karnak’s massive chest rose and fell, heat radiating from him in waves. His jaw clenched. "Then what is your answer, Oracle? Do we do nothing?"
Camelyn’s hands tightened around her teacup, porcelain trembling against her grip. Below, a panther-kin staggered, a rusted spear lodged deep in his gut. A tiger-kin warrior yanked him back, blood streaming from a gash in her arm. The undead pressed harder. The archway behind them cracked, its ancient stone crumbling with every passing second.
"If we wait, we won’t have anyone left to save," Camelyn whispered.
Theia exhaled, slow and measured. The battlefield teetered on the knife’s edge, poised between survival and utter ruin.
"Then let us act," she said at last, "but not in a way that brings ruin."
Below, the battlefield shifted. A gnome scholar, robes tattered and smeared with dirt, screamed as a skeletal juggernaut pressed him into the ground. His arcane barriers flickered, runes failing under the weight of jagged claws scraping against them. Desperation clung to his ragged breath.
A massive ogre barreled forward, swinging a crude club. The juggernaut staggered. Then, a battle-worn dwarf lunged, hammer crashing into the undead beast’s knee with a sickening crunch. The creature buckled. In the next instant, a fox-kin and a sylvani unleashed a storm of magic—arcs of lightning and searing fire shredding the juggernaut apart. Bone splintered, cascading like shattered glass.
Karnak’s claws flexed, his molten gaze fixed on the chaos below. His voice, deep and rumbling, was barely contained wrath. “This place has suffered enough at their hands. Purification is the only answer.”
Theia did not blink. “Perhaps.” Her voice was smooth, deliberate. “But if we destroy, then what is left to build upon?”
Karnak scoffed, eyes narrowing into smoldering slits. “Compassion is a weakness.” His fists clenched again, embers spilling from the cracks between his fingers.
Theia’s thousand eyes blinked in eerie unison. The chamber grew heavy, her presence thickening like the weight of an oncoming storm. “Compassion is a foundation,” she intoned. “Without it, strength turns to ash.”
The flames surrounding Karnak flickered. Dimmed. His stance remained rigid, muscles coiled like steel cables. He glared at Theia, the fire in his chest roaring against her words. He wanted to argue. To deny. But he could not.
Theia did not press further. She simply turned, her gaze shifting back to the battlefield, watching, waiting. Calculating.
A breath cut through the tension. Camelyn, who had remained silent, exhaled sharply. Relief flickered in her golden eyes, though unease still lingered. The battle was not over. And neither was the war between power and restraint.
Camelyn surged forward, the golden trim of her gothic lolita dress flaring as she reached for the battlefield projection. With a swift motion, she waved her palm over the shimmering image, and the blurred dots sharpened into agonizing clarity.
An elven mage stood at the breaking point—her form trembling, robes singed and tattered, hands barely holding onto the last dying flickers of mana. The ghouls sensed it—predators circling a wounded foe. Hollow eyes gleamed, skeletal fingers clawing at the edge of her flickering barrier, testing its failing strength.
Nearby, a female orc was a whirlwind of motion, her axes carving through undead flesh. But her breath came in ragged gasps, her movements slowing. Blood streaked her arms—some hers, some not. She fought not to win, but to buy time.
A female hobgoblin jeered, drawing the ghouls’ attention. The moment they turned, a panther-kin darted through, scooping up the faltering elf and draping her over his shoulder. Daggers and arrows whizzed past his body as a wolf-kin and tiger-kin covered him, their shots striking true.
The adventurers—mercenaries, scholars, and survivors—held the line, forming a protective ring around the wounded. But the cracks were forming. Too many injuries. Too many enemies. Their supposed refuge was turning into a mass grave.
Camelyn spun, eyes blazing. Golden energy crackled at her fingertips, the raw force so intense it splintered the teacup in her hand. Porcelain shards scattered like tiny stars. “Do you not see?” Her voice cut through the chamber, sharp and urgent. “They’re fighting! They haven’t given up! Why won’t we help?”
Theia remained motionless, standing at the center of the chamber, composed as ever. Her many eyes reflected the flickering possibilities before them. “Intervention must serve a purpose beyond immediate salvation.”
Camelyn’s pulse hammered in her ears. The air felt too thick, pressing against her lungs. Her fingers curled into fists, stray sparks dancing between them.
“They’ll die,” she whispered, her voice raw. “And if we stand here, doing nothing, it will be our fault.”
Silence.
Theia’s gaze remained steady. “And what follows?” Her voice was not unkind, but it was unyielding. “If we act recklessly—if we tip the balance too soon—what are the consequences?”
Consequences.
