《The Knight Who Whispers to Kings》 1. The Road to Nowhere C?n Annwn. Stand yer ground, Sir. The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. gwallgofyn.
hen ffrind 2. The Call of the Stones If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

Unworthy. 3. A Knight of Muck and Noise Yr Carw Gwyn What did you expect? Hen Dduwiau If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. The Great Spill of Yr Carw Gwyn. What mess have you dragged me into this time? 4. A Knight Unarmed The muck clinging to Dinadan was becoming unbearable. Every shift in the saddle released a fresh wave of the stench¡ªsour and choking, like stagnant water steeped in rotting vegetation. It curled relentlessly into his nostrils, clinging to his hair and seeping through the padded gambeson beneath his armor. No amount of fresh air could escape the wretched odor. Bracken, ever the stoic mule, flicked her ears with increasing irritation, stomping a hoof against the dirt trail. Her tail lashed at the swarm of flies that had taken up residence around Dinadan, their incessant buzzing a symphony of condemnation. One particularly bold fly landed on his cheek, and he swatted it away with a curse, only to have another dive at his neck. ¡°I know, I know,¡± Dinadan muttered, glaring at the mule as if she were the source of his troubles. ¡°You¡¯d think I planned to smell like a midden heap. Maybe it¡¯ll scare off bandits.¡± He waved his hand ineffectively at the flies, only for them to regroup and return, undeterred. Without a cloak to drape over himself, their assault was unrelenting. His cloak¡ªbattered and threadbare though it had been¡ªnow lay in a refuse pile somewhere far behind him, sacrificed to mop up the aftermath of a regrettable encounter with a chamber pot. ¡°I¡¯d give half a coin for that wretched thing back right now,¡± he muttered, brushing a fly from his eyebrow. ¡°At least it was good for swatting you lot.¡± Bracken snorted, tossing her head as another fly settled near her ear. Her usual patience seemed to wear thin as she shook herself and took an obstinate step off the trail. Dinadan tugged her reins gently, his attention caught by the faint gurgling of water up ahead. He craned his neck, spotting the glimmer of a stream snaking through the woods, its surface fracturing the moonlight into ribbons of silver. ¡°Well, that¡¯s a blessing if ever I saw one,¡± he said, relief creeping into his tone. ¡°Hold steady, girl.¡± Dismounting with a groan, he landed heavily, his boots squelching against the soft earth. His armor clinked with the discordant jangle of an ill-tuned bell. The flies surged around him in protest, forming a noisy, tenacious cloud determined to haunt him to his grave. ¡°If I¡¯m going to endure this miserable road,¡± he muttered, patting Bracken¡¯s neck with an air of resolution, ¡°I refuse to do it smelling like old stew and dragging half of Albion¡¯s flies along for the ride.¡± Bracken flicked her ears again, offering no sympathy as Dinadan began to guide her toward the stream. The mule, for all her loyalty, seemed to share his opinion about the smell he carried. The cool air by the water¡¯s edge offered a brief reprieve, the breeze carrying away some of the stench. He glanced at his gauntlets, the steel dulled and smudged from grime. Every piece of him cried out for a scrubbing, but the thought of removing his armor¡ªalone¡ªmade him groan aloud. ¡°Right,¡± he muttered, grimacing as he loosened the first strap. ¡°Let¡¯s see if I can do this without flinging myself into the stream headfirst.¡± Removing his armor was always a chore, even with a squire¡¯s help. Alone, it became a full-scale battle, requiring ingenuity, persistence, and a generous helping of curses. The flies hovering around him did little to improve the experience. Dinadan began with the gauntlets, fumbling at the leather straps until they gave way. His fingers, stiff and clumsy after hours of riding, struggled to undo the knots, but eventually, they dropped to the ground with a dull clang. He flexed his hands, savoring their newfound freedom, though the air was cool enough to make him shiver. Next came the pauldrons. He twisted awkwardly, reaching over his shoulder to unbuckle the straps securing them to his gambeson. The left one came free with only minor grumbling, but the right seemed determined to stay put. He tugged harder, nearly losing his balance as the stubborn strap finally gave way. The pauldron clattered to the ground, and Dinadan let out an exasperated sigh. ¡°You¡¯re supposed to protect me in battle,¡± he muttered at the fallen piece, ¡°not resist me at every turn.¡± Now came the hard part: the chainmail shirt made of a thick layer of interlocking metal rings. It weighed heavily on his shoulders, already aching from the day¡¯s journey. Dinadan tugged at the hem, pulling it loose from where it had bunched against the padding of his gambeson. ¡°I¡¯ll regret this tomorrow,¡± he grumbled, bending forward slightly and gripping the neckline. He pulled it up over his head, leaning forward further to let gravity do the work. The mail caught on his shoulders, and he gave an awkward shimmy, jerking his shoulders side to side to free himself. The effort was less than dignified. He bent nearly double, shaking his upper body like a dog shaking off water, the heavy links scraping against his skin and tangling briefly in his hair. With a grunt, he gave one last heave, and the chainmail slid free, crashing to the ground with a muffled thud. Dinadan straightened slowly, rolling his shoulders with a wince. ¡°By the Shining Ones,¡± he muttered, rubbing at the red marks left on his skin, ¡°if I ever meet the man who invented chainmail, I¡¯ll be sure to thank him kindly before strangling him with it.¡± The night air nipped at Dinadan¡¯s damp gambeson as he shrugged out of it, the padded fabric reeking of sweat and grime. He tossed it onto a flat rock near Bracken, the mule eyeing the motion with her usual silent judgment. His breeches followed, sticking to his legs like they were making a last stand before joining the pile. When he finally stood in just his tunic, goosebumps prickling his skin, he let out a huff.Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation. ¡°Well,¡± he muttered, patting the tunic¡¯s hem, ¡°one more layer to go, and it¡¯s just me, the moon, and half a bar of soap.¡± He tugged the tunic over his head and added it to the heap, standing bare and defiant in the cool night. Bracken snorted, unimpressed. ¡°I¡¯ll spare you the view,¡± he said with a wry grin, grabbing the soap and leaving the frayed towel on the rock. ¡°You hold down the fort.¡± The stream welcomed him with a biting chill that seized his breath as he waded in, the icy water swirling around his thighs like a dare. Gritting his teeth, he splashed water over his chest and arms, scrubbing quickly with the misshapen bar of soap. The faint lather was better than nothing, though the soap crumbled in protest at his rough handling. His hands moved with practiced efficiency¡ªarms, legs, and hair done in swift strokes. The cold seeped into his bones, but he wasn¡¯t about to linger. Emerging from the stream, water dripping down his shivering frame, Dinadan grabbed the rough cloth and toweled off briskly. The material scratched against his skin, but he welcomed the sensation. At least it wasn¡¯t mud or sweat. Climbing onto the flat rock, he let his legs dangle into the current and exhaled deeply, the moonlight painting the clearing in cool silver. Bracken huffed softly behind him. ¡°Oh, don¡¯t give me that,¡± Dinadan said without turning. ¡°I¡¯ll be back to smelling like despair soon enough. Let me pretend to be civilized for five minutes.¡± Bracken swished her tail, unimpressed as always. Dinadan chuckled to himself, his breath misting in the crisp air. For a moment, with the chill fading from his skin and the stream¡¯s quiet song lulling his thoughts, he almost felt at peace. Almost.
The stillness shattered. ¡°Knights in Albion must truly be desperate, bathing in streams like vagrants.¡± Dinadan froze, one hand hovering over his discarded tunic. The voice was smooth but carried a weight that sent a cold shiver down his spine. Slowly, his eyes scanned the shadows at the edge of the clearing. A figure stepped into the moonlight, the night seeming to darken as if recoiling from him. His cloak, black and fluid as a raven¡¯s wing, swept the ground with each deliberate step. Pale, angular features emerged from the gloom, sharp as a blade etched in frost. But it was his eyes¡ªcold, unrelenting, and void of humanity¡ªthat pinned Dinadan in place. They held him like a stag caught in the gaze of a wolf, aware that it had no chance of escape. ¡°Well,¡± Dinadan said, forcing a grin as he dragged the tunic over his damp hair, ¡°this is awkward. Had I known I¡¯d have an audience, I¡¯d have worn something more formal.¡± The man¡¯s lips curled faintly, though it was far from a smile. ¡°Formality is wasted on a fool who reeks of failure.¡± Dinadan sighed, scrubbing a hand through his wet hair, shaking off both water and tension. ¡°Nice to meet you, too. Though I assume you didn¡¯t come here to critique my grooming habits.¡± ¡°You jest,¡± the man replied, his voice low and cutting, ¡°as though this is a game.¡± Dinadan tilted his head, brushing water from his brow with deliberate nonchalance. ¡°Not a game. More of a performance. Though I admit, your entrance has stolen the spotlight. A touch dramatic, don¡¯t you think?¡± The figure¡¯s gaze didn¡¯t falter. His presence seemed to drag the temperature lower, the edges of the clearing curling into shadow. ¡°You are unarmed, unarmored, and utterly unworthy,¡± he said, stepping closer. ¡°Your existence is an insult to the land.¡± Dinadan stiffened, his hand drifting toward his chainmail before stopping mid-motion. His grin thinned, though it refused to vanish entirely. ¡°You¡¯ve yet to introduce yourself, friend. Though I¡¯ll give you this¡ªyour insults are top-notch. Were you born with that tongue, or is it something you practiced in front of a mirror?¡± The faint smirk faded, replaced by a chilling stillness. ¡°I am Vortigern,¡± the man said, the name landing like the toll of a bell. Dinadan¡¯s breath hitched, his heart racing as the weight of recognition struck. His bravado faltered, the name summoning memories whispered in dim taverns and sung in somber verses. ¡°Vortigern,¡± Dinadan repeated, his voice barely steady. ¡°The tyrant. The scourge of Albion.¡± Vortigern¡¯s eyes gleamed, his lips curving into something that might have been a smile if it weren¡¯t so predatory. ¡°You flatter me.¡± Dinadan swallowed hard, his mind scrambling for a plan. He had heard the stories¡ªhow Vortigern rose on the backs of the broken, a shadow swallowing kings and armies alike. ¡°I¡¯ve heard tales of you, too,¡± Vortigern said, his tone cutting through the silence like a blade. ¡°A knight who hides behind his tongue, who wears folly as his armor. Tell me, fool¡ªdo you think your wit will shield you from what comes?¡± Dinadan¡¯s grin flickered, but he caught it before it slipped entirely. ¡°Well, it¡¯s worked so far,¡± he said lightly. ¡°Besides, words are harder to blunt than steel. And I do enjoy a good swing.¡± Vortigern stepped closer, his presence suffocating. ¡°And when your words fail you?¡± Dinadan met his gaze, his voice softer but steady. ¡°When they fail, they remind me that I¡¯m human. That I can falter. And fall.¡± Vortigern¡¯s brow twitched, disdain flickering briefly across his face. Dinadan leaned forward, his tone sharpening. ¡°The world doesn¡¯t need another perfect knight, Vortigern. Albion has plenty of those¡ªheroes with shining swords and spotless cloaks, men who stand unyielding until they break.¡± He gestured to himself, water dripping from his damp tunic, hair plastered to his face. ¡°What it needs is someone to remind those perfect knights that they bleed. That their glory is a brittle thing, no stronger than the rest of us.¡± Vortigern¡¯s gaze was icy, his expression unchanging. ¡°And so, you¡¯ve chosen to be the fool.¡± Dinadan gave a faint laugh, though there was no humor in it. ¡°Chosen? No. The world made me a fool long before I learned to wear it like armor. Better to make them laugh than to let them see me fall.¡± The shadows at Vortigern¡¯s feet deepened, curling like smoke made solid. His voice dropped, sharp and cutting. ¡°Do not mistake your folly for wisdom. The land does not call jesters to its Henge. It seeks strength¡ªunyielding and absolute. Not the musings of a man who hides behind his tongue.¡± Dinadan¡¯s smile tightened, though his shoulders squared. ¡°Strength, you say? You mean the kind that burns villages, crushes the helpless beneath a heel? Or the kind that demands kneeling from men too hungry to stand?¡± ¡°You mock what you cannot comprehend,¡± Vortigern growled, his pale eyes flashing dangerously. ¡°Perhaps I do,¡± Dinadan admitted, his voice light but his gaze sharp. ¡°Or perhaps I¡¯ve seen enough of men like you to know your strength is a lie. A performance. Except where I leave them laughing, you leave them bleeding.¡± The warlord stepped closer, his voice a cold, measured blade. ¡°You know nothing of power.¡± Dinadan¡¯s voice dropped, his grin faint but unwavering. ¡°And you know nothing of humility.¡± Vortigern raised a hand, and the clearing erupted. Shadows surged from the edges of the stream, rising like black fog made flesh. The first tendrils coiled around Dinadan¡¯s legs, cold and unyielding as iron chains. They tightened, dragging him down, their icy grip biting into his flesh and spreading frost through his veins. He stumbled, gasping as they wound around his chest and arms, squeezing tighter with every heartbeat. The air thinned, his breath coming in ragged bursts, the tendrils pressing against his throat like a vice. ¡°Well, this feels excessive,¡± Dinadan rasped, his voice strained but defiant. ¡°Can¡¯t we settle this with a wager? Or a riddle, perhaps?¡± Vortigern ignored him, his voice a whisper that slithered through the air. ¡°You are the land¡¯s mistake. A jest when it needed resolve. I will see you silenced.¡± The tendrils coiled higher, pressing against Dinadan¡¯s ribs, his throat, his very will. Every attempt to move only fed their strength, the oppressive cold stealing the air from his lungs. ¡°Silenced?¡± Dinadan choked out, his voice defiant even as the darkness smothered him. ¡°Good luck. I¡¯ve been talking since I learned to walk.¡± The warlord sneered. ¡°Then speak your last, fool.¡± With a flick of his wrist, the shadows surged, consuming him entirely. 5. Bound by Darkness This is the end,A knight who cannot stand is no knight at all. You¡¯ve always been a fool. Vortigern was right. Albion doesn¡¯t need you. It never did. Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions. do something. What use am I? The land calls, but it chooses a fool. Vortigern was right. I¡¯m not a knight. Just a broken man stuck in the mud. You¡¯re not strong enough. You¡¯ve never been strong enough. I don¡¯t need to be perfect. I just need to keep going. 6. Through the Eyes of the Weary Dinadan glanced over his shoulder as they trudged along the uneven path. Aidric kept pace, but not without effort. The bruises on the boy¡¯s face had darkened in the growing sunlight, and his steps faltered now and then, though he tried to hide it. The chest remained firmly clutched to his ribs, its faint glow subdued in the daylight. Dinadan¡¯s own body ached from the morning¡¯s chaos, but watching the boy¡¯s dogged struggle stirred something heavier than pain¡ªa gnawing sense of responsibility. ¡°Hold up,¡± Dinadan said, stopping so suddenly that Aidric almost collided with him. The boy caught himself just in time, clutching the chest even tighter. ¡°Change of plan. First stop, the healer. You¡¯re looking worse than a stew left too long on the fire, and I¡¯ve no intention of dragging a corpse to... wherever you¡¯re going.¡± ¡°I¡¯m fine,¡± Aidric muttered, his voice barely audible. Dinadan raised an eyebrow. ¡°You don¡¯t look fine, lad. You look like you¡¯ve been thrashed by a tavern brawl and lost. Badly.¡± He softened his tone, adding, ¡°I know what being banged up looks like. Trust me¡ªthis is banged up.¡± Aidric hesitated, his gaze darting to the ground, then gave a reluctant nod. ¡°Good choice,¡± Dinadan said, turning back to pat Bracken¡¯s neck. ¡°And you,¡± he said, addressing the mule, ¡°don¡¯t give me that look. We¡¯re stopping whether you approve or not.