Part I

Arthur “Art” Llewellyn had never been much of a believer in destiny. He believed in coffee, in deadlines, in the quiet tick-tick of the clock above his apartment door as he worked late into the night. He believed in his cat, Melon, who reliably sat on his keyboard whenever Art tried to finish a sentence. Mostly, he believed in keeping his head down, minding his business, and avoiding any problem that looked remotely mythic, catastrophic, or even mildly inconvenient.

Which was why the package on his doorstep at 6:12 a.m. on a wind-whipped Tuesday was an immediate problem.

It was huge—longer than any sword had a right to be, rectangular, and battered as though it had been punted across the Pacific. His name was written in ballpoint pen on the top: A. LLEWELLYN—DO NOT BEND.

“Like I’m gonna fold it into origami,” Art muttered to himself as Melon wound around his ankles.

There was no return address. No postal tags. No recognizable courier branding. Just twine, paper, and a sense of foreboding.

Art dragged it inside, nearly tripping over Melon’s tail twice. His apartment smelled faintly of the lemon cleaner he’d used the night before and the instant ramen he’d had for dinner. He kicked the door shut and stared at the package like it might explode.

“You ever see something this sketchy?” he asked Melon.

Melon sneezed.

“Exactly.”

Still, curiosity gnawed at him. He fetched a box cutter from the kitchen drawer and sliced through the tape, peeling it back like a surgeon about to regret everything.

Inside lay cardboard. Lots of cardboard. And beneath it—

Styrofoam.

And beneath that—

Art froze.

A sword.

A very old sword.

A sword with a gleam like captured moonlight, its hilt intricately wrought, its pommel a dull, familiar gold.

“That—no,” Art whispered. “No way. No freaking way.”

It was unmistakable, not because he had ever seen the real thing, but because he had grown up reading the stories like gospel. His Welsh grandmother had filled his childhood with tales of knights and quests and kings born on stormy nights.

He knew that blade like a childhood friend.

Excalibur.

At least, a very convincing replica. That had to be what this was. Some prank. Some collector’s item. Some impossibly expensive, hilariously unnecessary mistake.

Then he saw the envelope.

Thin. Cream-colored. Inked in handwriting so precise it belonged in a museum.

His name on the front.

His heart thudded.

Art opened it.

One line.

No signature.

“The Prydwen sails again.”

Art’s mouth went dry. He sat heavily on the hardwood floor, the sword still nestled between Styrofoam wings like some slumbering relic.

“This is… not normal,” he murmured.

Melon hopped onto his lap, curling like a warm, furry accusation.

“Okay,” Art said. “Let’s think.”

But thinking did not help.

Because Art Llewellyn might not have believed in destiny, but destiny, apparently, believed very strongly in him.

THE PRYDWEN SAILS AGAIN — Part II

Art stared at the sword for the better part of a minute before deciding the best course of action was to go about his morning as if the universe had not just delivered him a relic of myth.

He made coffee.

He burned his toast.

He spilled cat treats all over the floor.

But the whole time, the sword sat there on his living-room rug like it owned the place.

Eventually, he crouched beside it again, as if expecting it to speak first.

“Okay,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “If this is a prank, well done. You got me. If this is a mistake, I really hope someone comes back for it before I accidentally behead myself trying to return it.”

The sword, shockingly, did not reply.

But the note did.

Art reread it at least ten times.

“The Prydwen sails again.”

Prydwen.

He hadn’t heard that name since childhood. It was the legendary ship of King Arthur—at least according to certain Welsh texts that his grandmother insisted were the real ones.

But why would anyone send him a sword with a cryptic reference to the old ship?

He tried to remember what his grandmother used to say. Something about the Prydwen being more than a ship—being a symbol of a journey. A calling. A return.

Great. Now he was thinking like a prophecy.

He needed answers. Or, failing that, someone else to blame.

Art grabbed his phone and dialed the person most likely to be responsible for a prank of Arthurian proportions: his childhood best friend, Rowan. Rowan collected medieval weaponry the way some people collected stamps or questionable life choices. If anyone had the means and the gall to mail him a sacred sword replica in a box held together by twine and hubris, it was him.

Rowan picked up on the third ring.

“Art! To what do I owe this rare and majestic sunrise call?”

“Did you send me something?” Art asked.

“Define ‘something.’”

“A sword.”

