The Isle of the Two Keeps
The vellum map pulsed, a mark far west flaring brighter than the others. Red leaned in, brows tightening.
"The isle," he said. "I half-wondered if it would answer you."
Void pressed the Emrys–Le Fay ring to the ink. The study dimmed. When the light returned, he felt sea-salt air in his lungs, the world shifting like a curtain drawn aside.
They stood on a narrow spit of rock that widened into an island veiled in mist. Above it, two towers rose, black silhouettes against the sky: one built of pale stone that caught light even under cloud, the other of darker rock veined with silver-green moss. They stood less than a mile apart, divided by a ravine and centuries of silence.
Merlin's Keep
The pale fortress was spare, its lines almost austere. No banners, no flourish—only high walls and wards carved so deeply into lintels and gate that they thrummed like organ notes in Void's bones. Within, he could feel the discipline of order: councils, covenants, and oaths etched into the very bedrock.
"The keep of Merlin," Red said. "Bound to law, to structure. It has not had a master in centuries."
Morgana's Keep
Across the ravine, the darker stronghold leaned into the cliffs, half-grown into the living stone. Its towers curved instead of rising straight, lines like crescent moons worked into battlements. Vines climbed walls willingly, not as invaders but as part of the wardcraft. The place breathed secrecy and transformation, like a spell always mid-incantation.
"Morgana's keep," Red said. "Bound to freedom, to change. It has not bent its knee to anyone since her death."
The Isle Veiled
The mist shifted, revealing old sigils cut into the cliff face: rowan, serpent, owl, raven—sigils Void already bore on his hand.
"Others have seen this place," Red said, voice low. "Descendants of the Pendragon line, Arthur's scattered blood. They called it Avalon. They were not wrong—but the isle did not accept them. The wards saw no legitimacy in them."
"And me?" Void asked.
Red's cane tapped the stone. "You are of both lines. The wards know you. They've been waiting."
The Union of the Keeps
The rings pulsed—first Merlin's crest, then Morgana's, then both in rhythm. The ravine between the keeps trembled, ancient wards stirring like sleepers woken.
Void raised both hands, one silver with stag and triskelion, one darker with rowan and serpent. The crests flared together. Light poured from the towers—pale from Merlin's keep, deep emerald from Morgana's—and met in the air above the ravine.
Stone shifted. Bridges of magic grew across the gulf, towers bending toward one another like trees leaning into wind. Where the magics met, new walls rose—neither pale nor dark, but a mingling of both, silver-grey streaked with green.
The two keeps fused into one stronghold. Windows opened, banners unfurled with a crest that was not Merlin's nor Morgana's, but Void's: stag and triskelion, rowan and serpent, owl and raven woven into one seal.
The wards spoke without voice: Division ended. Steward acknowledged. New lord seated.
Red's breath left him in a slow hiss. "You've done what neither of them could—joined the two halves. The isle has a master again."
The New Keep
The stronghold stood whole on the misted isle, its halls echoing with fresh wards. Within its walls, ancient power stirred—not leashed, not wild, but waiting for command.
Void lowered his hands. "This is mine," he said simply.
The rings quieted, their light sinking back into silver. The isle breathed, satisfied.
When the light faded, the Isle stood changed. The two towers—Merlin's austere pale stone and Morgana's shadow-veined stronghold—no longer opposed one another. They had bent inward, bridged their divide, and grown together into a fortress greater than either had been alone.
The wards whispered a new name, one not spoken since either wizard lived: Avalon Keep.
Void walked its halls with Red, each chamber unfolding to him as if it had been waiting for centuries for his footstep.
I. The Council Hall
A round chamber at the heart of the Keep, its floor set with concentric runes that lit when the heir stood at center. Twelve high-backed chairs circled the space, their carvings echoing the old wizarding Houses and druidic orders.
Merlin's discipline lingered in the geometry: each seat equidistant, no throne raised above another.
Morgana's freedom marked the walls: shifting murals of sky, sea, and forest, changing with the moods of those who gathered.
The room was meant not for domination but for argument, decisions hammered out by voice and ward alike. Now it would serve Void as a strategy hall, ready for councils of allies—or for his own solitary reflection.
II. The Library of Avalon
Behind carved doors of ashwood and rowan lay a library whose shelves grew like living things. Books sat not only on oak cases but on niches in the stone itself, charmed to yield volumes when summoned.