¡± Bracken flicked an ear and swished her tail, her opinion clear enough. The healer¡¯s hut squatted on the outskirts of the village, leaning slightly to one side as though it had grown tired of standing upright. The tangy scent of herbs mingled with the earthy smell of damp wood, wrapping around Dinadan the moment he ducked through the low doorway. Dried plants hung in bundles from the rafters, their brittle edges brushing his hair as he stepped inside. The healer, a wiry woman with eyes sharp enough to cut through stone, looked up from a cluttered worktable. She studied Aidric for half a heartbeat before letting out a noise somewhere between a scoff and a sigh. ¡°There,¡± she said, pointing to a low stool near the hearth. Aidric obeyed without a word, still clutching the chest as though it might disappear if he let go. The healer¡¯s eyes flicked to the box, narrowing slightly, but she didn¡¯t ask. Instead, she crouched in front of the boy and poked at his bruises with rough, practiced fingers. ¡°Cracked rib,¡± she muttered. ¡°Could¡¯ve been worse. The bruises¡¯ll turn every shade under the sun before they heal, though.¡± She straightened with a grunt and began rummaging through the shelves lining the walls. Dinadan leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed ¡°Not much of a hand for pleasantries, are you?¡± The healer snorted. ¡°Want me to coddle him? Pat his head and kiss his bruises?¡± Dinadan grinned. ¡°Wouldn¡¯t say no.¡± She ignored him, returning with a jar of pungent salve and a roll of cloth. ¡°Hold still,¡± she instructed Aidric, her tone brooking no argument. She worked quickly, dabbing the salve on the worst of the bruises and binding his ribs with steady, calloused hands. Aidric flinched but didn¡¯t make a sound. The healer stepped back, nodding in approval. ¡°You¡¯ll live,¡± she said. ¡°But don¡¯t go running about like a fool, or you¡¯ll undo my work.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll make sure he doesn¡¯t,¡± Dinadan said, pushing off the doorframe. ¡°¡°You¡¯ve a deft hand, Herbwife. What¡¯s the cost for your work?¡± ¡°Two coins,¡± she said without looking up, already tidying her shelves. Dinadan patted his pockets, grimacing. ¡°Ah, about that... How do you feel about taking payment in the form of a riveting tale or two?¡± The healer turned slowly, her glare enough to fell a tree. ¡°Or,¡± Dinadan added hastily, ¡°perhaps I¡¯ll owe you a favor. I¡¯m very good at those.¡± She waved a hand dismissively. ¡°Get out. You¡¯ve wasted enough of my time.¡± ¡°Much obliged,¡± Dinadan said, steering Aidric out the door. ¡°Your generosity is unmatched.¡± Outside, Dinadan rummaged through Bracken¡¯s saddlebags, pulling out what little remained of his provisions. Aidric perched on a low stone wall, the chest resting on his lap. His fingers rested more lightly on its surface now. Dinadan handed him a hunk of bread and a sliver of cheese. ¡°Not much, but it¡¯ll keep the worms from gnawing at your insides.¡± He tore into his own bread and added, ¡°You¡¯d be amazed at how long you can survive on dried apples and hard cheese. Well, survive poorly, but survive all the same.¡± Aidric nibbled at the bread, his gaze distant. Dinadan decided against pressing him for answers¡ªat least for now. The boy¡¯s silence felt like armor, and Dinadan knew better than to hammer away at it just yet. Instead, Dinadan¡¯s attention drifted to Bracken, who grazed nearby, her ears twitching with contentment. The sight of her, calm and steady, felt like a balm to his own restless thoughts. ¡°You need a mount,¡± Dinadan said abruptly, breaking the quiet. Aidric blinked at him, confused. ¡°What?¡± ¡°A mule,¡± Dinadan clarified. ¡°You can¡¯t lug that chest on foot all the way to wherever you¡¯re headed. Trust me, lad, I¡¯ve been on the road long enough to know. A mule¡¯s your best bet¡ªstrong, smart, and far less inclined to throw you into a ditch than a horse.¡± Aidric hesitated. ¡°I don¡¯t need¡ª¡± ¡°If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. ¡°You do,¡± Dinadan cut in, his tone firm but kind. ¡°Trust me, lad. I¡¯ve been on the road long enough to know.¡± The village stables leaned at an angle that made Dinadan wonder how they hadn¡¯t collapsed. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of hay and manure. Dinadan approached the merchant tending the pen, a shrewd-looking man with a thick beard and a sharp eye. ¡°This one,¡± Dinadan said, pointing to a gray mule with a calm demeanor. ¡°What¡¯s its price?¡± The merchant scratched his chin. ¡°That one¡¯s a fine beast. Strong legs, good temperament. Fifteen silver.¡± Dinadan scoffed, shaking his head. ¡°Fifteen? For a mule? Are we buying it or commissioning a painting of it?¡± The merchant bristled. ¡°It¡¯s worth every coin! You¡¯ll not find a better one in the shire.¡± Dinadan leaned on the fence, his smile disarming. ¡°Ten silver, and I won¡¯t tell everyone in the market about the time I saw you sell a rooster that crowed at the moon instead of the dawn.¡± The merchant¡¯s eyes narrowed, but after a tense moment, he sighed. ¡°Fine. Ten silver. But only because that rooster was cursed, not faulty.¡± Dinadan laughed, tossing the coins into the merchant¡¯s hand. He led the scruffy mule out into the sunlight. Its long ears twitched, and its tail swished lazily. There was a spark of stubbornness in its dark eyes. Aidric frowned, his gaze flicking between the mule and Dinadan. ¡°That¡¯s it?¡± Dinadan patted the mule¡¯s neck. ¡°Oh, don¡¯t be fooled by his looks. Mules are smarter than they let on, tougher than a knight¡¯s hide, and far less likely to throw you when the going gets rough.¡± The mule brayed loudly, as if in agreement, and flicked its ears toward Aidric. ¡°See?¡± Dinadan said, grinning. ¡°He likes you already. What¡¯ll you name him?¡± Aidric hesitated, then said, ¡°Thistle.¡± Dinadan nodded. ¡°Good choice. Stubborn, prickly, and unlikely to budge without good reason. I¡¯d say it suits him.¡± For the first time since they¡¯d met, Aidric smiled¡ªa faint, fleeting thing, but real enough to catch Dinadan off guard. By the time they left the village, the sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the path ahead. Aidric walked beside Thistle, the chest resting on the mule¡¯s squared back now. Dinadan adjusted the straps on Bracken¡¯s saddle one last time, then set off at a steady pace, the rhythm of hooves and boots filling the quiet ¡°Well, lad,¡± Dinadan said, breaking the silence, ¡°you¡¯ve got yourself a mule, a patched-up set of ribs, and a full stomach. I¡¯d say you¡¯re better off than most travelers.¡± Aidric didn¡¯t answer, but he looked more relaxed, his shoulders no longer hunched as if braced for a blow. Dinadan smirked, ¡°This is shaping up to be the quietest journey I¡¯ve ever been on. You¡¯re not much for conversation, are you?¡± Aidric shrugged without looking up. Dinadan smirked. ¡°Right, I suppose the ¡®nearly beaten to death by brigands¡¯ thing might have dampened your enthusiasm. But don¡¯t let me monopolize the chatter. Go on, tell me all about yourself. Where you¡¯re from, what you like to do in your spare time, why you¡¯re carrying a box that glows like it¡¯s holding a piece of the sun...¡± Aidric¡¯s reached up and put his hand on the chest. ¡°It doesn¡¯t glow.¡± ¡°Lad, I saw it,¡± Dinadan said, arching an eyebrow. ¡°It was faint, I¡¯ll grant you, but it wasn¡¯t a trick of the light. That thing¡¯s got... something going on in there.¡± Aidric glanced at him, his jaw set stubbornly. ¡°It¡¯s none of your business.¡± Dinadan sighed dramatically. ¡°Ah, the old ¡®none of your business¡¯ line. Fair enough. I¡¯m just the fool who saved you from brigands, put you in a healer¡¯s care, and bought you a fine mule. No reason at all I¡¯d need to know what trouble you¡¯re dragging me into.¡± Aidric looked away, his lips pressed into a thin line. They walked in silence for a while longer, the path narrowing as it began a gradual incline. The trees rustled in the breeze, their shadows flickering across the ground. Birds flitted between branches, their songs filling the gaps in conversation. ¡°You¡¯re heading to the Henge,¡± Dinadan said finally, his tone less teasing now. Aidric stiffened but didn¡¯t answer. ¡°You don¡¯t have to say it,¡± Dinadan went on. ¡°I know the look of someone with a purpose they can¡¯t shake, even if it¡¯s bigger than they are. Whatever¡¯s in that box, you¡¯ve got a duty to deliver it, don¡¯t you?¡± Aidric stopped walking; his shoulders hunched again. He glanced down at the chest, then back up at Dinadan. ¡°It¡¯s not just a box,¡± he said quietly. Dinadan tilted his head, intrigued by the sudden shift. ¡°Go on.¡± Aidric hesitated, then began walking again, his words slow and cautious. ¡°My father... he told me about it before he died. He said it was our family¡¯s burden, passed down for generations. It¡¯s... part of the land, somehow. Something ancient, older than the kings, older than anything.¡± Dinadan frowned, his steps faltering. ¡°Older than the kings? What does that even mean?¡± Aidric shook his head. ¡°I don¡¯t know all of it. He didn¡¯t have time to explain. He just said it has to be at the Henge before the meeting of the elders. That it¡¯s... important.¡± Dinadan fell silent, his mind working through the boy¡¯s words. He¡¯d heard tales of artifacts tied to Albion¡¯s magic¡ªthings said to hold pieces of the land¡¯s very essence. Relics like that weren¡¯t just rare; they were dangerous, especially in the wrong hands. ¡°And the glowing?¡± Dinadan asked after a moment. ¡°Does it always do that?¡± Aidric hesitated. ¡°No. It started when... when I ran into you.¡± Dinadan stopped walking, turning to face the boy. ¡°When you ran into me?¡± Aidric nodded, his grip on the chest tightening. ¡°It¡¯s connected to something you have. I felt it. And it hasn¡¯t stopped since.¡± Dinadan reached into his tunic and pulled out the key, its faint warmth pulsing against his palm. Aidric stared at it, his eyes wide. ¡°You¡¯re saying this little thing is linked to whatever¡¯s in there?¡± Dinadan asked, holding up the key. ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± Aidric admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. ¡°But it feels... the same.¡± Dinadan studied the key, its pulsing light echoing faintly in his hand. Taliesin¡¯s words came back to him: The land speaks your name. This boy, this chest, this key¡ªnone of it was coincidence. ¡°Well, that¡¯s troubling,¡± Dinadan muttered, tucking the key back into his tunic. They continued walking, the path growing steeper as the hills rolled higher around them. The air grew cooler, the breeze carrying hints of heather and wildflowers. Aidric didn¡¯t answer, but Dinadan caught the faintest twitch of his lips. ¡°You¡¯ve got guts, lad. I¡¯ll give you that,¡± Dinadan said, smiling. ¡°But guts don¡¯t count for much if you¡¯re walking blind into trouble. And trust me, the Henge isn¡¯t exactly the friendliest place right now. If the elders are gathering, you can bet every faction with a grievance will be sniffing around. That box of yours? It¡¯ll paint a target on your back big enough to see from Camelot.¡± Aidric¡¯s steps slowed, his knuckles white on the chest¡¯s edges. ¡°I didn¡¯t ask you to come with me,¡± he said defensively. ¡°No,¡± Dinadan said, his tone softening. ¡°But you need someone to watch your back. Whether you want to admit it or not.¡± They walked in silence again, Aidric¡¯s stiff posture gradually relaxing as the miles passed. Finally, he said, ¡°I didn¡¯t thank you. For helping me.¡± Dinadan grinned. ¡°You didn¡¯t need to. But I¡¯ll take it anyway. You¡¯re welcome, lad.¡± By the time the sun dipped low on the horizon, painting the hills in hues of gold and amber, Dinadan had made up his mind. Aidric¡¯s story, though fragmented and incomplete, was enough to convince him that leaving the boy to fend for himself wasn¡¯t an option. They stopped for the evening near a small grove, the mules grazing quietly while Dinadan laid out their sparse provisions. Aidric sat nearby, the chest still in his lap, but his grip on it was looser now. Dinadan watched him for a moment before speaking. ¡°Alright, lad. Here¡¯s the deal. I¡¯ll see you to the Henge. You don¡¯t have to explain everything right now, but if trouble comes knocking¡ªand it will¡ªI need to know enough to keep us both alive. Agreed?¡± Aidric hesitated, then nodded. ¡°Good,¡± Dinadan said, leaning back against a tree. ¡°And if you¡¯re wondering why I¡¯m sticking my neck out for you, it¡¯s because I¡¯m an idiot. Or maybe just curious. Either way, you¡¯re stuck with me.¡± The boy stayed silent, his hand resting more lightly on Thistle¡¯s reins as his shoulders eased, no longer curled against some invisible weight. Dinadan watched him out of the corner of his eye, the boy¡¯s quiet resilience igniting a restless spark in him. The hills ahead grew sharper against the evening sky, and with each step, Dinadan felt a strange, growing pull¡ªas if the path itself was urging him forward, demanding more from him than he¡¯d ever thought he could give. 7. Tales of Turnips and Tyrants witcharm his Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator. 8. Of Wyverns and Wizards
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
9. A Forgotten Visigoth Aidric glanced over his shoulder, checking to see if Dinadan was still asleep. The knight lay sprawled against a log, his cloak draped haphazardly over him, his head tilted back in the posture of a man who slept out of necessity rather than comfort. His breathing was steady, deep, and rhythmic¡ªan anchor of calm in the stillness of the forest. Satisfied that Dinadan was none the wiser, Aidric turned his attention back to the helm, his fingers brushing away the last remnants of dirt clinging to its surface. The morning light filtered through the trees in golden shards, falling across the artifact and illuminating faint etchings on its rim. Aidric¡¯s pulse quickened as the patterns emerged with clarity¡ªintricate carvings that seemed almost alive under the shifting light, each curve and line whispering stories of an age long past. His fingertips traced the interlocking ravens etched around the edge, their wings stretching into twisting knots that wove endlessly, as if to bind together something ancient and powerful. The faint grooves felt cool and smooth under his touch, and as the light caught them, he could almost swear they shimmered. ¡°You¡¯re worse than a child with a forbidden sweet,¡± a low voice cut through the quiet, rough with sleep but carrying the unmistakable sharpness of Dinadan¡¯s wit. Aidric froze, his hand still on the helm as though he¡¯d been caught reaching into a treasure chest that wasn¡¯t his. He turned slowly, already forming a half-hearted excuse. ¡°I¡ªuh, I was just¡ª¡± ¡°Digging it out,¡± Dinadan finished for him, pushing himself upright with a groan and stretching his arms until his shoulders cracked. His blue eyes, still hazy with sleep, narrowed as he glanced at the helm. ¡°After I specifically told you not to.¡± Aidric ducked his head, a sheepish grin creeping across his face. ¡°It¡¯s not every day you find a Visigoth helm in the middle of nowhere. Can you really blame me?¡± Dinadan rolled his shoulders and rose to his feet, brushing leaves and twigs from his cloak. ¡°Oh, I can, and I do,¡± he said, striding over with a look of exasperated bemusement. ¡°Things that have been buried usually stayed there for a reason, lad. And it¡¯s usually a reason involving curses, bloodshed, or both.¡± He sighed, shaking his head. ¡°But since you¡¯ve already gone and tempted fate, let¡¯s at least see what your meddling¡¯s uncovered.¡± With the ease of someone accustomed to digging both literally and figuratively, Dinadan knelt beside Aidric, his deft hands joining in to clear the remaining dirt. The cool metal of the helm emerged fully, its surface dulled with age but unmarred by rust, as though the years had respected its story. Dinadan lifted it carefully, his hands steady despite the weight of the artifact. He turned it over, studying every angle with the practiced eye of a knight who¡¯d seen far more war than he cared to recount. The helm was heavier than it looked, its curved nose guard extending downward like a raven¡¯s beak¡ªa design as striking as it was functional. The interlocking ravens around the rim seemed to shift subtly in the light, their wings entwined in patterns that spoke of flight, freedom, and something darker beneath. ¡°This wasn¡¯t just armor,¡± Dinadan said after a long silence, his voice low with the weight of realization. ¡°This was a symbol. A message.¡± Aidric tilted his head, curiosity sparking in his eyes. ¡°What kind of message?¡± Dinadan ran his thumb over one of the carvings, his expression distant, as though the helm were whispering its secrets to him. ¡°The Visigoths didn¡¯t waste artistry on their weapons without a purpose. A raven... it¡¯s more than just a bird to them. It¡¯s a harbinger. A guide for the dead, a promise of vengeance.¡± He glanced up at Aidric, his voice darkening. ¡°This helm wasn¡¯t worn by just any soldier. Whoever owned this led men, and they led them into slaughter.¡± Aidric swallowed, his enthusiasm tempered by the weight of Dinadan¡¯s words. ¡°So, what do we do with it?¡± Dinadan stared at the helm for a moment longer, his grip tightening as if it might try to escape. Then, with a quiet sigh, he set it down between them, his gaze flickering to the trees surrounding their camp. Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.