A sharp inhale. “Oh my gosh, did you finally buy one? Did you choose a longsword? A falchion? Wait, wait, did you go full fantasy and get a zweihander—”

“Rowan.” Art pressed a hand to his temple. “Someone sent me Excalibur.”

Silence.

Followed by: “I didn’t send it, but I suddenly wish I did.”

Art groaned. “There was a note.”

“Ohhh! What kind of note? Threatening? Romantic? Haunting? Haunted?”

“Rowan.”

“Right, sorry. What did it say?”

Art swallowed. “It said… ‘The Prydwen sails again.’”

Rowan made a sound halfway between a gasp and a squeal. “Art. Buddy. Friend of my soul. Someone is playing the long game with you.”

“It’s not funny.”

“It’s extremely funny. It’s mythically funny.”

“Rowan!”

“Okay, okay. Calm your Excaliburnt toast.” Rowan sobered. “You’re sure it’s not from your family?”

“No one in my family sends me anything except birthday cards with five-dollar bills in them.”

“Maybe it’s from your grandmother’s estate—”

“No,” Art said quietly. “We already settled all of that.”

A beat of quiet passed between them.

“Want me to come over?” Rowan offered, voice softening.

“No. I just—needed to make sure it wasn’t you.”

“Fair enough.”

Art hung up and dropped his phone on the couch. Melon immediately flopped onto it.

“Of course,” Art said. “Why wouldn’t you.”

He looked back at the sword. A chill settled between his shoulder blades.

“Right,” he muttered. “Time to call the police.”

But that felt ridiculous. What would he say? Hello, officer, someone mailed me a legendary sword of kings and I’d like to file a report for mysterious mythological nonsense.

So he didn’t call them.

Instead, he took a deep, steadying breath and reached for the sword.

It was lighter than he expected. Perfectly balanced. The moment his fingers brushed the hilt, something warm pulsed beneath his skin, tingling up his arm like static and warmth and memory.

He dropped it with a yelp.

“NOPE,” he said aloud. “BIG nope. All the nopes.”

Melon, startled by the clatter, launched herself under the couch.

Art shook his hand. “Okay. Okay. Clearly, I am hallucinating because I slept three hours. That’s all.”

Except he knew hallucinations did not feel like this—like someone lighting a sparkler behind his ribcage. Like recognition.

He crouched again, staring at the blade.

“I am not touching you,” he told it.

The sword said nothing. But the light seemed to shimmer along its edge, subtly, like a breath.

Art squeezed his eyes shut.

He needed to clear his head. Get to work. Do something normal.

He grabbed his coat, slipped on mismatched shoes, stuffed the note into his pocket, and fled his apartment like a man being chased by myth.

THE PRYDWEN SAILS AGAIN — Part III

Art lived three blocks from his job at the Seabrook Public Library—four blocks if he pretended not to see his favorite bagel shop, where he normally stopped for a cinnamon-raisin carb bomb the size of a discus.

Today he marched right past it, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, eyes glued to the sidewalk as if Excalibur might have followed him out the door.

The November wind bit at his ears. Melon’s fur had clung to his coat in little white tufts. And the note—crisp, unsettling—crackled against his chest every time he breathed.

The Prydwen sails again.

He wished he had left it at home.

The library—his comforting brick haven—rose before him at the end of Maple Street. Warm amber lights glowed behind its tall windows. Someone inside had already turned on the big Christmas tree in the lobby; it twinkled through the glass like a beacon of normalcy.

Art exhaled.

This was safe. This was predictable. This was—

“Morning, Arthur!”

He flinched so hard he nearly tripped.

Mrs. Calloway, the sprightly seventy-five-year-old circulation supervisor, stood at the returns desk with a cart full of books and a smile that could probably shatter diamonds.

“You okay, dear? You look like you saw a ghost.”

“Ha,” Art said weakly. “Just… didn’t sleep.”

She eyed him with grandmotherly suspicion. “Didn’t sleep or barely slept? Those are different things, you know.”

God, she sounded like his grandmother.

“Barely,” he admitted.

She clucked her tongue. “Well, drink water. And not that fizzy sugar water you call soda. Real water. Hydration, Arthur!”

He saluted her, which made her cackle, then headed for the staff room.

He tossed his coat onto a chair, collapsed at the little round table, and let his forehead thunk against the wood.

