Dinadan rode beneath a sky bruised with twilight, his new armor capturing fragments of fading light like reluctant promises. The weight of it crushed against him—not merely steel, but the unbearable burden of expectation. The blacksmith at Boscastle had crafted each piece with meticulous precision, yet no forge burned hot enough to melt away the leaden destiny Y Tír had thrust upon his shoulders.
Bracken plodded forward, hooves steady on the hard-packed earth, ears twitching against the salt-stung wind. A mule with more sense than his rider. The beast had learned patience long before Dinadan had learned to fake it.
"You''re quieter than usual," Dinadan muttered, breaking the silence between them. "Not that I mind. The road stretches long enough without having to argue with a mule who wins half our debates."
Bracken offered only a dismissive flick of her ear, the gesture more eloquent than words could have been.
The road twisted toward Tintagel like a serpent, cliffs rising black and jagged against the horizon. The fortress sat atop them, a wound stitched in stone. Legends were born there, and broken more often. Men carved their names into its walls, and the sea washed them away.
Somewhere within those walls, Aidric trained. A boy with a wooden sword and iron dreams. Blind to the waiting shadows.
Dinadan''s fingers traced the cold hilt of his sword, its familiar contours offering no comfort. His thoughts were heavy, sinking into his chest like anchors.
What the boy sought in knighthood, Dinadan could not fathom. Valor? Honor? The words bards sang when ale flowed and fires burned bright?
The tales sang sweetly of such things, but Dinadan knew better. Reality carved different lessons into a man''s soul. Harder ones. Written in blood. Sealed with crushing disappointment.
He had watched too many bright-eyed youths shatter against the unforgiving truth of what knighthood truly demanded. They arrived full of dreams only to discover glory was rare currency in a knight''s purse. Mud was plentiful. Pain was constant. And the vacant stares of the dying followed you home, haunting your dreams when darkness fell.
Dinadan shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, the armor grinding against old disillusionments that had never properly healed, wounds that ached worse than any battle scar across his flesh.
<hr>
The gates of Tintagel stood like a sentinel carved from the bones of the earth, ancient and unyielding against the restless sea that clawed at the cliffs below.
Guards eyed Dinadan as he approached, their expressions flinty beneath iron helms, hands resting too casually on sword hilts. His armor marked him as a knight, but it did not mark him as friend—not here, where suspicion was as much a defense as the stone walls themselves.
"I am Sir Dinadan," he said, dismounting with a grunt that betrayed the ache in his bones from too many days in the saddle. The salt-laden air clung to his throat as he spoke. "I seek audience with Aidric."
The guards exchanged wary glances, a silent conversation of narrowed eyes and subtle nods that Dinadan had witnessed a hundred times in a hundred keeps. One relented, signaling the gate''s opening with a sharp gesture that brooked no argument from his companion.
Dinadan led Bracken through the massive archway, where the sea''s distant roar whispered of blood spilled and oaths broken. History pressed against him from all sides, an invisible weight that bent his spine more effectively than any battle he''d survived.
The taste of old magic lingered on the air. Y Tir remembered everything that happened here—every treachery, every tragedy.
And now, it remembered him.
<hr>
Tintagel’s courtyard swelled with bodies, but the hush was heavier than the crowd. Wind from the sea swept over the cliffs, sharp with salt and cold enough to bite through steel. Above, Wyott circled, his shadow slicing across the stones, a patient hunter waiting for the kill.
Dinadan stood at the edge, his new armor creaking with every breath, though it wasn''t the steel weighing him down. His gaze cut through the mass of faces, past the stooped heads and fearful whispers, to the platform where the world would end for one man.
The name was a shadow over the land—a knight accused of treachery. His head was bowed, dark hair loose over his shoulders, though pride still stiffened his spine.
Sir Laris knelt, his hands bound behind him, his shoulders square beneath the executioner''s shadow. No prayers were offered. No forgiveness spoken. Tintagel was not a place for mercy. Only endings.
Dinadan’s fingers drummed against the hilt of his sword. "A bad day to be a knight," he muttered, though Bracken gave no answer. "Or a man with a soul."
Aidric stood among the watching crowd, his face pale beneath his training helm. Too young for such darkness, too old to turn away. His hand rested on the pommel of his training sword, though it was clear the weight of the moment pressed heavier than any blade.
Dinadan saw him first, the boy standing at the edge of the platform. Aidric. His shoulders were square, but only because fear straightened them. His hands clenched the hilt of his training sword, white-knuckled. Not a knight yet. Still green, still hoping the world was fair.