Aidric stared at it, wide-eyed. ¡°A real Visigoth helm...¡± He grinned suddenly and snatched it from Dinadan¡¯s hands. ¡°Let me see how it fits.¡± Dinadan groaned. ¡°Don¡¯t put it¡ª¡± Too late. Aidric jammed the helm onto his head, the nose guard covering half his face. ¡°How do I look?¡± he asked, his voice muffled and oddly triumphant. ¡°Like a lost puppy pretending to be a wolf,¡± Dinadan said flatly, though the corner of his mouth twitched. Aidric planted his hands on his hips and puffed out his chest. ¡°You dare mock Magnus the Mighty? Scourge of Albion?¡± He grabbed an imaginary sword and swung it dramatically, striking a clumsy pose. ¡°Tremble before me, peasant!¡± Dinadan snorted, finally letting a grin crack through. ¡°Magnus the Mighty? You¡¯re not even Magnus the Moderately Menacing.¡± ¡°Ha! You¡¯re just jealous,¡± Aidric retorted, marching around the clearing. He deepened his voice to a theatrical growl. ¡°Bow before the great Visigoth warrior!¡± Dinadan sat back on his heels, watching Aidric¡¯s antics with mild amusement. ¡°I think the real Visigoths are rolling in their graves right now. Probably from laughter.¡± Aidric spun on him, pointing dramatically. ¡°You¡¯re just bitter because your ancestors lost to me on the field of glory.¡± Dinadan rolled his eyes. ¡°Lost? My father fought the Visigoths at Londinium. Held the gates long enough to evacuate the city. I think that counts as winning.¡±
Aidric stopped in his tracks, his grin fading as he slid the helm from his head. His fingers trembled slightly as he held it up, the intricate carvings of interlocking ravens catching the dappled sunlight. ¡°Your father... he fought them?¡± Dinadan¡¯s jaw tightened, his gaze fixed somewhere far beyond the forest. ¡°Sir Alain of Londinium,¡± he said quietly, the name heavy with both reverence and bitterness. ¡°They called him the Defender of Albion. He stood at the gates while Londinium burned behind him, held the line long enough to get the people out. They still sing songs about him.¡± ¡°And you don¡¯t like the songs?¡± Aidric¡¯s voice was soft, hesitant, as though afraid to shatter the fragile moment. Dinadan let out a harsh, bitter laugh. ¡°It¡¯s not the songs I mind, lad. It¡¯s what they leave out. They never sing about the silence that follows¡ªthe empty halls, the meals eaten alone. They don¡¯t sing about my mother, left to raise a son on her own, wondering every day if his sacrifice was worth it. They never tell you what happens to the ones left behind.¡± Aidric glanced down at the helm, his fingers tracing the sharp curve of the nose guard, as though the metal might hold answers. ¡°Do you think it was worth it?¡± Dinadan didn¡¯t respond immediately. His eyes lingered on the helm, his expression hard and unreadable. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and measured, as if each word carried the weight of a memory he¡¯d rather forget. ¡°Some days, I think it was. Some days, I can almost convince myself he was a hero. Other days... other days, I think he was a fool chasing a dream that never cared about him.¡± ¡°But without him, those people wouldn¡¯t have survived,¡± Aidric countered, his voice firm despite the unease in his eyes. Dinadan¡¯s mouth twisted into something resembling a smile, though it was brittle and humorless. ¡°And without him, I might¡¯ve had a father. Funny, isn¡¯t it? How heroism never seems to count the cost for those left behind.¡± Aidric hesitated, his grip on the helm tightening. ¡°Maybe he believed Albion was worth the cost,¡± he said softly. ¡°Maybe... maybe he believed you were worth it, too.¡± The words landed with a quiet force, their sincerity cutting through the bitterness like the first rays of dawn breaking through storm clouds. Dinadan blinked, caught off guard. His lips parted as though to argue, but no words came. Instead, he let out a long, slow breath, running a hand through his disheveled hair. ¡°Maybe,¡± he said at last, his voice barely above a whisper. ¡°But the thing about belief, Aidric¡ªit¡¯s heavy. And not everyone¡¯s strong enough to carry it.¡± Aidric¡¯s eyes dropped back to the helm, the ancient metal still cool under his touch. ¡°So... what do we do with it?¡± Dinadan rose slowly, brushing dirt from his knees as he looked down at the helm with something close to disdain. ¡°We leave it where it belongs. Things like this¡ªthey¡¯re the past¡¯s burden, not ours. The dead have enough trouble without us dragging their ghosts into the present.¡± Aidric hesitated, then crouched beside the tree roots and carefully set the helm down, its raven motif gleaming faintly in the shifting light. ¡°It feels wrong,¡± he admitted, his voice tight. ¡°Like we¡¯re abandoning something important.¡± Dinadan¡¯s tone softened, the sharp edge of his usual wit giving way to something quieter, something almost kind. ¡°Lad,¡± he said, clapping a hand on Aidric¡¯s shoulder, ¡°sometimes the best thing you can do for the past is let it rest. Albion doesn¡¯t need another ghost to carry.¡± The two of them stood in silence, the quiet hum of the forest pressing in around them. The morning sun climbed higher, its light piercing the canopy and warming the earth. Finally, Dinadan gave a nod toward the path. ¡°Come on,¡± he said, his voice returning to its usual briskness. ¡°The Henge won¡¯t wait for us, and I¡¯d rather not spend another night with these trees looking over my shoulder.¡± Aidric lingered for a moment, casting a final glance at the helm. The carvings seemed alive in the shifting light, the interlocking ravens whispering of battlefields long forgotten and sacrifices remembered only in fragments. Then he turned, following Dinadan toward the forest path. As they disappeared into the shadows of the trees, the helm remained behind. Its raven emblem glinted faintly, the morning light catching its edges like a memory refusing to fade, a silent testament to the cost of dreams. 10. When Londinium Burned
This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it. 11. The Shades of Indecision A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation. 12. The Labyrinth of Thorns and Trials Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings. ¡°Perhaps it does see something in you,¡± Aidric said at last, glancing over his shoulder. ¡°Or perhaps it¡¯s me the land is calling. Maybe you¡¯re just here because someone needs to keep me alive long enough to deliver this.¡± 13. The Toll of Destiny This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience. click, there 14. Of Wolves and Wyverns Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation. 15. Fevered Dreams of a Dying Land The cave didn¡¯t grow darker, but it felt darker, as if the flickering lantern light only illuminated the weight of Dinadan¡¯s choices. Outside, the horses shuffled nervously, their movements restless and abrupt. Bracken gave a soft whinny that echoed faintly through the stone hollow, but no other sound came from the forest. That silence was worse than any noise. Dinadan watched Aidric¡¯s shallow breathing and felt the knot in his chest tighten. His hands fidgeted, his fingertips running over the hilt of his sword, seeking distraction in the familiar grooves of the leather-wrapped grip. The boy¡¯s skin was pale, damp, and far too still. Even in sleep, he seemed burdened, the faint twitching of his limbs betraying dreams¡ªor nightmares¡ªhe couldn¡¯t escape. Dinadan leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. ¡°What are you fighting in there, lad?¡± he whispered. ¡°More importantly, what am I supposed to fight out here?¡± The forest offered no reply, only the unsettling hum of its stillness. Dinadan¡¯s throat tightened. For all his jests, for all his deflections, he knew the truth: he wasn¡¯t equipped for this. Aidric wasn¡¯t just any boy. He was a boy tethered to powers Dinadan neither trusted nor understood, powers that now reached through the land, suffocating him inch by inch. And Dinadan, knight or not, couldn¡¯t stop it. A sharp scrape echoed from the cave¡¯s entrance, a sound out of place in the quiet. Dinadan was on his feet before he fully processed it, his sword halfway drawn. The noise came again¡ªfootsteps, deliberate and unhurried. The lantern¡¯s light stretched toward the entrance, where a figure emerged from the gloom. ¡°Relax, Sir Dinadan,¡± Merlin said, stepping into the cave with the kind of unshakable calm that bordered on arrogance. ¡°If I meant you harm, you¡¯d already know it.¡± Dinadan didn¡¯t lower his blade immediately. ¡°I don¡¯t know what bothers me more¡ªthat you keep saying that or that you think it¡¯s comforting.¡± Merlin ignored the remark, his eyes moving to Aidric. His expression softened, his usually piercing gaze shadowed with something Dinadan might¡¯ve mistaken for concern. Merlin crossed the cave and knelt beside the boy, his dark robes pooling around him like spilled ink. ¡°How long?¡± Merlin asked, his voice even. ¡°Since yesterday,¡± Dinadan said, sheathing his sword but not fully relaxing. ¡°He burns like a forge, and he¡¯s been muttering nonsense about roots and shadows. You¡¯re late, by the way.¡± Merlin¡¯s lips twitched at that, but his attention was fixed on Aidric. He extended his hand, palm hovering just above the boy¡¯s chest. Dinadan felt the air shift, growing cooler and heavier, like the moment before a storm breaks. Aidric stilled under the sorcerer¡¯s touch, his labored breaths evening out, though his skin remained pale. Merlin straightened, but the weight in his expression didn¡¯t lift. ¡°The chest¡¯s power binds him still. Its magic is tied to the land, and through the land, to him. Its reach does not weaken with distance.¡± Dinadan¡¯s fists clenched at his sides. ¡°So what you¡¯re saying is, leaving it behind at the Henge didn¡¯t do a blighted thing?¡± ¡°It kept the chest from falling into the wrong hands,¡± Merlin said, his voice calm but firm. ¡°But its power cannot be severed so easily. It is not just a relic¡ªit is a tether to Albion¡¯s ancient magic, and it is demanding its due.¡± Dinadan barked a humorless laugh. ¡°Demanding its due? The boy didn¡¯t ask for this! None of us did! Why is he the one paying the price?¡± ¡°Because he was chosen,¡± Merlin said simply. Dinadan¡¯s temper flared, and he stepped closer, his voice rising. ¡°Chosen? By what? The land? Fate? Some blasted prophecy you and your ilk like tossing about to make sense of the mess you¡¯ve made? That¡¯s not choice¡ªthat¡¯s bloody convenience!¡± Merlin¡¯s gaze didn¡¯t waver, though his voice softened. ¡°I understand your anger, Dinadan. Truly, I do. But Albion¡¯s magic is not good or evil. It simply is. It requires much of those who wield it. And Aidric, for better or worse, is part of that.¡± Dinadan turned away, scrubbing a hand over his face. His thoughts churned like a storm, colliding with every step he¡¯d taken since this whole nightmare began. The boy stirred behind him, mumbling something incoherent again, and the sound cut through Dinadan¡¯s frustration like a blade. ¡°And me?¡± Dinadan asked, his voice quieter now, though no less strained. ¡°What¡¯s my part in this mess? You¡¯ve made it clear Aidric¡¯s tied to the chest, but what about me?¡± Merlin stepped away from the boy, his gaze settling heavily on Dinadan. ¡°You chose to carry the chest when others would have left it behind. That choice has weight, Sir Dinadan. Whether you acknowledge it or not.¡± Dinadan¡¯s laugh was sharp, bitter. ¡°Brilliant. Another bloody weight to add to the pile. You ever think maybe I carried it because someone had to?¡± ¡°Perhaps,¡± Merlin said, his tone thoughtful. ¡°But intention does not lessen the burden. It only shapes it.¡± Dinadan slumped against the wall, exhaustion pulling at every muscle. The fire flickered low, and outside, the forest remained eerily still. ¡°So, what now?¡± he asked, his voice flat. ¡°More cryptic warnings? More sacrifices?¡± Merlin¡¯s gaze darkened, and for a moment, Dinadan thought he saw regret flicker there. ¡°For Aidric, there will be trials. For you, there will be choices. And for both of you, the cost will be collected.¡± The words hung heavy in the air, as final as a sealed tomb. Dinadan said nothing, his gaze falling to the boy sleeping fitfully in the firelight. He didn¡¯t have the energy to argue anymore, and even if he did, he wasn¡¯t sure it would change anything. The cave grew quiet again, save for the soft crackle of the fire and Aidric¡¯s faint breaths. Dinadan sat back, staring into the flickering flames, waiting for dawn. For what came next. For a fight he didn¡¯t yet know how to win. The first pale fingers of dawn crept into the cave, scattering the long shadows that had lingered through the night. Light caught on the crystalline streaks running through the cavern walls, casting shifting, spectral patterns on the stone floor. The air inside was cool and still, but a deeper hum seemed to vibrate through the chamber¡ªa soundless pulse that only the bones could feel. Outside, the forest stirred hesitantly, the rustle of leaves and occasional bird calls breaking the uneasy silence. But inside, the Hollow Stone held its peace, as if waiting for its guests to rise and acknowledge its presence. Dinadan had not slept. His body ached from hours of tension, his legs stiff where he¡¯d slumped against the wall, but he hadn¡¯t taken his eyes off the boy lying a few feet away. Aidric was pale, his face drawn from a fever that had left him a shadow of his already fragile self. Dinadan leaned forward, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword. The other tapped a restless rhythm on the floor, the faint clicks echoing softly in the cavern. ¡°Any moment now, lad,¡± he muttered under his breath. ¡°Don¡¯t keep me waiting too long. I¡¯m no nursemaid, you know.¡± As if in response, Aidric stirred. His fingers twitched beneath the blanket, a small motion that sent relief surging through Dinadan¡¯s chest. The boy murmured something incoherent, his lips forming shapes that refused to become words. Dinadan pushed himself upright, ignoring the stiffness in his joints, and crossed to Aidric¡¯s side.This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. Aidric¡¯s eyelids fluttered, his face scrunching as if fighting off some unseen dream. Then, with a shallow gasp, his eyes opened. Glassy, unfocused, but alive. ¡°You¡¯re awake,¡± Dinadan said, his voice rough but uncharacteristically soft. Relief flooded through him, enough to make his knees weak. ¡°About bloody time, you little menace.¡± Aidric blinked up at him, his eyes unfocused but clear enough to lock onto Dinadan¡¯s face. ¡°Sir... Dinadan?¡± His voice was weak, scratchy, as if it had been dragged from some far-off place. ¡°That¡¯s the one,¡± Dinadan said, crouching beside him. ¡°How are you feeling? And don¡¯t lie to me. I¡¯ve had it up to here with people fainting around me.¡± Aidric frowned faintly, his lips curling in what might¡¯ve been a smile if he weren¡¯t so pale. ¡°Tired,¡± he murmured. ¡°But... I dreamed.¡± Dinadan raised an eyebrow, masking his worry with mock exasperation. ¡°Dreamed, did you? Well, that¡¯s promising. What was it? Rolling fields of sweetmeats? A dog that doesn¡¯t bite?¡± Aidric¡¯s expression grew distant, his eyes unfocused as they drifted toward the shimmering ceiling of the cavern. His voice was soft, hesitant, as though the words were dragging themselves out of him. ¡°It wasn¡¯t a tree,¡± he murmured. ¡°Not roots... veins. Great veins of fire and light, running under Albion. They stretched everywhere, binding the land together. But...¡± He swallowed hard, his voice trembling. ¡°They were cracking. And through the cracks, shadows were crawling. Twisting. And they whispered... they whispered ¡®The Darkening comes.¡¯¡± Dinadan¡¯s gut twisted at the words. He didn¡¯t know why they struck him so deeply, but the phrase carried a weight that pressed against his chest like a blade. He shot a sharp glance at Merlin, sitting cross-legged near the extinguished fire. The wizard¡¯s face, usually calm and impenetrable, was pale, his eyes shadowed by something darker than unease. ¡°Well?