He needed a plan. Something rational. He needed—

“Woah. Rough morning?”

His coworker Mina slid into the seat across from him, clutching a travel mug decorated with cartoon ghosts.

“You could say that,” he mumbled.

“Define ‘rough.’ Like… spilled-coffee rough, or existential-dread rough?”

Art groaned into the table. “The second one.”

“Oof. Big yikes. Anything you want to talk about?”

No.

Absolutely not.

He was not going to be the guy who said, Hey Mina, someone mailed me a legendary sword of kings. Want to see the box? It still smells like destiny.

He sat up. “Just weird dreams.”

“Wanna swap weird dream stories? Mine had dancing narwhals.”

Art huffed a laugh. “Tempting, but I need to open the library.”

Mina nodded, though she didn’t look convinced. “Alright. But you know where to find me if you need to rant about your looming eldritch dread.”

“Thanks.”

They headed to the front, turned on lights, unlocked doors. Patrons trickled in—early birds wanting newspapers, retirees treating the library like a sacred morning ritual.

Everything was normal.

Until it wasn’t.

At 9:14 a.m., while Art was shelving returns in the medieval history aisle (which was either a cosmic joke or cosmic timing), he heard someone clear their throat behind him.

He turned.

And froze.

The man standing there was… off. Not threatening, not strange in the usual ways library staff dealt with daily, but off in the sense that he looked like he had stepped out of a tapestry.

Tall.

Silver at his temples.

Eyes the piercing blue of frost on stone.

A long coat, charcoal grey, tailored sharply enough to cut wind.

He spoke softly. “Arthur Llewellyn?”

Art’s blood ran cold.

He hadn’t introduced himself. No nametag today. No reason this stranger should know his name.

“Yes?” Art managed, gripping the spine of a book so tightly it creaked.

The man inclined his head. “I’m glad you opened the package.”

Art’s veins turned to ice water.

“Wh—what package?”

The man’s lips quirked, not quite a smile. “There is no need for pretense. The blade has awakened. You felt it.”

Art stepped back. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about. You need to leave.”

The man sighed, almost fondly. “You always were cautious. Even in the old days.”

Art’s stomach dropped. The world tilted.

“No. Nope. Not happening.”

“Arthur—”

“That’s not my name,” Art snapped. “It’s just a name. A coincidence. People are named Arthur all the time. It doesn’t mean anything.”

The man’s gaze softened with something unbearably ancient. “The Prydwen sails again.”

Art staggered. His back hit the bookshelf.

“That’s you? You sent the note? The sword?” His voice cracked. “Why? Who are you?”

The man bowed his head slightly. “A friend. A guardian. A witness to your many lives. But in this one…” He met Art’s eyes. “You may call me Emrys.”

Art blinked.

“Emrys,” he echoed numbly. “As in—”

“Yes,” the man said gently. “That Emrys.”

Art’s breath left him in a long, strangled sound.

Merlin.

Merlin was in the history aisle. Merlin had his hair in a neat side part. Merlin apparently enjoyed dramatic entrances and ruining perfectly normal Tuesdays.

“I’m hallucinating,” Art whispered. “I inhaled too much lemon cleaner last night.”

“Arthur—”

“STOP CALLING ME THAT!”

A few patrons turned toward the outburst. Art cleared his throat and forced a sheepish smile.

“Uh. Sorry. Just… shelving loudly.”

The patrons resumed browsing.

Emrys—Merlin—spoke quietly. “You must come with me.”

“No,” Art hissed. “I’m at work.”

“The world does not pause for employment.”

“Well I do! And I am not leaving with some guy who shows up quoting prophecies at me!”

Merlin stepped closer. Not threateningly. But with the gravity of a tide.

“It has begun. The blade chose you the moment it awoke. And soon, others will seek you.”

“Others?” Art squeaked.

“Yes. Allies and enemies both.”

“Nope,” Art said, panic rising. “I’m out. I’m done. I reject the sword. I reject destiny. I reject everything.”

But Merlin only looked at him with quiet sorrow.

“You’ve rejected it before,” he murmured. “And still it finds you.”

Art felt faint.

He needed air. Space. A universe with fewer wizards.

“I have to go,” he whispered.

But as he tried to leave, Merlin spoke again—soft as falling dust.

“The Prydwen sails again. And whether you will it or not, Arthur… you must captain it.”

Art fled.