Dinadan stepped close, his shadow falling across the boy. Aidric saw him, and something in the boy''s gaze shifted—relief, perhaps, or fear.
"You came," Aidric said, voice low.
"I always do," Dinadan replied, though the words tasted bitter. He turned his gaze to Laris. "Why is he here?"
Aidric swallowed hard. "Treason. He was caught speaking against Uther. Against the crown."
"And for that, a noose?" Dinadan’s voice was quiet, but his words struck like steel. "The old ways are dying, lad, but the new ones are no softer."
Aidric looked away, guilt shadowing his features. "It is the king’s justice."
Dinadan''s jaw tightened. "Justice? Or fear?"
Dinadan''s gaze drifted to the platform where Lady Ygraine stood like a carved figurehead, her face unmoving as the tide of fate crashed beneath her. Her daughters clung close—Morgana, fierce-eyed, Gausse trembling, Elaina small and wide-eyed, pressing against her mother''s skirts like she could hide from the world.
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Murmurs rippled through the assembly, a tide of discomfort washing over the gathered crowd. These children deserved protection from such horrors, shielded from the brutal spectacle of death that would unfold before them. But Gorlois had made his decree with the unyielding certainty of a man who believed his word was law. They must witness justice, he had declared, as if exposure to cruelty would somehow strengthen their character rather than scar it.
Dinadan wondered if Gorlois could still recognize the shape of justice. The concept seemed as warped in the Duke''s hands as the axe that awaited its victim. Either way, the children''s wide eyes reflected not understanding but terror, and Dinadan felt the weight of his own helplessness press against his chest like a stone.
The Duke stood on the other side of the platform, his armor dull, his mouth a thin, unforgiving line. But it was not Gorlois who held the power here. It was the shadow at his shoulder—Vortigaunt, a usurper king cloaked in silver and silence. He didn’t need to speak. Here he already won.
Dinadan stepped closer to Aidric.
"You understand what you''re about to see?" His words were soft, meant only for Aidric''s ears.
The boy’s jaw tightened. "He betrayed his lord. He must die."
"And you believe that?" Dinadan tilted his head. "Or is that just the lie they taught you to say?"
Aidric said nothing. But his silence screamed.
Dinadan’s eyes turned back to the platform. "Good. Keep the doubt. It''s the only part of you they''ll leave untouched."
A hush fell as the executioner stepped forward, face hidden beneath a cowl. The noose was lowered, rough rope scraping against wood. Laris did not flinch.
Dinadan watched, eyes narrowed. The air felt heavy, thick with something unseen—something that made the hair on his neck rise. Y Tír was watching. The land always watched when blood was spilled.
The herald’s voice rang out, brittle against the crush of wind. "Sir Laris of Caerleon, condemned for treason against Gorlois of Cornwall. The sentence is death by the axe."
No mention of the greater treason. No mention of Vortigern. Only the lie that was easiest to tell.
"Have you no words, Sir Laris?" the herald asked.
Laris lifted his head, slow, defiant. His eyes roamed the crowd—not searching for mercy, but for witness. His gaze found Ygraine. It lingered.
"I die as I lived. Bound by oaths older than kings."
The wind caught the words, tore them into the crowd, and left silence behind.
Gorlois shifted, his mouth twitching, but he did not answer. Vortigigern stood motionless, though Dinadan saw his hands, curled beneath the folds of his cloak. A stillness sharper than any blade.
Above them all, Wyott circled, a shadow falling over the platform like a curse. Watching. Always watching.
The executioner stepped forward, his axe gleaming, edge bright in the dull light. Heavy. Final. He stood over Laris, waiting for the signal.
Ygraine''s face did not move, but Dinadan saw her knuckles, white against the dark cloth of her daughters'' cloaks. He saw the way Elaina pressed into her side, hiding her face.
Morgana didn’t hide. She watched.
Dinadan said nothing. The words he''d have spoken were useless here. All the right words, but too late.
Vortigaunt moved then, his steps slow, deliberate. The crowd''s breath caught as he stepped from shadow to light, as though even the sun flinched from him. His pale hand rose, a gesture as simple and sharp as a blade unsheathed.
And it was enough.
Nothing moved. No words. No prayers.
Only endings.
Dinadan didn’t look away. And neither did Aidric.
And the axe fell.
The sound echoed, sharp and wrong, cracking across the stones. A gasp went through the crowd like the last breath of a dying man. Elaina sobbed softly, muffled in her mother’s skirts. Gausse bit her lip until it bled. Morgana did not move.