¡± Dinadan¡¯s voice was rougher than he¡¯d intended, his humor stripped away. ¡°What does that mean? And don¡¯t give me another riddle.¡± Merlin rose slowly, his staff in hand. The faint hum of the Hollow Stone deepened, a soundless vibration that made Dinadan¡¯s teeth ache. The air in the chamber thickened, pressing against his skin as though the cavern itself had become aware of them. When Merlin finally spoke, his voice was quiet but heavy with something ancient and undeniable. ¡°The Darkening is not merely a shadow, Sir Dinadan,¡± Merlin said, his gaze falling to Aidric. ¡°It is a force older than Albion itself, a wound in the land¡¯s very essence. The veins the boy saw... they are the Threads of Binding, the magic that knits Albion together. When they fracture, when shadows creep through the cracks, the land begins to unravel.¡± Dinadan felt a chill crawl up his spine, but he forced his voice to remain steady. ¡°And these shadows? What are they? Just... shadows? Or something worse?¡± Merlin¡¯s expression darkened, his eyes flickering to the shimmering pools scattered across the cavern floor. ¡°The shadows are alive. They are agents of The Darkening, sentient and insidious. They slip through the fractures in the Threads, feeding on Albion¡¯s magic, turning it against itself. They whisper to the weak and the desperate, promising power while spreading corruption.¡± Aidric stirred, his hands trembling as he clutched at the blanket wrapped around him. His voice was barely audible, hoarse and tinged with fear. ¡°They whispered about a king... a king who... who opened the way.¡± Merlin¡¯s jaw tightened, and he looked away, his grip on his staff whitening. Dinadan caught the movement, his eyes narrowing as suspicion flared in his chest. ¡°A king?¡± he pressed. ¡°You don¡¯t mean... Vortigern?¡± Merlin nodded grimly, his voice laced with quiet fury. ¡°Vortigern is no mere tyrant. He is an agent of The Darkening, whether he realizes it or not. He has made a bargain with the shadows, using their power to twist Albion to his will. The chest, the shard you carried to the Henge, is part of his plan¡ªpart of what he seeks to unravel.¡± Dinadan¡¯s temper flared, and he stepped closer, jabbing a finger at the wizard. ¡°So, leaving the shard behind didn¡¯t stop a blasted thing? The Henge, all its glowing rocks and ancient power¡ªit couldn¡¯t even keep him from twisting Albion into knots?¡± ¡°It slowed him,¡± Merlin countered, his tone sharp. ¡°The shard¡¯s power is tied to the Threads of Binding. It strengthens the Henge¡¯s wards and holds the shadows at bay. Without it, Vortigern would already be at the gates of the Henge, tearing it down stone by stone.¡± Dinadan barked a harsh laugh, though it carried no humor. ¡°So we¡¯ve traded one disaster for another? Albion¡¯s bleeding out, the boy¡¯s burning up, and now I¡¯m supposed to believe that shadows and cracked veins are going to finish us off unless we... what? Stroll into the Henge and fix it?¡± ¡°You cannot fix what is broken by force alone,¡± Merlin said, stepping toward the center of the chamber. His voice dropped, quiet but resonant, as the Hollow Stone seemed to hum in unison. ¡°The Threads of Binding are ancient. They hold Albion¡¯s magic together, but they demand balance. If Vortigern severs them entirely, Albion will fall into chaos. The Darkening will consume the land, and no force¡ªneither man nor magic¡ªwill be enough to stop it.¡± ¡°And Aidric?¡± Dinadan¡¯s voice cracked despite himself. He glanced at the boy, pale and fevered on the cavern floor. ¡°What happens to him?¡± Merlin¡¯s gaze softened, but the weight in his eyes didn¡¯t lessen. ¡°Aidric is tied to the Threads. He carries their echo in his blood. The shadows know this¡ªthey are drawn to him because of it. If the Threads fracture completely, the land will unravel, and he will not survive it.¡± Dinadan felt the words like a blow to his chest. He ran a hand through his hair, pacing a tight circle as his mind raced. ¡°Brilliant. So we¡¯ve got a boy tied to some cursed Threads, a mad king making pacts with shadows, and an ancient land ready to fall apart at the seams. And me? What¡¯s my grand role in this nightmare, Merlin? Just to drag him along and hope for the best?¡± Merlin¡¯s expression grew grave, his staff striking the stone floor with a dull thud. The hum of the Hollow Stone deepened, the pools of water rippling faintly. ¡°You are not here by chance, Sir Dinadan. The shard you carried to the Henge¡ªits power bound you to this path. You may not carry it now, but its reach remains. Every choice you make ripples through Albion¡¯s heart. The land watches you.¡± Dinadan stopped pacing, his hand dropping to his sword hilt. ¡°Watches me? I¡¯m no chosen knight, Merlin. I¡¯m just a man trying to keep a boy alive. If Albion¡¯s watching, it¡¯s looking at the wrong fool.¡± Merlin stepped closer, his gaze piercing. ¡°Perhaps it is not looking for a hero. Perhaps it is looking for someone who knows the cost of failure¡ªand who will not shy from it.¡± Dinadan let out a breath, his chest tight with the weight of the words. Aidric stirred again, his voice a faint whisper: ¡°The Darkening... it¡¯s coming.¡± The Hollow Stone seemed to pulse with the boy¡¯s words, the hum vibrating through the chamber like a warning. Dinadan glanced at Merlin, his jaw tightening. ¡°So what do we do now? How do we stop this?¡± Merlin turned toward the cavern¡¯s exit, his staff glowing faintly in the dim light. ¡°We must reach the Henge before Vortigern twists the shadows to his will. The wards there hold the Threads together, but they are not invincible. If Vortigern breaches them, The Darkening will spill into Albion unchecked.¡± Dinadan looked down at Aidric, his fists clenching. The boy¡¯s breathing was shallow, his face drawn with fever. The Hollow Stone whispered around them, its hum a reminder of the fragility of everything. ¡°Then let¡¯s not waste any more time,¡± Dinadan said, his voice low but steady. He hoisted Aidric into his arms, ignoring the weight pressing against his shoulders. ¡°If we¡¯re running toward the end of the world, I¡¯d rather meet it head-on.¡± ¡°No.¡± Merlin¡¯s voice cut through the tension, calm but implacable. His staff struck the stone floor again, the sound reverberating through the cavern like a ripple across water. ¡°Aidric cannot travel tonight. His spirit is tethered to the strain Albion bears, and if we push him now, he will break before we ever reach the Henge.¡± Dinadan turned to face him fully, his voice rising. ¡°And if we wait, what? Vortigern reaches the Henge first? What then, Merlin? Do we just hope we can pick up the pieces after the world¡¯s gone to ruin?¡± Merlin¡¯s gaze didn¡¯t waver, though there was a flicker of something beneath his calm exterior¡ªregret, perhaps, or a sorrow too deep to name. ¡°If Aidric falls, so does the Henge. His connection to Albion is not one we can sever. He is tied to the land, its magic, its hope¡ªand its weight. One more night will not break the wards, but it may break him if we leave now.¡± Dinadan¡¯s jaw tightened, the fight bleeding out of him as his placed the boy gently on the pallet. Aidric murmured faintly in his sleep, his head twitching as though caught in some distant dream. Dinadan ran a hand over his face, his fingers digging into his temple. ¡°One night,¡± he said finally, the words heavy. ¡°That¡¯s all we have to spare.¡± Merlin nodded, stepping toward the cavern¡¯s entrance. ¡°I will keep watch. Rest while you can, Sir Dinadan. The path ahead will demand every ounce of strength you have.¡± Dinadan didn¡¯t answer. He sank down beside Aidric with a sigh, the tension in his shoulders refusing to leave him even as he rested his back against the cool stone. The lantern flickered, casting restless shadows on the walls, and the ever-present hum of the Hollow Stone seemed to grow softer, more subdued, as though it too were waiting. His gaze lingered on Aidric. The boy¡¯s breaths came too light, too quick, and each twitch of his hand or flicker of his brow sent a pang of unease through Dinadan¡¯s chest. ¡°What¡¯s left of you, lad?¡± Dinadan muttered under his breath. ¡°What¡¯s Albion taking from you while you fight in your sleep?¡± The boy didn¡¯t answer, of course, but Dinadan didn¡¯t expect him to. He pulled his cloak tighter around himself, feeling the weight of exhaustion settling in his bones, but sleep wouldn¡¯t come¡ªnot yet. Instead, he counted the faint rhythm of Aidric¡¯s breathing, forcing himself to believe that the sound would last through the night. 16. A Message of Smoke and Ashes The morning greeted them grudgingly, the pale sun fighting a losing battle against the mist. Dinadan stood at the mouth of the Hollow Stone, leaning against the rocky frame with his arms crossed, his hand brushing the hilt of his sword like it was a nervous habit. The horizon, gray and heavy, offered no promises, only the dark stain of smoke rising in the distance. "Smoke," Dinadan muttered, squinting into the haze. "The universal sign of bad news. Or burnt breakfast. Knowing our luck, it¡¯s probably both." Behind him, the camp sluggishly dragged itself to life. Aidric stirred on his makeshift bed of cloaks, his thin frame barely moving as he pushed himself upright. His face was still pale, his cheeks hollow from the fever that had wrung him dry, leaving only fragile remnants of the boy who, for some inexplicable reason, Albion had decided to hinge its future upon. ¡°What is it?¡± Aidric croaked, his voice as brittle as he looked. Dinadan didn¡¯t turn, still watching the column of smoke curl upward like some ominous finger beckoning them forward. ¡°A bonfire, I¡¯d wager. Or the remains of one. If I were an optimist, I¡¯d say someone¡¯s just celebrating early for Solstice. Unfortunately, optimism¡¯s not my forte.¡± Aidric swayed as he tried to sit up, clutching the cloak tighter around his bony shoulders. ¡°Are we going?¡± Dinadan cast him a sidelong glance, his lips twitching into a humorless grin. ¡°Do we ever not go, lad? Trouble¡¯s got a way of sniffing us out like a hungry hound, and I swear Albion¡¯s put us on a leash to drag along behind it.¡± ¡°We go.¡± Merlin¡¯s voice was as calm and commanding as ever, his staff glowing faintly as he stepped forward, the wood tapping against the stone floor like an afterthought. His tone held that infuriating finality that made arguing feel like a waste of breath. ¡°The smoke is no coincidence, Dinadan. We must see what waits.¡± Dinadan sighed, rolling his shoulders like a man resigning himself to the gallows. ¡°Of course, we must. Because the universe has a twisted sense of humor, and we¡¯re its favorite jest. Lead the way, oh great and cryptic one.¡± The dawn dragged itself reluctantly over the horizon, pale and anemic, its light struggling against the mist clinging stubbornly to the moor. Smoke twisted through the air like an old curse, curling in dark tendrils that blotted out the faintest promise of a clear sky. Dinadan sat astride Bracken, the mule¡¯s steady plod unshaken by the weight of its riders. Aidric leaned limply against Dinadan¡¯s chest, his head lolling with the rhythm of their movements, his breaths shallow and irregular. Dinadan adjusted his grip on the reins with one hand, the other bracing the boy against him. ¡°Well, Bracken,¡± he muttered, his tone sardonic, ¡°another fine day in Albion. Smoke on the wind, dread in the air, and a lad slumped on my chest like I¡¯m some sort of nursemaid. Really makes you appreciate the quieter corners of the kingdom, doesn¡¯t it?¡± Bracken flicked an ear but gave no other sign of interest. Up ahead, Merlin rode Thistle, his robes gathered awkwardly around his legs as the mule¡¯s uneven gait jostled him in a manner that was almost undignified. The great wizard had no doubt endured countless trials and faced unimaginable horrors, but judging by the grim set of his jaw, riding a mule ranked high on his list of grievances. ¡°Careful, Merlin,¡± Dinadan called, his voice pitched just loud enough to carry. ¡°If you¡¯re not careful, Thistle might throw you into the mud. She¡¯s got a cruel streak, that one.¡± Merlin turned his head slightly, his eyes narrowing in response. ¡°Thistle and I have come to an understanding,¡± he replied evenly. ¡°Unlike her owner, she knows when to keep her commentary to herself.¡± Dinadan smirked, shifting in the saddle as Aidric stirred faintly against him. ¡°Careful, wizard. You¡¯re starting to sound as prickly as that mule. You sure you¡¯ve got the strength to trade barbs with me today?¡± Merlin didn¡¯t answer, his gaze already returning to the column of smoke rising on the horizon. The silence that followed wasn¡¯t the kind Dinadan preferred. It wasn¡¯t comfortable or companionable¡ªit was heavy, like the air before a storm, full of things unsaid and warnings unheeded. Dinadan felt Aidric shiver against him and adjusted the boy¡¯s cloak, tucking it more firmly around his thin shoulders. The fever had broken, but Aidric¡¯s strength hadn¡¯t returned, and each labored breath felt like a reminder of how fragile the line between life and loss truly was. ¡°Hang on, lad,¡± Dinadan murmured, his voice low and almost gentle. ¡°We¡¯ve got to see what fresh misery Albion¡¯s cooked up for us today. Wouldn¡¯t want to miss the show, eh?¡± Aidric mumbled something incoherent, his head pressing weakly against Dinadan¡¯s shoulder. Dinadan¡¯s smirk faltered, his chest tightening. Ahead, the land began to shift. The mist thickened, curling low over the ground, and the once-firm earth grew damp and uneven, pocked with muddy patches that threatened to slow their progress. Smoke coiled through the haze, its acrid scent growing stronger with every step, and the wind carried an unnatural silence that set Dinadan¡¯s teeth on edge. ¡°It¡¯s too quiet,¡± he said, his voice cutting through the muted crunch of hooves on damp ground. ¡°Even the birds know better than to stick around. That¡¯s never a good sign.¡± ¡°Wise creatures, birds,¡± Merlin replied without looking back. ¡°They flee when they sense a storm. Men, on the other hand, tend to walk straight into it.¡±If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. ¡°Some of us get dragged,¡± Dinadan muttered, his grip tightening on the reins. ¡°But go on, Merlin. Enlighten me. What¡¯s waiting for us this time? Fire? Death? Another cryptic prophecy, perhaps? Or do we get all three in one convenient package?¡± Merlin didn¡¯t reply, though his silence carried the weight of an answer. Bracken plodded on, his sure-footedness a steady rhythm in the shifting landscape, but even the mule seemed uneasy. Dinadan felt it in the way the beast¡¯s ears twitched and the tension in its steps. Thistle was the same, her usual stubbornness replaced by a skittish energy that made her movements jerky and unpredictable. The air grew thicker still as they crested the final rise, the hill sloping sharply downward into what should have been a village. Instead, they were met with devastation. Dinadan pulled Bracken to a halt, his hand tightening on the reins as he stared down at the scene below. Aidric stirred weakly, his head lifting just enough to see, before he sagged back against Dinadan¡¯s chest with a faint whimper. The village was gone¡ªor, more accurately, it had been undone. Charred beams jutted from the ground like broken bones, their edges still smoldering in places. Craters marred the earth, their jagged rims blackened and raw, as if the fire had clawed its way into the land itself. The acrid scent of smoke and ash filled the air, mingled with something darker¡ªsomething sour and metallic that turned Dinadan¡¯s stomach. Dinadan stopped at the edge of the destruction, his hand tightening on his sword¡¯s hilt. ¡°Well,¡± he said after a long silence, and unable to think of a better response.