Camelyn’s breath hitched. Memories flashed—battles fought, lives lost, choices made too late. The weight of inaction was unbearable.
Her hands slammed onto the table’s edge, her knuckles turning white. Energy surged around her, raw and unfocused, pulsing like a heartbeat in her palms.
The toy tea set toppled, delicate plates and cups scattering across the floor.
“My lady…” Lenore gasped, quickly pulling a cloth from her sleeve to clean the imaginary spill, as if humbling Camelyn’s wild imagination.
Bartholomew cleared his throat. “This is unbecoming of you, my lady.” His voice held the quiet authority of a caretaker reprimanding a child. Without hesitation, he lifted Camelyn and placed her onto his shoulder—an undeniable act of discipline.
Theia stepped forward—not in challenge, but in understanding. A single, cool hand rested on Camelyn’s shoulder, steady and grounding.
“Calm yourself,” Theia murmured. “We must act in a way that serves the future, not just the moment.”
The battlefield flickered beneath them. The fragile line between survival and ruin shifted once more.
Camelyn exhaled sharply, but her porcelain face remained tense, her body still humming with the need to act. “But…”
“If I may, my lady.” Bartholomew’s voice cut through her protest. Camelyn hesitated, then gave a reluctant nod.
The mechanical knight opened his jaw, but the words that followed were not his own. They were the Beast Lord’s—a recorded memory, his voice echoing through the chamber.
“Bartholomew! Lenore, Theia, Karnak! Come look!”
“What!”“This better be important.”
“Hush now, Karnak.”“The Lord is speaking.”
“My lord… what is this?”
“This, my good friend… is a new construct I’ve developed.”
“A construct?”“Would it not be better to use the forge?”
“It would… but this one is different.”
A beat of silence.
“Different…?”
“How? Explain.”
“I call her… Camelyn. After Camelot.”
If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.
“Her?”
“Yes. She is sentient, independent—the Lady of the Castle.”
“What?!”
“Calm yourself, friend.”“She will embody everything that makes me human.”
A pause, the weight of his words settling.
“Remember… To embrace the monster within makes us human, but to acknowledge that beast… is to be alive. There is no right or wrong when it comes to existence. Only compassion and empathy. Karma is neither good nor bad—it is shaped by the actions we take… or the ones we choose to ignore.”
The recording faded, leaving only silence in its wake.
Camelyn sat still upon Bartholomew’s shoulder, her golden eyes clouded with thought.
They all heard those words before, they rememebr.
But hearing them now, as people fought for their lives, as their hands still trembled with helplessness—
Did they truly understand the meaning behind them?
An explosion tears through the battlefield—a blinding flash, a deafening boom. The shockwave rolls outward, scattering dust and bone, turning the undead ranks into smoking remnants. For a fleeting moment, cheers erupt.
Then... silence.
Then, impossibly, the broken remains begin to move.
Bones knit together, blackened tendons slither like worms to reconnect severed limbs, and hollow sockets gleam with unnatural fire. The undead do not charge. They do not retreat. They simply .
A thick, cloying stillness settles over the ruins. The air grows heavy, as though the very world is holding its breath.
At the crumbling overlook, Theia, Karnak, and Camelyn stand together, gazes locked onto the battlefield below.
Karnak grinds his teeth, his massive frame coiled like a spring. His instincts scream to act, to unleash havoc. But he does not move. .
Camelyn trembles, hands clasped over her mechanical heart. The old teachings battle against her instincts. But the fire in her veins demands action.
And Theia—Theia exhales softly. Then, unexpectedly, she .
“I understand,” she murmurs.
A slow, deliberate turn. Her countless eyes reflect the shifting battlefield, absorbing every flicker of movement.
Behind them, Bartholomew steps forward, his metal frame gleaming dully in the torchlight. His voice is steady, unshaken.
“The Beast Lord gave us purpose. Meaning. Life.”
He turns to Theia. “You are the overseer of his domain. The guiding hand. It is your duty .”
To Karnak. “You are the bastion. The seat of power. The last line of defense when she awakens.” A small incline of his head. “And awakened she has.”
To Camelyn. “You are the steward of the estate. It is your duty to show courtesy—to be a host when entertaining guests.”
To Lenore. “You are the Lady at Arms. It is your duty to ensure all armaments are prepared.”
And finally, Bartholomew lifts his chin. “And I am the Vanguard.”
A deep, thrumming vibration pulses through the ruins. Stone grinds against stone. Across the castle, ancient warriors stir. Some buried beneath the earth, others forgotten in shadowed corridors.
One by one, their eyes flicker to life.
