Chapter 2: The Lexmordant

Chapter 2: The Lexmordant

The silence was a physical weight. Chase’s breath caught in his throat, a cloud of vapor that refused to dissipate in the frozen air. The world had become a photograph, and he and the man in the suit were the only living things in it. The sheer, casual arrogance of this power was more terrifying than any bar brawl.

"My offer," the man said, his voice the only sound in the universe, "is simple. You have a fire burning you from the inside out. I am offering you a furnace to direct it into."

Chase’s sarcastic bravado, his usual armor, felt flimsy and useless. He managed a sneer anyway. "Let me guess. You're the head recruiter for some doomsday cult looking for a new magical battery. Sorry, my dance card is full."

The man’s lips twitched in that thin, humourless smile. With a slight nod, he released his hold on time.

Reality crashed back in. The suspended raindrop splattered on the fire escape. The steam from the sewer grate swirled away on the breeze. The distant wail of a siren and the hum of the city flooded the alley. Chase staggered back a step, the sudden sensory onslaught making him dizzy. He felt like he'd just been submerged and dragged back to the surface.

"I assure you, Mr. Ambrose, we are no cult," the man said, his voice now competing with the sounds of the city. "We are an institution. The oldest, in fact. My name is Mordred."

The name hung in the air, heavy with myth and malice. Chase stared, then let out a short, sharp bark of laughter. It was a raw, ugly sound.

"Mordred? As in, King Arthur, Knights of the Round Table, 'stabbed his own dad' Mordred? You've got to be kidding me. What's next, Merlin's going to pop out of a dumpster and try to sell me a watch?"

"Merlin has been dust for centuries," Mordred replied, his tone utterly flat, as if discussing the weather. "And Arthur is gone. What they left behind… is a mess. A responsibility I have been forced to bear."

Chase sobered slightly, the man’s unnerving calm chipping away at his disbelief. This wasn't the act of a common lunatic. The time-stop was proof of that. "Left behind where? In a storybook?"

"In Avalon," Mordred said. He gestured vaguely, as if indicating a place just beyond the veil of the world. "It is not the paradise the bards sang of. It is a pocket dimension, a splinter of reality where myth and magic still hold sway. But it is old. The magic that sustains it is fraying, like a threadbare tapestry. And the descendants of those who built it are doing their best to tear it apart."

He began to pace slowly, his immaculate shoes navigating the grimy puddles without a single splash. "After Arthur's fall, the remnants of his court sealed Avalon away. Led by his most zealous Knights, they attempted to build a new kingdom, a perfect kingdom, free from the chaos that destroyed the first. They called it New Camelot."

Mordred stopped and looked at Chase, his ancient eyes filled with a profound cynicism. "They built a cage of steel, glass, and enchanted crystal, powered by the dying heart of the realm. A city of absolute order, ruled by the Knight-Commanders. They preach progress and security, but all they've built is a pristine, soulless prison next to a graveyard."

"A graveyard?" Chase asked, drawn into the narrative despite himself.

"Old Camelot," Mordred answered. "The original. It still stands, or what's left of it. A ruin filled with the echoes of a broken age. The Knights forbid anyone from entering. They fear the past, you see. They fear the mistakes their perfect king made."

This wasn't the legend Chase knew from cheap paperbacks. There was no glory here, no romance. Just the story of a dying world run by fanatics, a grim reality that resonated with his own bleak existence.

"So, where do you fit in?" Chase asked, rubbing the throbbing scar on his palm. "I thought you were the villain of the story."

"History is written by the victors. My 'father' was a great man, but he was also a fool, blinded by prophecy and pride. I tried to save his kingdom from itself, and for that, I was branded a traitor," Mordred said, a flicker of ancient pain in his eyes. "Now, I do what I have always done. I try to hold things together. I founded an order to police the laws Arthur himself put in place, laws his own Knights now ignore when it suits them. We are the Lexmordant."

The word felt strange on his tongue. The Law of Mordred.

"We operate in the spaces the Knights cannot, or will not, go," Mordred continued, his voice taking on the tone of a recruiter once more. "We deal with rogue magic, with incursions from the darker corners of the Fae realms, with the things that fester in the shadows of New Camelot. We are not heroes, Mr. Ambrose. We are custodians of a decaying world."

He fixed his gaze on Chase again, that piercing, analytical stare. "And recently, something has begun to seep from the ruins of Old Camelot. A rot. A whispering darkness that preys on instability, on chaotic power. The Knights, in their rigid arrogance, dismiss it as echoes, magical residue. I know better. It is a contagion, and it is growing."

A chill, colder than the rain, traced its way down Chase’s spine. A whispering darkness that preys on instability. He thought of the Itch, the chaotic shimmer of his own aura, the raw power that had just shattered glass three blocks away.

"Why me?" Chase asked, his voice barely a whisper. "There have to be other mages."

"There are," Mordred conceded. "Wizards who have spent decades perfecting a single cantrip. Sorcerers who weave intricate spells like fine silk. They are artists. You… you are a sledgehammer. Raw, elemental, destructive. You don't cast magic; you bleed it. The rot in the ruins… it is of a similar nature. Uncontrolled. Primal. To fight it, I need someone who understands its language. I need a sledgehammer to break down a wall the artists are too afraid to touch."

The offer was laid bare. It wasn't a call to glory. It wasn't a chance for redemption. It was a job for a weapon, a broken tool fit for a broken task. Mordred wasn't offering him a way out of the darkness. He was offering him a better, more interesting darkness to get lost in.

For the first time in years, Chase felt something other than guilt or the desire for oblivion. It was a flicker of morbid curiosity. To see this dying Avalon, this sterile New Camelot, this rot seeping from the bones of a legend. It was a path. Any path was better than the dead-end alley he was currently standing in.

"This 'purpose' you're offering," Chase said, testing the word. "It sounds a lot like a suicide mission."

"All missions are, for someone," Mordred replied without missing a beat. "But for you, it would be a suicide with meaning. A far better end than choking on your own vomit in an alley like this."

The brutal honesty of the statement hit Chase harder than the thug's fist had. It was true. Every word of it. He looked down at his trembling hands, at the scarred palm that was a constant reminder of his failure. Maybe it was time to point his self-destruction at something that deserved it.

"If I say yes," Chase said, his voice low. "What happens now?"

Mordred reached into his perfect suit jacket and produced a simple, matte black business card. The only thing on it was a single, intricate symbol, a stylized dragon biting its own tail around a sword. "This is a key. Snap it in half when you've made your decision. It will open a door. I suggest you decide before you drink yourself to death. My offer has an expiration date."

With that, Mordred turned and walked away, disappearing into the rain-soaked darkness as if he were never there, leaving Chase Ambrose alone in the silence, holding a choice in the palm of his hand. A choice between the slow, meaningless end he had chosen for himself, and a faster, more terrible one in a world he thought only existed in fairy tales.