The trio stepped cautiously into the remnants of the village, their boots crunching over brittle fragments of stone and wood. The acrid smell of burnt flesh lingered, a cruel testament to the lives lost here. Dinadan moved with uncharacteristic silence, his usual quips swallowed by the oppressive atmosphere. Aidric stumbled over a piece of charred wood, his weakened body betraying him again. Dinadan caught him before he hit the ground, steadying the boy with surprising gentleness. ¡°Careful, lad. The ashes are tricky¡ªthey cling to your boots, but they¡¯ll cling worse to your soul if you let them.¡± Aidric¡¯s steps faltered, his eyes wide and horrified. ¡°Who could do this?¡± ¡°Vortigern,¡± Merlin said without hesitation. ¡°This is his work. His soldiers carry fire like a second weapon, and they wield it with precision.¡± Dinadan glanced at him sharply. ¡°Precision? This looks like chaos.¡± Merlin gestured toward a scorched symbol carved into one of the standing beams, the edges blackened but the shape still visible. It was a jagged spiral, interwoven with ancient runes. The mark seemed to pulse faintly, as though alive with lingering malice. ¡°It is deliberate,¡± Merlin said. ¡°Vortigern¡¯s mark. A claim on the land he destroys, a warning to those who might resist him.¡± Dinadan knelt by the beam, running his fingers over the carved symbol. The wood was warm to the touch, almost unnaturally so, and he pulled his hand back with a grimace. ¡°So he burns a village and leaves his calling card. Subtle.¡± Merlin¡¯s expression darkened. ¡°It is more than a message. The mark binds the destruction to his will. The land itself mourns under his hand.¡± As they ventured deeper into the ashes, Dinadan¡¯s sharp eyes caught movement among the ruins. He stopped, raising a hand to halt the others. ¡°We¡¯re not alone.¡± A figure darted behind a crumbled wall, barely visible through the smoke and haze. He held up a hand to halt the others, his voice low. ¡°We¡¯re not alone.¡± The figure emerged cautiously¡ªa woman, her clothes singed and tattered, her face streaked with soot. She carried a crude spear fashioned from a broken pitchfork, her knuckles white as she gripped it. ¡°Stay back!¡± she hissed, her voice raw with fear and smoke. ¡°I won¡¯t let you take me!¡± Dinadan raised his hands in a gesture of peace, his voice soft. ¡°Easy now. We¡¯re not here to hurt you.¡± ¡°You¡¯re with them!¡± she spat. ¡°You¡¯re with the ones who burned it all!¡± Merlin stepped forward, his presence commanding. ¡°We are not of Vortigern¡¯s men. We seek to understand what happened here, to bear witness and carry word of it beyond these ashes.¡± The woman¡¯s eyes darted between them, suspicion and desperation warring on her face. Finally, she lowered the spear, her shoulders sagging. ¡°You¡¯re too late. They¡¯ve already done their worst.¡± Her name was Emryne, and she was the village¡¯s sole survivor. She led them through the ruins, her voice hollow as she recounted the night of the attack. ¡°They came in the dark,¡± she said. ¡°Soldiers, but not men. Their eyes burned like embers, and their armor... it was black as pitch. They moved like shadows, and they didn¡¯t speak. Just torches and fire.¡± Aidric shuddered, his voice barely above a whisper. ¡°Vortigern¡¯s men.¡± ¡°They didn¡¯t take anything,¡± Emryne continued. ¡°They didn¡¯t raid or plunder. They just... destroyed. And when they were done, they left me alive. Said I should tell anyone who came what they¡¯d done. Said it was a message.¡± Merlin knelt beside another scorched symbol, his fingers brushing its edges. His expression was distant, his voice heavy. ¡°He sows fear like a farmer sows seeds. And it will grow, choking the land until there is nothing left.¡± Dinadan scowled. ¡°Claiming ash is hardly a boast.¡± Merlin¡¯s gaze flicked up to him, sharp and knowing. ¡°To the fearful, it is everything.¡± At the edge of the village, Emryne led them to a shallow grave. The earth was freshly turned, marked only by a few scattered stones. ¡°This is all I could do,¡± she said, her voice breaking. ¡°My family... my neighbors... I couldn¡¯t leave them to the crows.¡± Dinadan knelt beside her, his usual flippancy gone. ¡°You did right by them,¡± he said quietly. ¡°You gave them what dignity you could.¡± Aidric, pale but determined, stepped forward. ¡°We¡¯ll help.¡± Together, they worked to deepen the grave, their hands blackened with soot and soil. Merlin murmured soft words in an ancient tongue, and Emryne wept as they labored. When the task was done, the group stood in silence, the weight of their work settling over them like the ash-filled air. Dinadan broke the quiet, his voice low and rough. At the edge of the village, Emryne led them to a shallow grave. The earth was freshly turned, marked only by a few scattered stones. ¡°This is all I could do,¡± she said, her voice breaking. ¡°My family... my neighbors... I couldn¡¯t leave them to the crows.¡± Dinadan knelt beside her, his usual flippancy gone. ¡°You did right by them,¡± he said quietly. ¡°You gave them what dignity you could.¡± Aidric, pale but determined, stepped forward. ¡°We¡¯ll help.¡± Together, they worked to deepen the grave, their hands blackened with soot and soil. Merlin murmured soft words in an ancient tongue, and Emryne wept as they labored. When the task was done, the group stood in silence, the weight of their work settling over them like the ash-filled air. Dinadan broke the quiet, his voice low and rough. "Rest well, whoever you were. The world¡¯s a poorer place without you in it.¡± As they prepared to leave, Emryne turned to them, her face streaked with tears. ¡°What will you do now?¡± Dinadan hesitated, glancing at Aidric and Merlin. ¡°Keep moving. Keep fighting. And if that blood-marked Vortigern crosses my path, he¡¯ll learn what happens when you anger a knight of questionable morals.¡± ¡°You can¡¯t stop him,¡± Emryne said, her voice trembling. Dinadan smiled grimly. ¡°Maybe not. But I can try.¡± They left the village behind, the smoke thinning as the wind carried it away. Dinadan didn¡¯t look back, but his grip on his sword was tighter, his stride more determined. For once, the fool wasn¡¯t running from trouble. He was walking toward it. 17. Tournament of Riddles and Combat The camps stretched before Dinadan like a chaotic quilt across the valley. Fires dotted the valley in unruly clusters, their smoke rising in lazy spirals to meet the pale glow of an aurora that rippled across the darkening sky. Banners flapped like restless ghosts, their sigils obscured by shadows, and the noise¡ªa cacophony of shouts, laughter, and the clash of steel¡ªrolled over the landscape in waves. The Henge of Elders stood sentinel in the distance, its ancient stones stark against the glowing curtain of green and gold above. Dinadan guided Bracken cautiously through the milling throng of soldiers, servants, and lords, his grip on the reins firm as Aidric slumped weakly against him. The boy stirred occasionally, his head lolling against Dinadan¡¯s chest, but his silence spoke of exhaustion rather than recovery. Thistle trailed behind, carrying neither chest nor shard but Merlin, whose sharp gaze seemed to cut through the chaos ahead. They reached a fork in the path near the outer edge of the camp. Merlin reined in Thistle, pausing as though listening to something none of them could hear. His expression was grim, his hand tightening on the staff resting across his lap. Dinadan cocked an eyebrow. ¡°What now, wizard? Heard a whisper on the wind? Seen a shadow out of place?¡± Merlin¡¯s eyes didn¡¯t leave the horizon. ¡°The wards I left around the chest and the shard will not hold indefinitely. I must ensure they are secure before the council convenes.¡± Dinadan groaned. ¡°Of course you must. Nothing like abandoning us in the middle of a vipers¡¯ den. I¡¯ll just fend off the lot of them with my wit and overwhelming charm.¡± Merlin¡¯s lips twitched faintly, though it wasn¡¯t quite a smile. ¡°You have a gift for surviving when you shouldn¡¯t, Sir Dinadan. Let¡¯s hope it holds true.¡± ¡°And you?¡± Dinadan shot back. ¡°What¡¯s the plan if you don¡¯t make it back? Or is that just another chapter in your grand design?¡± Merlin tilted his head, his tone distant. ¡°If I do not return, the weight will shift to you. But I will return.¡± Without waiting for further argument, he turned Thistle toward the distant stones and rode away, his staff glowing faintly in the deepening gloom. Dinadan watched him go, shaking his head. ¡°The weight will shift to me,¡± he muttered. ¡°That¡¯s comforting. Nothing like a bit of prophecy to warm the soul.¡± Aidric stirred against him, his voice faint. ¡°Where¡¯s he going?¡± ¡°To do wizard things,¡± Dinadan replied, nudging Bracken forward. ¡°Probably involving glowing rocks and ominous muttering. Don¡¯t worry about him. Worry about us.¡± Bracken plodded onward, navigating the press of bodies with a calm that Dinadan envied. Around them, the camp unfolded in a riot of activity¡ªsquires carrying bundles of arrows, cooks stirring great pots of stew, knights sparring in makeshift rings. Dinadan caught snippets of conversation, most of it bitter or boastful, and none of it promising. At one fire, two lords shouted over each other about who held the stronger claim to some distant, inconsequential plot of land. At another, a bard plucked a lute with such force that it seemed the strings might snap, his voice drowned out by a jeering audience. Soldiers sharpened blades that glinted in the firelight, their expressions grim as death. ¡°They¡¯ve come to choose a High King?¡± Dinadan muttered, his voice low. ¡°Looks more like they¡¯ve come to sharpen their egos and forget what¡¯s at stake.¡± Ahead, a knight stepped into their path, his armor gleaming in the aurora¡¯s glow. His tabard bore the sigil of a roaring bear, its golden threads catching the light with unnecessary drama. Dinadan noted the pristine mail and the polished sword at the man¡¯s side and decided instantly that he didn¡¯t like him. ¡°Hail, your grace!¡± the knight boomed, his tone so earnest it bordered on absurd. Dinadan blinked, his grip tightening slightly on Bracken¡¯s reins. ¡°I think you¡¯ve got the wrong man, friend.¡± ¡°Nonsense!¡± The knight stepped closer, grinning broadly. ¡°Your disguise is cunning, but I recognize the bearing of a true king. I am Sir Bartleby of Cambrayne, at your service.¡± He bowed low¡ªso low that his squire had to steady him to keep him from toppling over. Behind Dinadan, Aidric stifled a laugh, though his pale face betrayed how much the effort cost him. Dinadan shot him a warning glance before turning back to Bartleby. ¡°I assure you, Sir Bartleby, I am no king.¡± ¡°Such humility!¡± Bartleby declared, his grin widening. ¡°It only confirms my suspicions. A true king hides his greatness beneath a cloak of modesty.¡± Dinadan sighed, shifting his weight in the saddle. ¡°Fine. Let¡¯s pretend I am a king. What do you want?¡± ¡°The Tournament of Riddles and Combat, of course!¡± Bartleby declared, his voice ringing out as though announcing the return of Albion¡¯s golden age. He gestured grandly toward a clearing, where a crowd had already gathered under the gaudy flutter of banners. ¡°A contest to prove wisdom and valor! Surely you¡¯ll compete, your grace?¡± ¡°No,¡± Dinadan said flatly, as if daring the man to test him further. ¡°Splendid!¡± Bartleby exclaimed, either deaf to reason or determined to embody it. ¡°I shall escort you personally!¡± Dinadan groaned as Bartleby turned on his heel and marched ahead, his posture one of exaggerated chivalric pride. ¡°If this ends with me wearing a fool¡¯s crown,¡± Dinadan muttered to Aidric, ¡°you¡¯re carrying it. And I¡¯ll haunt you if you drop it.¡± Aidric, pale and clearly too weary for much amusement, still managed a faint smirk. ¡°I¡¯ll carve a notch for you in history, Sir Dinadan the Reluctant.¡± As they entered the clearing, the chaotic noise of the camp shifted to a more theatrical din. Lords and knights lined makeshift thrones and benches, the expressions on their faces ranging from skepticism to predatory ambition. Banners snapped sharply in the wind, casting distorted sigils across the packed dirt ground. At the center stood a herald garbed in a nauseating clash of purples and yellows, the gold trim on his robes glowing faintly in the aurora¡¯s light. Dinadan gave the garish figure a once-over, grimacing. ¡°Who dressed him? A bard drunk on too much mead?¡± The herald raised his arms for silence, and the chatter faded with a reluctance Dinadan envied. ¡°The rules are simple!¡± the herald bellowed, his voice carrying with the force of someone who¡¯d had too much practice. ¡°Each contestant shall answer three riddles, followed by three challenges of combat. The victor shall earn the honor of crowning the High King of Albion!¡± Dinadan winced. ¡°They¡¯re choosing a ruler with riddles and swordplay?¡± he said to Aidric, keeping his voice low. ¡°I¡¯ve solved more meaningful problems with a sharp wit and a dull mug of ale. No wonder Albion¡¯s falling apart.¡±Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation. Bartleby, standing tall beside him, leaned in conspiratorially. ¡°It¡¯s tradition.¡± ¡°It¡¯s idiocy,¡± Dinadan muttered. ¡°But by all means, lead me to glory.¡± The riddles began with ceremonial pomp, the herald¡¯s booming voice attempting to infuse each question with gravitas. The first was delivered with a flourish: ¡°I speak without a mouth and hear without ears. I have no body, but I come alive with wind. What am I?¡± Dinadan rubbed his chin, his face the very picture of exaggerated thought. ¡°A particularly chatty ghost?¡± The crowd erupted in laughter, their humor fraying the edges of the herald¡¯s patience. ¡°Incorrect,¡± he snapped. Dinadan shrugged lazily. ¡°An echo, then.¡± ¡°Correct!¡± the herald barked, though he clearly begrudged it. The pattern continued with the next riddles. Dinadan answered each correctly but not without first delivering a quip, his voice a needle pricking the bloated egos around him. The audience warmed to him in spite of themselves¡ªor perhaps because of it. Aidric watched from the sidelines, his expression thoughtful. ¡°The riddles are metaphors,¡± he murmured to himself. ¡°Leadership, strength, wisdom¡­¡± Dinadan caught the boy¡¯s muttering and shot him a smirk after the second riddle. ¡°Wisdom?¡± he whispered as he passed by. ¡°If wisdom got you the crown, Albion would¡¯ve sorted itself out centuries ago.¡± When the riddles ended, the herald gestured with great ceremony toward the combat ring. ¡°Now, noble contenders, prove your worth with valor!¡± Dinadan approached the ring with the enthusiasm of a man heading to his own execution. His first opponent, a towering knight who looked more like a fortress than a man, mounted his horse with the grace of an ox. Bracken, ever the reliable mule, snorted with apparent disdain. Dinadan patted the mule¡¯s neck. ¡°I know, old boy. Let¡¯s just aim low and hope he overcorrects.¡± As the charge began, Dinadan tilted his lance just enough to look deliberate. His opponent, expecting a direct strike, veered too hard to compensate. The knight toppled from his horse with a thunderous crash, his armor clanging like a dropped cauldron. The crowd roared with laughter, and Dinadan tipped an imaginary hat. ¡°Victory through clever cowardice,¡± he called, his voice tinged with amusement. ¡°A knight¡¯s greatest weapon.