The map pulses with an eerie, rhythmic glow,
casting shifting patterns across the cold stone chamber. Camelyn’s fingers
hover over the ethereal projection, the faintest touch sending ripples through
the shifting battlefield. Blue dots flicker weakly, struggling against the tide
of crimson, like dying stars consumed by an encroaching void.
Karnak stands motionless, the fire that burned in
his core moments ago now tempered into something colder—something sharper. His
molten eyes scan the battlefield, and then—recognition. It strikes like a
hammer to his chest.
Theia’s countless eyes shimmer in rapid
succession, each drinking in the shifting tides of fate, calculating what even
she cannot yet fully perceive.
Then, the map shudders.
A pulse of ancient energy ripples outward. Deep
within the ruins, forgotten sigils ignite—faint at first, flickering remnants
of a lost age, but growing stronger, responding to something that should not
exist.
Camelyn inhales sharply. “Look! Those
marks—something still lingers. Could it be…?”
Karnak’s jaw tightens, massive hands clenching
into stone-cracking fists. “Excalibur. Rhongomiant.” His voice is steel and
certainty. “The weapons of the Beast Lord.”
Theia exhales slowly, her whisper edged with
something dangerous. “They survived?” Her eyes darken, sharpen. “Then we cannot
allow them to fall into unworthy hands.”
Silence falls.
Then, Bartholomew moves. The silent observer
until now, he raises a single hand—unhurried, deliberate. A low hum resonates
from his core, golden glyphs spiraling outward, cascading like liquid light
across the chamber walls. The ruins respond. The very bones of the fortress
awaken at his command.
Beyond these walls, the first tremors begin.
Camelyn’s pulse pounds in her ears. Understanding
crashes over her like a tidal wave—raw, undeniable. Her trembling fingers press
against the battle map, tracing unseen pathways written in fate itself. A
whisper leaves her lips—a ritual, as old as the first Beast Lord, woven into
the foundation of this world.
The battlefield shifts.
Below, the tide of war halts, if only for a
moment. The hostile swarms flicker—white, yellow, and orange dimming,
uncertain—then slowly fade to a pulsing green. The adventurers, battered and
outnumbered, feel the weight ease from their shoulders. A reprieve. Temporary.
But enough.
The echoes of the past rise once more. And with
them, the first pieces of destiny begin to fall into place.
Karnak stalks the length of the Round Table, each
heavy step sending ripples across the floating battle map, the stone beneath
his feet trembling with his impatience. The map distorts and reforms, blue and
red lights flickering in response to his movement. His molten gaze remains
locked on the distant blue markers—small, fragile embers struggling against an
encroaching inferno.
He grinds his teeth. Every second they hesitate
is a second wasted.
Across the chamber, Theia stands motionless. Her
many eyes flicker in rhythmic succession, each one tracking a different thread
of fate. She does not merely observe the battlefield—she reads the unseen
forces that dictate its flow. The weave of destiny shifts beneath her gaze,
revealing what even Karnak’s brutal clarity cannot.
Far below, deep within the ruins, two legendary
weapons rest. Dormant. Waiting. Excalibur and Rhongomiant. Remnants of
an era long past. Sealed within the hands of scholars who do not yet understand
their worth. They slumber, their ancient wills untouched, their power
unclaimed.
Karnak growls low in his throat, his fingers
clenching into stone-cracking fists.
“They have gone back to sleep,” Theia murmurs,
her voice measured, calm. “Good. We have some time.”
Karnak stops pacing, his full intensity turning
on her. “And if they wake up?” His voice is fire and steel, barely restrained
fury. “We don’t know what they’ll do. They the last Beast Lord
die. If we wait, we may lose our only advantage.”
Theia’s expression does not change. Her gaze
remains steady, her many eyes never blinking in unison.
“Patience, Karnak.” Her words are soft but
unyielding. “If we act rashly, we may set forces into motion that even we
cannot control.”
Karnak’s nostrils flare. His instincts scream at
him to move, to strike before it’s too late. The battle below teeters on the
edge of catastrophe. He can it, it—the taste of
impending ruin thick on his tongue.
But Theia’s words settle into his bones like a
curse. A truth he does not want to acknowledge but cannot ignore.
With a sharp exhale, he forces himself still. His
body vibrates with restrained energy, muscles coiled like a predator denied its
hunt. He glares at Theia, jaw tight, but says nothing more.
Theia inclines her head slightly—a silent
acknowledgment.
“Very well,” she says at last, her voice a
whisper against the storm. “But when the time comes, we must act with
precision.”
The ripples across the battle map slowly still.
The moment passes.
But the weight of the decision lingers.
Bartholomew stands at the edge of the chamber,
his silhouette barely illuminated by the glow of the floating battle map. His
lips part, voice a whisper, yet it carries the weight of command.
“Charge.”