Dinadan watched them. All of them. The ones who stared, and the ones who could not bear to. The ones who whispered, and the ones who would pretend later that they hadn’t watched at all.
The moment stretched, a long shadow that refused to lift. The executioner stepped back, leaving his axe buried in the platform as though it weighed more than stone. Vortigern watched, his eyes still, cold, patient. Always patient.
Dinadan glanced at Aidric.
The boy stood rigid, as though if he didn''t move, the world wouldn’t move either.
Dinadan’s voice cut the silence. "Still think it was justice?"
Aidric didn’t turn. Didn’t speak. But his fists trembled.
"It had to be done," he said, though his voice cracked against the weight of the lie.
Dinadan’s smile was thin, humorless. "That''s the trick with killing, lad. The first time feels wrong. It’s supposed to. But the second is easier. And by the third, you’ll wonder why you even thought to question it at all."
Aidric’s head snapped around. His eyes burned. "What else could we do?"
Dinadan’s gaze slid to the platform. "We could’ve been better men. But I don’t see many of those here."
The silence stretched. Heavy. Endless.
Dinadan clapped a hand on Aidric’s shoulder. "Come. This place has enough ghosts. Let''s find a place where the living still drink.<hr>
The tavern was low-roofed and thick with smoke, the kind of place that soured ale before it soured men. A fire burned low in the hearth, throwing shadows like knives across the walls. The air smelled of wet wood, old ale, and things best not named.
They sat in the darkest corner. Aidric stared into his tankard as though it held answers. Dinadan drank. It didn’t.
Aidric’s voice broke the silence first. "He didn’t deserve it."
Dinadan didn’t look up. "No one does. But that’s not the point, is it?"
Aidric’s hands tightened around his drink. "He was a good man. A loyal knight. He wasn’t—"
Dinadan cut him off. "Good men die easier. They don’t know how to crawl. Or kneel. Or lie. That’s why they end up on the block while the rest of us drink to their memory."
The boy looked down, shoulders hunched beneath the weight of truth.
"And what do we do?" Aidric asked, voice small. "When it’s us on that block?"
Dinadan stared into his ale, eyes dark. "We don’t. We learn. We kneel lower. We bow deeper. Or we bleed."
Aidric shook his head. "That’s not right."
Dinadan’s laugh was low, sharp. "No, it isn’t. But it’s the way of things. And men like Vortigern are good at making sure it stays that way."
Aidric said nothing. Only sat there, staring into the depths of his cup like it might hold the world.
Dinadan traced the edges of the parchment Merlin had given him earlier that day—directions to seek out an ancient healer''s book, rumored to contain knowledge that could counter the Darkening''s corruption.
"You''re going after it, aren''t you?" Aidric asked, breaking the silence.
Dinadan folded the parchment carefully. "Merlin rarely gives me a choice in these matters."
"While I return to Tintagel." Aidric''s voice carried an edge of bitterness.
Dinadan studied the boy. "Knight training is what you wanted."
"Under Gorlois?" Aidric''s hands tightened around his drink. "After what happened to Sir Laris?"
"And what do I do?" Aidric asked, voice small. "When I''m training under the man who ordered it?"
Dinadan stared into his ale, eyes dark. "You learn. You watch. You remember who you are." He paused. "And you remember that not all lessons come from the training yard."
"That''s not right," Aidric said, shaking his head. "Learning from a man whose heart blackens by the day."
Dinadan''s laugh was low, sharp. "No, it isn''t. But sometimes we learn most from those we wish to never become. And men like Gorlois are excellent teachers of what to avoid."
Aidric said nothing. Only sat there, staring into the depths of his cup like it might hold some escape from his coming apprenticeship.
"I should be going with you," he said finally. "Helping you find this book."
"Your path lies at Tintagel," Dinadan replied. "For now. Mine leads elsewhere. That''s how Y Tir works—it doesn''t always keep us together."
"But it does keep calling us back," Aidric said quietly.
Dinadan watched him a moment longer. Then he stood.
"Come. There''s no truth at the bottom of that drink. Only more questions." His voice softened. "And you''ll learn soon enough that some questions are better left unasked in Gorlois''s halls."
He tossed a coin to the tavern wench and stepped outside, the wind catching his cloak and snapping it around his legs. Aidric followed, his shadow stretching long behind him.
Tomorrow they would part ways—Aidric to the stone walls of Tintagel, and Dinadan to chase yet another of Merlin''s impossible quests. Neither path promised comfort.
Bracken stomped her hooves impatiently, eager to be away from this place of shadows and half-truths.
The Wyvern still circled above, sharp eyes tracking every step. Watching.
Always watching.