¡± The archery and sword challenges followed the same absurd pattern, with Dinadan¡¯s wit and unorthodox methods drawing laughter from the spectators. By the end, he stood victorious, though the triumph felt as hollow as the riddle answers. The herald stepped forward, his garish robes catching the aurora¡¯s light. ¡°Behold! Sir Dinadan of Albion, Champion of Wisdom and Valor!¡± A heavy, gilded crown was thrust into Dinadan¡¯s hands¡ªor rather, onto his head. It fit poorly and sat askew, its weight a sharp reminder of the absurdity of it all. Bartleby beamed as if he¡¯d just orchestrated the greatest victory Albion had ever seen. ¡°You¡¯ve united the camps with your humor and skill,¡± Bartleby declared cheerfully. Dinadan sighed, tugging the crown off and holding it at arm¡¯s length. ¡°No, Bartleby,¡± he said quietly. ¡°I¡¯ve distracted them. That¡¯s not the same thing.¡± Later, Dinadan fell wearily against a weathered post that creaked faintly under his weight. The garish crown lay discarded in the dirt beside him, its jeweled surface catching the faint light of the aurora like a bauble dropped in the mud. Aidric sat nearby, perched awkwardly on a pile of cloaks. The boy¡¯s thin fingers toyed with the gaudy thing, turning it over and over as if it might reveal some hidden truth beneath its cheap splendor. The aurora above painted shifting hues of green and gold across his pale face, giving him the look of something caught between realms. Aidric¡¯s brow was furrowed, his thoughts clearly chewing on some question he hadn¡¯t yet spoken aloud. Finally, he broke the silence, his voice soft and hesitant. ¡°Do you think they¡¯ll actually choose a High King?¡± Dinadan didn¡¯t look at him, his gaze fixed on the distant fires that dotted the camp like restless stars. ¡°Oh, they¡¯ll choose someone,¡± he said, his tone dry. ¡°They have to. Too much pomp and shouting for it to end any other way. But whether he leads or just wears the title¡­ well, that¡¯s the real gamble, isn¡¯t it?¡± Aidric frowned, his fingers tightening on the crown¡¯s rim. ¡°You led them tonight.¡± That brought Dinadan¡¯s attention back, if only for a moment. He barked a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head. ¡°Led? No, lad. I distracted them. I made them laugh, gave them something to cheer about. That¡¯s not leadership. It¡¯s sleight of hand.¡± ¡°But it mattered,¡± Aidric insisted, his voice steady despite its softness. He held the crown up slightly, its gems catching the faint shimmer of the aurora. ¡°Even for a moment, it mattered.¡± Dinadan¡¯s eyes flicked to the crown, then back to Aidric. His smirk faltered, giving way to something sharper and more brittle. ¡°Moments don¡¯t change the world, Aidric. They flicker and burn out, like that crown of yours¡ªflashy, maybe, but hollow underneath.¡± Aidric didn¡¯t look away, his expression unwavering. ¡°Flashy or not, it got their attention. It made them listen.¡± Dinadan leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He let the weight of Aidric¡¯s words settle between them, heavy as the crown itself. The truth was, he didn¡¯t know if moments mattered. Maybe they did, maybe they didn¡¯t. But the idea that they might¡ªthat one fleeting instant of connection or laughter or understanding could shift the tide¡ªwasn¡¯t as easy to dismiss as he wanted it to be. ¡°Well,¡± he said at last, his voice quieter now, almost resigned. ¡°Let¡¯s hope the next moment doesn¡¯t disappoint them. Or us.¡± The stars appeared reluctantly, as if Albion¡¯s wounds were too raw, too jagged, even for the heavens to illuminate. Dinadan sat at the edge of the camp, slouched against a post that swayed just enough to match his mood. Around him, the camp shifted in the restless way only knights, lords, and their hangers-on could manage¡ªevery movement designed to be louder, brasher, more important than it truly was. Fires crackled, banners snapped in the chill breeze, and somewhere behind him, a man barked orders that no one seemed to take seriously. The Henge loomed beyond the bustle, silhouetted against the eerie light of the aurora. The stones stood silent, ancient and unmoved, as though mocking the trivial squabbles playing out beneath them. Albion was waiting. Watching. Its pulse shivered through the air, faint but insistent, like the ghost of a battle drum. Dinadan could feel it in his chest, but instead of calling him to purpose, it only churned the questions he¡¯d rather leave unanswered. He tapped a finger against the hilt of his sword, a rhythm without melody. His gaze flicked to Aidric, curled tightly in a pile of mismatched cloaks. The boy had finally succumbed to sleep, though his face was drawn and pale, his rest fractured by dreams Dinadan would never dare to ask about. The thought twisted at the edge of his mind, refusing to settle. ¡°Funny thing, destiny,¡± Dinadan muttered, his words meant for no one but the night. ¡°It always seems to pick the ones least likely to survive it.¡± Aidric deserved better. He deserved a knight of steel and certainty, someone who could stride into the Henge and rally the chaos into something resembling unity. Someone who didn¡¯t crack jokes when the world teetered on the brink. Instead, he had Dinadan¡ªthe sort of man who could dodge spears and cut through insults but balked at the weight of real responsibility. Unworthy. The word hung in the air, unspoken but unavoidable. It wasn¡¯t the kind of thing a sword could cut through or wit could deflect. It clung to him, tangled with the smoke on the wind and the bitter taste of failure. He forced himself to look away from the boy and toward the Henge. The aurora rippled above it, green and gold threads weaving like fate itself was showing off. It was dazzling, yes, but there was a sharpness to it, as though Albion was daring him to do more than sit and sneer. Dinadan huffed, tugging his cloak tighter against the bite of the breeze. ¡°If you¡¯re trying to make a point, Albion, you¡¯ll need to be clearer than that. I don¡¯t do riddles before breakfast.¡± Still, the land¡¯s pulse remained, steady and inescapable. The sword at his side felt heavier than it should have. Once, it had been a symbol¡ªa knight¡¯s honor, a tether to something greater. Now, it felt like a question he didn¡¯t want to answer. Could he use it for more than himself? Could he wield it for Aidric, for Albion, for something larger than the sum of its burdens? Dinadan let his head fall back against the post, staring up at the swirling sky. His voice was low, edged with bitterness and resignation. ¡°Some champion of unity I am. A fool with a sword, a boy on the brink, and a kingdom that¡¯d rather tear itself apart than lift a finger to fix the bleeding land beneath it.¡± A shift in the wind brought the faint tang of smoke, curling through the camp like a warning. It carried with it the memory of the charred village they¡¯d passed, the ghost of flames still lingering in the hollow of his chest. He could almost hear the whispers of its ruins, a voice he¡¯d done his best to ignore. Dinadan glanced at Aidric again, the boy¡¯s breath shallow but steady. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. ¡°Sleep, lad. I¡¯ll keep you on this side of ruin for as long as I can, though I can¡¯t say how far that is.¡± The night crept on, and Albion held its breath. 18. Reflections of the Unworthy Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere. 19. A Song of Albion

"The Song of Albion¡¯s Past"

Verse 1 Chorus Verse 2 Chorus Bridge Chorus The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

"The Song of Albion¡¯s Future"

Verse 1 Chorus Verse 2 Chorus Bridge Chorus
20. The Kings Gambit The tavern at the crossroads seemed to sag beneath the weight of its own history, its smoke-blackened beams and warped walls whispering of old bargains and buried betrayals. Dinadan stepped inside, with Aidric trailing close behind, the boy sticking close enough to be mistaken for a shadow. The room fell quiet for a heartbeat, the kind of pause that always greeted strangers¡ªlong enough to size them up before the noise resumed. The air inside was heavy with the tang of ale, sweat, and smoke, and the uneven flicker of the fire cast shifting shadows over faces weathered by the road. Dinadan¡¯s sharp gaze swept the room¡ªmarking exits, weapons, and who sat too stiffly to be unarmed¡ªbefore steering Aidric toward a corner table. Not hiding, not exactly, but the edges of a room gave a man time to think and space to act when the knives inevitably came out. The boy dropped onto the bench with all the grace of a sack of grain, his face lighting up as a serving girl approached with a practiced smile. ¡°Two plates of whatever¡¯s hot,¡± Dinadan said, handing over a coin, ¡°and ale for me.¡± He tipped his head toward Aidric, who was already fidgeting with the edge of the table. ¡°Cider for the boy. Sweet, not strong.¡± Aidric gave a half-hearted nod, his attention fixed on the room. He wasn¡¯t looking for danger, not exactly¡ªjust taking it all in: the gruff men hunched over mugs, the dark corners where conversations dipped into whispers, and the figure seated near the hearth, cloaked and still. Dinadan followed the boy¡¯s gaze, his instincts sharpening as he caught sight of the same figure. Cloaked travelers weren¡¯t unusual in a place like this, but something about the way this one sat¡ªupright, deliberate¡ªset him apart from the room¡¯s rabble. ¡°You¡¯re fidgeting,¡± Aidric muttered, breaking the quiet. Dinadan smirked, leaning back against the wall with a casualness that didn¡¯t match the flicker of tension in his eyes. ¡°I¡¯m observant,¡± he corrected, watching as the serving girl returned with their food. The smell of stew filled the air as Dinadan dug into his plate, eating with the steady, measured pace of a man who had learned to savor his meals while keeping one eye on the door. But halfway through his first bite, he felt it: a shift in the air, subtle but unmistakable, like the weight of a storm gathering just beyond sight. He set his spoon down, his gaze flicking to the figure by the hearth once more. The man hadn¡¯t moved, but there was something undeniable about his presence¡ªsomething that made the hairs on the back of Dinadan¡¯s neck rise. Aidric, oblivious to the unease threading through the moment, glanced at him. ¡°What is it?¡± Dinadan didn¡¯t answer immediately, his focus still locked on the cloaked figure. ¡°Just eat,¡± he said finally, his tone quiet but firm. ¡°And keep your eyes on your plate.¡± The boy frowned but obeyed, the clatter of his spoon a poor mask for his nerves. Dinadan, meanwhile, let his hand drift closer to the hilt of his blade beneath the table. Whatever storm had shifted the air, it wasn¡¯t done building yet. The figure rose. The motion was unhurried, but it sent a ripple through the room, conversations faltering as heads turned. The man moved with the ease of someone used to command, his cloak shifting to reveal glimpses of a worn but elegant tunic. Gold thread caught the firelight¡ªsubtle, but unmistakably regal. He stopped at their table, towering over it for a moment. ¡°You¡¯ve come far,¡± he said, his voice low but unyielding, each word cutting through the din like a blade. With a fluid motion, he pushed back his hood, revealing sharp, weathered features and hair streaked with silver. Uther Pendragon. Dinadan¡¯s grip on his mug tightened, but his expression remained unruffled as he leaned back, a wry smile tugging at his lips. ¡°Didn¡¯t realize taverns were hosting royalty these days. Must¡¯ve missed the herald¡¯s announcement.¡± Uther¡¯s lips twitched in something almost resembling a smile, though his eyes remained sharp. ¡°And I didn¡¯t realize knights of Albion preferred to skulk in corners, hiding behind wit and shadows. Yet here we are.¡± Dinadan raised his mug in mock salute. ¡°I find the corners offer the best view of the knives. And the kings.¡± He set it down with a faint clink, his sharp gaze not leaving Uther¡¯s. ¡°So, what brings you to such humble surroundings, Your Grace? Surely you¡¯ve better halls waiting for you.¡± Without waiting for an invitation, Uther pulled out the chair opposite him and sat, his cloak falling away to reveal the fine, practical cut of his tunic. Aidric shrank back slightly, his mug held like a shield. ¡°Halls have their purpose,¡± Uther said, his tone measured. ¡°But words spoken in places like this often carry farther than those uttered from a throne.¡± He gestured toward the bustling crowd¡ªthe roughened hands of the laborers, the weather-beaten faces of traders, the hum of voices weaving together in quiet discord. ¡°These people¡ªmen and women who carry Albion on their backs¡ªthey will decide its future.¡± ¡°For everyone,¡± Uther replied. ¡°Albion must be more than a collection of squabbling thrones. It must be a home¡ªfor the farmer, the smith, the warrior, the scholar. For the boy born in a hovel and the knight born to privilege. And yes, even for those who would rather skulk in corners than stand in halls of power.¡± Dinadan¡¯s smirk faltered. ¡°You speak as if the land can be mended with words. As though purpose alone can heal wounds that have festered for generations.¡± ¡°They can,¡± Uther said firmly. ¡°But not alone. Words must be followed by action. And action demands sacrifice. Men like you understand that better than most.¡± Dinadan arched a brow. ¡°Men like me?¡± ¡°Men who see the cracks,¡± Uther replied, his gaze unwavering. ¡°Who know how to bridge them. Albion doesn¡¯t need heroes right now¡ªit needs those who understand what¡¯s worth fighting for, and what isn¡¯t.¡± Dinadan stilled, his chest tightening as the weight of those words pressed against him. He glanced at Aidric, whose wide eyes betrayed that he, too, felt the gravity of this moment. ¡°Then we fight harder,¡± Uther answered, his voice steady as a blade. ¡°We fight until the land remembers its own strength. Until its people remember they are more than their lords, more than their clans. The land is watching, Dinadan. It always is. And it knows when to choose those who can endure the fight.¡± Dinadan¡¯s chest tightened. The weight of those words felt as though they weren¡¯t just aimed at the room, but directly at him. ¡°You¡¯re asking for more than swords or clever quips, Uther. What exactly are you after?¡± Uther¡¯s faint smile returned, though there was no mirth in it. ¡°I¡¯m after what you already carry, even if you don¡¯t know it yet. Albion doesn¡¯t need heroes, Dinadan. It needs its people. And it needs those who can remind them what they¡¯re worth.¡±This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. Before Dinadan could respond, a faint, tense shift rippled through the room. The kind of silence that had nothing to do with volume and everything to do with danger. Dinadan¡¯s eyes darted to the door, where a new figure had appeared, cloaked in shadow and menace. The cloaked figure stood in the doorway for a beat too long, his presence souring the air like the first rancid note of spoiled wine. Conversation in the tavern faltered, and eyes flicked toward him¡ªfurtive, nervous glances from men who knew trouble when it walked in. The figure stepped forward, his boots striking the floor with deliberate force, the glint of steel catching under his cloak as he moved. Dinadan¡¯s hand drifted casually to the hilt of his blade beneath the table. Aidric stiffened beside him, the boy¡¯s instincts finally catching up to the tension filling the room. Uther, however, didn¡¯t move. He remained seated, his gaze locked on the intruder, calm as stone. The man stopped a few paces from their table, pushing back his hood to reveal a scarred face and eyes sharp with malice. ¡°Uther Pendragon,¡± he said, his voice low but carrying, cutting through the room like a drawn blade. ¡°I heard you¡¯d come down from your high halls to mingle with the dirt. Didn¡¯t think you¡¯d be so easy to find.