Merlin's shelves: works on law, covenant-craft, rune matrices, history of the Old Councils.
Morgana's shelves: treatises on transformation, soul-rituals (many fragmentary), herb-lore, moon-cycle magics.
At the center rose a spiral stair leading to a high gallery where druidic scripts glowed faintly on the walls, a language older than Hogwarts. No index existed but the one in Void's hand—the rings unlocked whichever shelf answered his need.
The Library of Avalon would not just preserve knowledge; it would answer questions if asked rightly, shaping paths through text like a map.
III. The Druidic Grove
Beyond the rear gates lay a cloister that opened into living earth: a sacred grove bound inside the fortress walls.
Rowan, oak, birch, and yew grew in ordered patterns set by Merlin's hand.
Between them curled wild herbs—aconite, mandrake, belladonna, dittany—encouraged by Morgana's craft.
A central spring bubbled pure, laced with silver light, charmed to replenish itself in moon phases.
This was a place of renewal and ritual grounding. Here, Void could brew draughts with water purer than any apothecary's, or anchor wards directly to root and stone. The grove also acted as a threshold: no soul could lie within it.
IV. The Ritual Halls
Two vaulted chambers, one beneath each of the old towers, had fused into a pair of ritual halls that complemented one another:
The Hall of Order (Merlin's): floor marked by runic grids, walls lined with chalk niches for formulae, resonance perfect for structured ritual.
The Hall of Change (Morgana's): curving symbols on floor and ceiling, light shifting with phase of moon and tide, suited for transformation and binding magic.
At the nexus where the two halls touched, a third smaller chamber had formed: the Hall of Balance. Its walls bore the triskelion, glowing faintly, as if the Keep itself recognized Void's place between law and liberty.
The stair spiraled down so deep the torches burned blue and frost crusted the iron banisters. At the bottom stood a door that had never rusted—serpent, raven, and crescent moon etched so deep it looked carved into the bedrock itself.
Void pressed both rings to it. Wards parted like a tide. The vault opened.
Inside stretched a chamber carved smooth as glass, yet threaded with veins of silver light. Shelves, plinths, and root-grown alcoves cradled their charges. This was no goblin vault of coin and lockwork—it was a living treasury, designed by Morgana to feed itself, mend itself, and strike intruders blind.
Creature Materials
Each specimen was sealed in its own container—crystal, bone, or runic glass—each humming with preservation charms older than Hogwarts.
Basilisk Venom and Fangs — taken from more than one serpent, their power undiminished.
Thunderbird Feathers — rare beyond price, used in storm-calling wards and wand cores.
Dragon Parts — bones, claws, powdered horns from several breeds: Hebridean Black, Ukrainian Ironbelly, Chinese Fireball.
Acromantula Silk — spools of it, warded to prevent it from creeping of its own accord.
Unicorn Horn Shards — no blood, but horn fragments taken without killing, gleaming like frosted moonlight.
Phoenix Ash and Tears — sealed separately, warmth radiating faintly from the urns.
Kelpie Mane Hair — braided and sealed, dangerous if woven into charms.
Grindylow Horns — twisted, brittle, yet potent in binding charms.
Runespoor Eggshells — cracked pieces that whispered faintly when the light hit them.
Graphorn Hide — plates of it stacked like shields, nearly impervious.
Thunderclap Beetle Carapaces (a rarity once catalogued by Magizoologists, nearly extinct).
Plants and Herbological Stock
Morgana had collected seeds, roots, and cuttings, each in enchanted soil or stasis flasks, many extinct in the modern world.
Moondew Blossoms — petals glowing softly, used in lunar potions.
Devil's Snare Cuttings — dormant until warmth woke them, coiled in enchanted cages.
Silverleaf — shimmers faintly, counters corrosion in potions.
Mimbulus Mimbletonia Sap — collected in crystal phials; stinks even through the wards.
Dittany Stocks — cultivated in self-replenishing soil beds.
Aconite Varieties — wolfsbane, monkshood, and hybrids too rare to name.
Mandrake Roots — tiny, sealed in enchanted wax so their screams could never escape.
Fire-seed Pods — still glowing hot centuries later.
Mooncalf Dung — preserved, unusually fertile under lunar cycles.
Fanged Geraniums — clipped and sealed, their buds snapping at shadows.