Deep within the ruins, the world shifts. A
slumbering force stirs, obeying a command given in a time long past. A low,
resonant war horn bellows through the underground—a sound not heard for
centuries. Dust shakes loose from the vaulted ceilings. Stone walls tremble,
and a long-forgotten power awakens.
Camelyn’s breath catches. She watches as the
battle map flickers, teal-green dots bursting onto the field like fireflies in
the dark. They rise from the ruins, surging forward with unnatural precision.
Below, unseen by the mortal adventurers locked in
desperate combat, stone knight constructs emerge from the shattered castle
gates. Towering, faceless figures of carved obsidian and jade, their bodies
inscribed with glowing runes of command. Their movements are smooth, fluid—too
perfect for beings made of stone. They advance as one, their steps shaking the
earth, the weight of their purpose pressing against the night.
Camelyn’s fingers tighten around the edge of the
map’s pedestal. Her voice is soft, nearly lost beneath the distant echoes of
war. “They’ll be saved… but will they know who to thank?”
From the shadows behind her, Lenore chuckles, a
quiet, knowing sound. She leans in, the silk of her robes whispering against
the cold air. “They do not need to know, my lady. Only that fate still walks
beside them.”
Camelyn turns, searching the darkness where
Lenore stands. “But will they be grateful?”
Bartholomew, ever composed, does not look up as
he responds. “Seek not acknowledgment for a good deed, my lady.”
Camelyn exhales, shaking her head. “And a good
deed may be repaid in kind… yes, I know.”
Below, the battle shifts. The ancient constructs
collide with the undead forces like a tidal wave of iron and stone. They move
without hesitation, without fear. Massive fists shatter bone. Bladed arms
cleave through cursed flesh. Runes blaze as sigils activate, unleashing surges
of pure energy that disintegrate the abominations where they stand.
The adventurers, unaware of their unseen
benefactors, rally. Weapons rise. Voices cry out. Where there was despair, now
there is hope. They push forward, striking with renewed strength—never
realizing that unseen hands are shielding them from slaughter.
At the far end of the chamber, Karnak watches,
arms crossed, his molten gaze cold. He does not move, does not speak for a long
moment. Then, with the weight of judgment, he mutters, “If they cannot win even
with this, then they are not worthy of survival.”
Theia’s many eyes flicker in rhythmic pulses,
their golden glow dimming as a ripple distorts the fabric of space around her.
It is subtle—a tremor in the ether, an unseen hand reaching where it should
not. The disturbance slithers through the threads of fate, foreign and
invasive.
Something else is searching.
Theia’s gaze snaps to the floating map at the
center of the chamber. The glowing surface warps, its edges blurring as an
unseen force presses against it. The delicate lattice of divination strains,
resisting the touch of something ancient, malevolent. The battle lines shimmer,
distorting as if the map recoils.
Her voice is soft, measured, but edged with
caution. “We are not alone in this pursuit.”
Karnak snarls, his fists clenching. The scales
along his forearms shimmer like molten metal. Heat ripples from his body,
warping the air around him. When he speaks, smoke curls from his sharp teeth.
“Then we must act before they do.”
Theia’s ethereal presence brightens. She
straightens, her many eyes narrowing. “This is our next step. We must reclaim
our brethren. And in doing so, deter the malignant forces trying so desperately
to thwart his return.”
At the edge of the chamber, Bartholomew watches
the map darken. His brow furrows, the flickering light casting sharp shadows
across his face. The warping effect intensifies, twisting divine markings into
unfamiliar patterns. A deep crimson pulse flashes through the projection. Then,
from the void, a single dot appears.
Purple.
A presence materializes, its weight pressing
against their vision like a storm on the horizon. A force old enough to know
Grant’s name.
Bartholomew exhales, his tone grim. “If we do
this, we will wake more than just the weapons.”
Theia does not respond. She does not need to.
The map pulses again, this time with a deep,
bone-deep vibration. Another presence emerges, its sheer magnitude sending
tremors through the chamber. A second dot appears—massive, hulking, the color
of dead stone.
Gray.
Karnak’s breath sharpens into a hiss. His
ember-lit eyes narrow, claws flexing. “She’s here…”
A silence falls, thick and expectant. No one
moves. No one speaks. The weight of realization settles like an iron yoke
across their shoulders.
Then, as if on cue, both Karnak and Bartholomew
turn to Lenore.
“Ready our vestiges.” Karnak’s voice rumbles like
distant thunder.
Bartholomew’s expression is unreadable, but his
command is absolute. “At once.”
Lenore, standing in the shadows, bows low. Her
serene smile betrays nothing of the anticipation flickering in her eyes.
“At once… my lords.”