¡± Dinadan¡¯s grip tightened on his sword hilt, though he kept his posture relaxed. ¡°Friend of yours, Uther?¡± he asked lightly, his tone masking the tension thrumming in his chest. Uther¡¯s eyes didn¡¯t leave the man. ¡°Not quite.¡± The scarred man chuckled darkly, his hand brushing aside his cloak to reveal the hilt of a dagger. ¡°You¡¯ve made a lot of enemies, Your Grace. Some of them might even be in this very room. Makes a man wonder why you¡¯d stroll into a place like this without a guard. You¡¯re either brave or foolish.¡± ¡°Perhaps both,¡± Uther replied evenly, his voice calm as a lake¡¯s surface. The man¡¯s hand moved toward his dagger, slow enough to taunt, quick enough to threaten. The tension in the room coiled tighter, ready to snap. Dinadan¡¯s eyes flicked to Uther, who gave no sign of moving, his calm bordering on unnerving. Dinadan sighed under his breath. ¡°Of course it comes to this.¡± With a sudden, fluid motion, Dinadan shoved the table hard with his knee, sending it crashing into the man¡¯s stomach. The would-be attacker staggered back, his hand clutching at the air where his dagger had been just moments before. Dinadan was already up, his blade flashing free as he stepped forward, driving the man back toward the hearth with a series of quick, precise strikes. ¡°Really?¡± Dinadan said conversationally as the man stumbled, trying to regain his footing. ¡°You¡¯ve got one shot to take out a king, and this is what you came up with? No plan, no backup, just a rusty dagger and a bad attitude?¡± The man snarled, lunging clumsily with a blade he barely managed to unsheath. Dinadan sidestepped easily, kicking a chair into his opponent¡¯s path. The man went down hard, his weapon clattering to the floor. Dinadan stepped over him, pressing the tip of his sword lightly against the hollow of the man¡¯s throat. ¡°Now,¡± he said, his voice low and sharp. ¡°Before I get bored, why don¡¯t you tell me who sent you?¡± The man¡¯s mouth opened, then snapped shut, his eyes darting toward Uther. ¡°Nothing to say?¡± Dinadan pressed the blade just enough to draw a bead of blood. ¡°Fine. I¡¯m very good at guessing games.¡± ¡°Enough,¡± Uther said quietly, rising from his seat at last. Dinadan hesitated, his sword still poised, but he stepped back with a faint shrug. ¡°Your show, Pendragon.¡± Uther approached, his movements slow but deliberate, each step carrying the weight of a man who had faced down armies and would not be rushed by the likes of this. He knelt slightly, meeting the would-be assassin¡¯s gaze. ¡°You came here to make a point,¡± Uther said, his voice as calm as ever. ¡°Consider it made. But if you have something to say, I suggest you do it now. Otherwise¡­¡± His gaze flicked to Dinadan. ¡°You¡¯ll be left to his mercy.¡± The man swallowed hard, his bravado crumbling under the weight of Uther¡¯s stare. ¡°You won¡¯t win,¡± he spat finally, though the words trembled. ¡°Not the council, not the people. The land doesn¡¯t need another king¡ªit¡¯s already bleeding because of the ones it has.¡± Uther studied him for a moment, then straightened. ¡°Take him outside,¡± he said to the barkeep, who nodded quickly, motioning for two burly patrons to drag the man out. As the door slammed shut behind them, the tavern slowly came back to life, the tension breaking like a popped blister. Aidric stared wide-eyed at Dinadan, who calmly sheathed his sword and sat back down, reaching for his tankard like nothing had happened. ¡°Well,¡± Dinadan said, glancing at Uther, ¡°if you wanted to convince me the land¡¯s in trouble, that was a solid demonstration.¡± Uther returned to his seat, his expression unreadable. ¡°The land is bleeding, Dinadan. And men like him will keep making it worse unless we act.¡± Dinadan leaned back, his expression skeptical. ¡°You¡¯re not wrong, Pendragon. But if you want me to believe unity will fix that¡­¡± He trailed off, gesturing toward the door. ¡°It¡¯ll take more than words. Or ale.¡± Uther¡¯s gaze met his, steady and unflinching. ¡°Then fight with me,¡± he said simply. ¡°If not for Albion, then for the boy beside you, and the men and women who don¡¯t have the strength to hold a blade.¡± Dinadan tilted his head, considering. ¡°You¡¯re relentless, I¡¯ll give you that.¡± He sighed, reaching for his drink. ¡°Fine. I¡¯ll hear you out. But don¡¯t expect me to stick around for the happy ending.¡± Uther¡¯s faint smile returned. ¡°The ending doesn¡¯t matter. It¡¯s what we do before it that counts.¡± Dinadan opened his mouth to reply, but Uther lifted a hand, silencing him before the words could form. ¡°I know what you¡¯re thinking,¡± Uther said, his voice steady, measured. ¡°You¡¯re not a hero. You¡¯re not a leader. But Albion doesn¡¯t need heroes right now. It needs those who understand what¡¯s worth fighting for¡ªand what isn¡¯t.¡± Dinadan stilled. There was something in Uther¡¯s tone, an undercurrent that ran deeper than the words themselves. This was not the plea of a desperate king. It was something else. A certainty. Uther¡¯s smile returned, faint but unshaken. ¡°The council is only the beginning. A spark to light the fire. And sparks,¡± he added, his voice lowering to a near-whisper, ¡°require kindling.¡± Dinadan narrowed his eyes, searching the man¡¯s face. ¡°You know something,¡± he said carefully. Uther inclined his head slightly. ¡°I know many things.¡± His gaze flickered toward Aidric, lingering just long enough to unsettle the boy before shifting back to Dinadan. ¡°I know Albion watches its children, that it chooses them for roles they cannot yet imagine. I know that a knight who hides his heart behind wit may be the very voice that saves this land. And I know that a boy born in shadow may one day bring light to its darkest corners.¡± Aidric stiffened beside him, his fingers curling around his mug. Dinadan felt the shift in him, a sharp intake of breath barely suppressed. Dinadan¡¯s grip tightened on his own tankard. ¡°How?¡± he demanded. ¡°How do you know that?¡± Uther rose smoothly, his cloak falling into place like a shroud. His voice, though quiet, carried the weight of a man who had spent his life hearing whispers the rest of the world ignored. ¡°I know because it was written long before either of us took our first breath. The land speaks, Dinadan, and I have learned to listen.¡± The words settled between them, heavier than steel. Dinadan exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair before turning away, his gaze fixing on the fire. For a moment, he wasn¡¯t in the tavern. He was standing on the road in the vision, the crown shattered at his feet, the weight of something inevitable pressing against his ribs. When he turned back, Uther was watching him. Waiting. Dinadan scoffed, though the sound lacked conviction. ¡°You¡¯ve got a way with words, I¡¯ll give you that.¡± His fingers tapped idly against the rim of his tankard. ¡°But what happens when the kings refuse to listen? When they¡¯d rather tear Albion apart than share its throne?¡± Uther¡¯s expression softened, though the intensity in his gaze remained. ¡°Then we remind them what¡¯s at stake. And we keep reminding them until they can¡¯t ignore it.¡± He stepped closer, his presence a force even in the dim light of the tavern. ¡°Join me,¡± he said, his voice rich with conviction. ¡°Help me turn this council into more than a stage for petty grievances. Help me lay the foundation for something greater¡ªa kingdom that serves its people, not itself.¡± Dinadan stared at him, the weight of the offer pressing against his ribs like unseen chains. ¡°And if I refuse?¡± he asked quietly. Uther¡¯s gaze didn¡¯t waver. ¡°Then you will walk away, and Albion will still find you. Because this is not a matter of choice, Dinadan. It is a matter of calling. And the land has been calling to you.¡± Dinadan¡¯s chest tightened, the echoes of the mirror¡¯s vision flashing through his mind. The crown. The shattered stones. The road stretching endlessly before him. He exhaled slowly, then stood to meet Uther¡¯s gaze. ¡°You¡¯re a persuasive man, Uther Pendragon,¡± he murmured. ¡°I¡¯ll join you. But I¡¯m not promising miracles.¡± Uther¡¯s smile deepened, a flicker of something like satisfaction behind his eyes. ¡°I don¡¯t need miracles, Dinadan. I need men of courage. And you have more of that than you know.¡± He turned toward the door, pausing only to say, ¡°We leave at dawn. Rest while you can. The kings are waiting, and the land is watching.¡± As Uther strode out of the tavern, Dinadan let out a breath he hadn¡¯t realized he was holding. Aidric sat motionless beside him, his fingers still curled around his mug. Dinadan cast him a sidelong glance and sighed. ¡°Well, boy,¡± he muttered with a faint grin, ¡°we¡¯re in it now.¡± 21. Whispers Before The Storm If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. ¡°The land doesn¡¯t make mistakes.¡± ¡°The crown is not given to the willing.¡± ¡°Because you see the burden for what it is.¡± ¡°You will fail,¡±¡°You will stumble, bleed, and break. But the land does not ask for perfection. It asks only for those who will try.¡± ¡°The fool who knows his limits is worth more than the king who believes he has none. You are not chosen to lead, Dinadan. You are chosen to remind those who lead why they must carry the burden.¡± 22. The Gathering of Kings The fogs of the Aelwyd Plains clung to the earth like a second skin, thick and impenetrable, muting the sound of hooves and muffling even the sharp cry of a distant crow. Dinadan rode at the edge of Uther¡¯s column, Bracken¡¯s steady gait more reliable than the knights at his back. The mule was indifferent to the whispers of the unseen and the strange weight that hung over the low-lying mist. Dinadan, however, felt it keenly. The Henge of Elders loomed ahead, its jagged stones piercing the fog like broken teeth. They rose in uneven, foreboding shapes, dark and ancient, holding secrets older than the crowns the kings of Albion would squabble over today. Dinadan had always avoided such places when he could; they had a way of pulling at the parts of a man that were best left unspoken. Yet here he was, armed, half-alert, and neck-deep in something that felt far too much like fate. Bracken snorted, his ears flicking back as the mule sensed something stirring in the unseen. Dinadan patted his neck absently, his sharp eyes scanning the shapes moving through the mist ahead. Figures emerged and disappeared, soldiers and squires, nobles and banners half-obscured. The fog seemed alive, curling and shifting like breath against the damp earth. Ahead of him, Uther rode like a man oblivious to the fog, his shoulders squared and his chin high. The silver streaks in his hair gleamed faintly even in the muted light, and his presence seemed to cut through the mist in a way that stone and sword could not. Aidric rode further behind, astride Thistle, the boy¡¯s posture rigid and nervous. The lad¡¯s eyes darted to every shadow in the fog, his unease palpable even at a distance. Dinadan caught himself smirking; it wasn¡¯t the first time the boy had tried to hide his fear, and it wouldn¡¯t be the last. ¡°Relax, boy,¡± Dinadan called over his shoulder, keeping his tone light. ¡°You look like you expect the stones to get up and start walking.¡± Aidric straightened in the saddle, his lips tightening. ¡°It¡¯s not the stones I¡¯m worried about.¡± ¡°Good,¡± Dinadan replied, turning back to the road. ¡°The stones don¡¯t bite.¡± He tapped the hilt of his sword at his side. ¡°The living, though¡ªthey¡¯ll gut you without a second thought. Best keep an eye on them instead.¡± As if to underscore the point, a sharp laugh broke the heavy silence somewhere in the fog, faint and distorted. Dinadan¡¯s grip tightened on Bracken¡¯s reins, though he didn¡¯t turn his head. Uther¡¯s army wasn¡¯t alone on this road, and the thought didn¡¯t sit well with him. The henge grew closer, the stones taking on more solid shapes as the fog thinned slightly around their base. Dinadan could make out the flicker of torches now, their light casting long, dancing shadows across the ground. Banners fluttered in the faint breeze, their colors muted by the mist, but the designs were unmistakable¡ªeach one bearing the sigil of a king or lord who had come to stake their claim, to plot, to bargain. ¡°Charming place for a chat,¡± Dinadan muttered to himself, his voice barely audible over the clink of armor and the low murmur of the men around him. As they neared the edge of the henge, the air seemed to change, growing heavier, as if the earth itself held its breath. The stones loomed larger now, their surfaces slick with moss and worn by centuries of wind and rain. Strange carvings snaked across their faces, faint and almost indecipherable in the dim light, but Dinadan knew they meant something. They always did. Uther pulled his horse to a stop just short of the henge¡¯s outer circle, his gaze sweeping the stones and the gathering figures beyond. Dinadan brought Bracken up beside him, his mule stubbornly tossing his head at the stillness. ¡°Not what I¡¯d call a welcoming sight,¡± Dinadan said, his tone dry. ¡°Are we here to discuss unity, or to dig up old ghosts?¡± Uther didn¡¯t reply immediately. His eyes lingered on the stones, his expression unreadable. ¡°Perhaps both,¡± he said finally, his voice low. Dinadan frowned, glancing back at the column behind them. Aidric had dismounted now, leading Thistle nervously toward the line of gathered squires. The boy¡¯s face was pale, but he held himself together, his movements careful, deliberate. ¡°Let¡¯s hope it¡¯s not the ghosts we end up bargaining with,¡± Dinadan muttered, his hand brushing the hilt of his sword as he turned his attention back to the henge. The murmurs of gathered men drifted like low thunder beneath the weight of the henge. Torches flickered, their flames swallowed by the mist, their light casting long, shifting shadows over the ancient stones. Dinadan felt the press of it all¡ªthe weight of expectation, of old grudges, of kings who would sooner slit each other¡¯s throats than clasp hands. Then came the sound of footsteps¡ªlight, deliberate, and unhurried, the tread of a man who did not fear the company of wolves but rather counted them among lesser creatures. From the depths of the shifting mists, Merlin emerged, his robes dark as the void between stars, his presence neither grand nor imposing, yet outweighing every crown in the gathering. The fog curled away from him like breath from a dying fire, thinning, lifting¡ªuntil the sky itself broke open. Above them, the heavens burned with light. A great aurora unfurled its spectral banners¡ªgreen, violet, and gold, rippling across the firmament like the very fabric of the world had been torn to reveal something older, something watching. The kings stirred, some with awe, others with unease, but Merlin paid the sky no heed. He stepped to the largest of the standing stones, laying a hand upon its worn surface, fingers pressing into grooves carved by hands long turned to dust. He stood still, listening¡ªnot as one who sought an answer, but as one who already knew, merely waiting for the world to catch up. The hush that followed was not reverent. It was thick, taut, the breath before a storm. ¡°This land remembers,¡± Merlin said, his voice calm but unyielding. ¡°It has seen men stand here before you, gathered in council, their swords weighed heavier than their words. It has seen them spill blood where they should have built, burn what they should have preserved, and claim dominion over that which was never theirs to own. The land has suffered under your wars, your rivalries, your greed. And now, you ask it to suffer again.