Seeds of Unknown Origin — labeled only in Morgana's hand: plant at peril.
The Vault's Nature
Roots from the grove above pierced the ceiling and coiled through shelves, their sap carrying protective enchantments. Vines adjusted to cradle fragile jars, moss cushioned bones, and shelves re-shaped to grow alcoves when new items needed housing.
It did not sleep. It breathed.
When Void's hand passed a row of vials, they brightened as if acknowledging him. When he withdrew, they dimmed, still loyal but patient.
Red stood long at the threshold, voice low. "Morgana did not deal in scraps. These are materials even the Department of Mysteries would kill to catalogue. With this vault, a House could arm itself for a millennium."
Void touched the edge of a unicorn shard, felt its warmth through the glass, then pulled back. "Then it will not be a hoard. It will be used with care."
The vault's wards whispered approval and sealed themselves again, vines knitting tight.
They crossed the fused keep, down the pale stair that wound beneath what had once been Merlin's tower. Where Morgana's vault breathed like a wild garden, this chamber felt silent, pared to bone and purpose. No vines curled here, no shelves multiplied. The walls were plain stone veined with faint runes that pulsed like a heartbeat.
There were only three objects, each resting on its own plinth.
The Cloak of Verity
Folded neatly on the first pedestal lay a cloak of simple grey wool, without embroidery or sigil. Yet when Void's hand brushed the hem, it hummed, and the air around him sharpened as if every sound carried clearer.
Red's brows rose. "A relic of the Council days. Not invisibility—this cloak makes words weigh. Whatever you speak while wearing it cannot be softened, misled, or drowned. It cuts through glamour and deceit. Truth becomes iron; lies crumble."
Void lifted the cloak. The weight was no heavier than any school robe, yet the fabric prickled with restrained authority.
The Staff of Avalon
The ashwood staff thrummed as Void's fingers closed around it. The veins of silver light running its length flared, seeking resonance. The two rings pulsed, and the staff's glow rushed down into the wand in his hand.
The cherry wood warmed, deep red-brown grain catching firelight that wasn't there. The thunderbird tail feather core—already restless, already sharp—shivered with recognition. Sparks rippled up the shaft, arcs of pale silver overlaying the wand's natural pulse.
For a heartbeat, Void thought the wand might reject it. The thunderbird feather was notoriously proud, refusing most tamers. But then, as though recognizing an equal, it accepted. The staff did not dominate—it folded its ancient law into the wand's own tempestuous heart.
A second object clasped itself to Void's wrist: the silver bracelet of Avalon, etched with a triskelion so faint it seemed almost imagined.
Red's gaze sharpened. "Your wand was already dangerous. Cherry bends for no one lightly, and thunderbird cores… they throw curses back on their casters if they dislike them. Now it carries Avalon's law as well. The Ministry will never track you through it again—the bracelet eats every Trace, every charm, every spy-spell. They'll all drown harmlessly in its silver."
Void flicked the wand once. No echo, no drag. The spell that had once whispered its presence to distant quills now ended at his wrist, coiled into the bracelet and lost. The wand felt clean.
"My wand is mine alone," he said.
The thunderbird core flared, a spark of approval, and then quieted like a storm biding its time.
The Chalice of Purity
On the last plinth sat a chalice of polished stone, faintly veined with silver. Its shape was unremarkable, but the air around it smelled of clean rain.
"A purifier," Red said. "Fill it with poison, blood, saltwater, dragon's bile—it matters not. What emerges is the purest form of what it was meant to be. Water to water, wine to wine, potion to base essence."
Void lifted it. The chalice warmed in his hand, humming approval. "A tool for rebuilding," he said.
Contrast of Vaults
When the vault door closed behind them, the difference was stark.
Morgana's vault was abundance, temptation, power drawn from creatures, roots, and bone.
Merlin's vault was austerity: three objects only, but each absolute in its effect.
Red's voice was thoughtful. "Morgana gathered much and paid dearly for it. Merlin hoarded almost nothing, but what he left could not be equaled. Together…" He glanced at Void, at the rings gleaming on his hands. "…together, they balance."
Void let his wand rest against the bracelet, the staff's legacy now folded into it. The hum was steady, not hungry. "Then both vaults are mine. And both will be used—not as chains, not as trophies. As keys."
The wards stirred as if they agreed.