¡± His gaze swept the gathered kings, his expression unreadable. ¡°You come here carrying the weight of old names¡ªPendragon, Cadell, Branoc, Rhydderch, Vortimer. But your names are not the first to be spoken in this place. Long before you, others stood where you now stand. The Painted Ones who worshipped the earth itself, the High Kings who bled their lines into stone, the Romans who sought to cage Albion beneath their law, the Saxons who came to carve it into pieces, and the invaders yet to come who will do the same. And still, the land remains.¡± He turned, his hand trailing over the carvings in the stone, ancient symbols worn smooth by time. ¡°You see yourselves as rulers. You call yourselves kings. But kings do not own the land, nor does it bow to them. You may draw borders on parchment, but the rivers do not change their course for you. The mountains do not kneel. The forests do not ask which god you follow before granting you shelter. This land belongs to none of you.¡±Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator. A few murmurs rippled through the gathered men¡ªsome with indignation, some with unease. Merlin lifted his head, his voice like the low rumble of distant thunder. ¡°But the land chooses.¡± Silence followed, deeper than before. ¡°You think you stand at the edge of an age of kings.¡± Merlin¡¯s gaze swept across them, sharp as a blade. ¡°But the truth is, Albion stands at the edge of Darkening. You have felt it, each of you, though you do not name it. Crops failing where the soil was once rich. Beasts turning on their masters. Rivers running black with ash after battles that should have been forgotten. You call it misfortune, bad harvests, ill omens. But it is more than that. It is the weight of a land grown tired of those who would claim it but not serve it.¡± He let the words settle, then continued, his voice like the wind before a storm. ¡°For years, you have waged war in the name of power, in the name of the gods¡ªboth old and new. The followers of the Christ-god seek to wash away the faiths of their ancestors, while the druids cling to the old rites, fearing what the future may bring. The noble houses claim blood gives them right to rule, while the warriors of the North carve their own rights with the edge of a blade. And through it all, Albion bleeds.¡± Merlin turned to face them fully, his eyes like burning embers in the mist. ¡°You believe that this gathering will decide the next High King. That one of you will rise above the rest, bend the others to his will, and bind the land beneath his banner. But you are wrong.¡± A ripple of unease passed through the assembled rulers, but Merlin did not falter. ¡°You cannot choose the one who will heal this land. You will not. Not by council, not by treaty, not by war. Your hearts are too heavy with old grudges, your hands too stained with the blood of those who stood in your way. The choice is not yours to make.¡± He turned back to the stone, pressing his palm against it once more. ¡°The land will choose.¡± The torches flickered as if the earth itself had stirred at his words. The wind shifted, carrying with it the scent of damp earth, of old things awakening. Merlin¡¯s voice was softer now, but no less certain. ¡°You may deny it. You may fight it. But the land remembers, and it does not forget. If you wish to see Albion whole, you must listen. If you wish to stand against the Darkening, you must serve something greater than your crowns, your gods, or your legacies.¡± He stepped back from the stone, the finality of his words hanging in the mist. ¡°You have come to make a choice. But in the end, it is not your choice to make.¡± Silence followed¡ªlong, unbroken, and absolute. Dinadan exhaled slowly, gripping Bracken¡¯s reins tighter. He had spent his life mocking fate, dodging prophecy, and running from the weight of men like Merlin. But as he sat there, watching kings shift uncomfortably in their saddles, watching Uther¡¯s gaze darken with understanding, he knew¡ª Merlin¡¯s voice, quiet but cutting, pierced the heavy silence. ¡°You have come to make a choice,¡± he said, his hand resting on the weathered stone beside him, ¡°but in the end, it is not your choice to make.¡± His words fell like the distant echo of a hammer on iron, sharp and final. The mist curled around his dark robes as he turned toward the gathered kings, his movements slow and deliberate. From beneath the folds of his robe, Merlin pulled a bundle wrapped in dark, weathered cloth. Aidric, standing with Thistle among the other squires, froze. The breath caught in his throat as he saw the bundle emerge. He knew that cloth, recognized the subtle shimmer of its weave, and suddenly, he was back on the road with Dinadan, hauling a small, unassuming box from one end of Albion to another. He¡¯d carried it without understanding, without questioning, and yet the sight of it now¡ªnow that it had been unwrapped¡ªmade his chest tighten and his knees lock. Merlin peeled the cloth back with the slow, deliberate precision of a man unveiling something sacred. Beneath it was the crown Aidric had delivered, though it had looked far less menacing in the safety of its box. The Crown of Elders wasn¡¯t the kind of thing that glinted in torchlight or dazzled with gems. It wasn¡¯t a symbol of wealth or power, crafted to impress courtiers and lords. It was wrought of ancient iron, dark and cold, its edges sharp and unyielding. Strange runes wove across its surface, half-worn by time, yet seeming to shimmer faintly as the crown caught the flickering light of the torches. The runes didn¡¯t just decorate the metal; they seemed to pulse, faintly alive, as if carrying the echoes of the land itself. Aidric stared, his heart pounding. He couldn¡¯t explain how, but he knew the crown¡¯s importance now. Knew that it wasn¡¯t just some relic from Albion¡¯s past but a thing of purpose. A thing that decided, rather than being decided upon. Beside him, Thistle stamped her hooves nervously, and Aidric instinctively reached to steady her. His hand shook as it gripped her bridle, his thoughts whirling. He had carried that thing. He had touched its container, felt its weight. But only now did it seem heavier, as if it carried more than iron and age¡ªsomething vast and unknowable. ¡°This,¡± Merlin said, holding the crown aloft, ¡°is the Crown of Elders. It is not yours. It is not mine. It belongs to the land, and it answers only to the land. It was forged in the time before your thrones and banners, before your gods and wars, and it has broken men far greater than any of you.¡± The kings shifted uneasily in their saddles, their expressions wary. Even Branoc, whose disdain had been clear earlier, watched the crown with something nearing fear. Aidric¡¯s gaze flicked to Dinadan, who sat astride Bracken a short distance away. The knight¡¯s expression was unreadable, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword, his sharp eyes flicking between Merlin and the kings. Aidric thought Dinadan might say something¡ªsome wry remark to break the tension¡ªbut the knight remained silent. Merlin turned slowly, holding the crown out as if offering it to the stones themselves. ¡°This crown does not care for your bloodlines or your boasts. It will not weigh your titles, your conquests, or the gold in your coffers. It will not be swayed by prayers to old gods or new ones. It will only answer to the one who serves the land, who carries its burdens, who will endure its pain.¡± Aidric¡¯s stomach twisted. The weight of the moment pressed down on him, as if the air itself had grown heavier. Merlin continued, his voice rising slightly. ¡°You are gathered here, each of you believing yourself worthy. You tell yourselves that you stand above the others, that the land would bow to your strength, your wisdom, your destiny. But the truth is simpler¡ªand far more damning. You cannot choose the one who will heal Albion, because none of you are worthy to choose.¡± A ripple of anger passed through the gathered kings. Branoc scowled openly, and King Cadell let out a low, disbelieving chuckle. ¡°And who will choose, then?¡± Cadell asked, his voice smooth and mocking. ¡°You, Merlin? Or does this crown of yours leap from your hands to settle on the ¡®chosen one¡¯?¡± Merlin¡¯s gaze cut to Cadell, sharp and cold. ¡°The crown chooses,¡± he said simply. ¡°As it always has.¡± The kings fell silent again, and Merlin took a step forward, holding the crown higher. ¡°Albion is watching,¡± he said, his voice ringing through the henge. ¡°The land remembers every drop of blood spilled on its soil, every promise broken, every life taken for the sake of pride and power. And now, it calls for something greater than kings who would rule for themselves. It calls for a king who will serve.¡± Aidric shivered, though the air wasn¡¯t cold. He looked at Dinadan again, but the knight wasn¡¯t looking back. Dinadan¡¯s gaze was fixed on the crown, his jaw tight, his usual smirk gone. Merlin turned his attention to the gathered kings, his eyes blazing with an intensity that seemed far older than the man himself. ¡°If you wish to lead Albion,¡± he said, his voice softer now but no less commanding, ¡°then you must let the land decide. Stand beneath these stones, beneath the weight of its gaze, and let it choose who is worthy. You think yourselves strong, but the land will show you who is truly unbreakable.¡± The torches flickered wildly, as if the wind itself had stirred. Aidric gripped Thistle¡¯s reins tightly, his knuckles white. He felt it again¡ªthat strange hum beneath the earth, the sense that something vast and ancient was stirring, watching. ¡°You have brought your swords and your banners,¡± Merlin said, lowering the crown slightly. ¡°But leave them behind now. No blade will sway the will of Albion, no oath to gods or men. Stand before the crown as you are¡ªbare, unarmed, and with nothing but your soul to offer.¡± The silence that followed was suffocating. Aidric¡¯s heart pounded in his chest, and for a moment, he thought he might be sick. He had carried that crown, had touched its container, had thought it was just another task. But now¡­ now he realized it was far more. Beside him, Dinadan muttered under his breath, his voice so low that only Bracken heard him. ¡°This is madness,¡± he said softly. Yet, even as he spoke, he sat straighter in his saddle, his sharp eyes never leaving the crown. 23. Y Tir a Ddewisa - The Land Makes Its Choice The first king approached the Altar Stone, his breath curling into mist in the bitter air. The hush that followed was not one of reverence but of expectation¡ªheavy, thick, a thing with weight. The wind had stilled, as if the land itself had drawn in a breath, waiting. Steel whispered against leather as he drew his dagger, the blade catching the aurora¡¯s light, its edge flashing with an eerie brilliance. He hesitated only a moment, then turned his palm upward, pressing steel to skin. A sharp breath. A single line of red welled against the metal. Then¡ªdrip. The blood struck the Altar Stone, disappearing into the weathered grooves, as if the rock itself drank it in. The hum began. Faint at first, a whisper of sound too deep to be truly heard, more felt¡ªa tremor in the ribs, a pressure behind the eyes. The kind of sound that did not belong in the world of men. The second king stepped forward. A blade. A cut. Another drop of blood. The hum deepened, growing heavier, sending ripples through the frost-laden earth beneath their feet. Then a third. A fourth. Each man stepped forward, slicing their palm, spilling their blood onto stone. The air thickened with something unseen but unmistakable. The aurora above burned brighter, shifting like the unfurling banners of gods long turned to dust. Gold twisted into crimson, a slow and deliberate bleeding of color, as if the sky itself felt the weight of the ritual. The hum was no longer subtle. It thrummed in Dinadan¡¯s chest, in the bones of every man present. He shifted uncomfortably, rolling his shoulders as if trying to shake off the feeling of unseen fingers pressing against his skin. ¡°Never trust a rock that sings back to you,¡± he muttered. Aidric glanced at him, wide-eyed. ¡°It wasn¡¯t singing before.¡± Dinadan exhaled sharply. ¡°That¡¯s what worries me.¡± A final king stepped forward, his blood joining the rest. The Altar Stone pulsed. Then, the sky shattered. Shockwaves rippled outward, setting the very air to trembling. Dinadan barely heard himself speak over the roaring in his skull. ¡°Well, this is off to a promising start.¡± He turned to Aidric, intending to offer some halfhearted reassurance, but the boy wasn¡¯t looking at him. His eyes were locked on the light. Because it wasn¡¯t just striking the stone. It was gathering. Swirling. Choosing. And then, as if the decision had already been made long before any of them had drawn breath, the light surged forward. It wrapped itself around a single figure. Uther Pendragon. The light coalesced, thick as molten gold, moving with the certainty of something that had always known its answer. It did not waver. It did not hesitate. It chose. It wrapped around Uther like a second skin, sinking into every seam of his armor, into every scar carved into his flesh. The dents and battle-worn edges of his mail flared with brilliance, no longer marks of war but symbols of endurance. The light did not erase them. It honored them. For a breath, Uther did not move. Then, slowly, he lifted his chin. The glow did not diminish. It burned, unwavering. He was no longer just standing in the light. He was it. Dinadan let out a slow, steady breath, exhaling through his nose as he nudged Aidric with his elbow. ¡°Well,¡± he murmured, ¡°there¡¯s your answer.¡± But not everyone was so accepting. Vortigern stood frozen, his expression a twisted thing, as if something inside him had broken at the sight. His jaw clenched so tightly that for a moment, Dinadan thought he might shatter his own teeth. His nostrils flared, his hands curling into fists. Then the ground split open. A jagged crack tore through the frozen earth at the base of the Altar Stone, gaping like a wound, and from its depths, darkness bled forth. It did not spread like shadow. It poured, thick and slow, pooling at Vortigern¡¯s feet like ink spilled from something rotting. It did not belong to the world of men. It did not belong anywhere. The air soured. Aidric inhaled sharply, the sound barely audible beneath the rising hum of power. ¡°Dinadan,¡± he whispered, voice thin and unsteady. ¡°What¡¯s happening?¡± Dinadan drew his sword in one smooth motion, all humor vanishing. The air pressing down on them felt wrong, heavy in a way that had nothing to do with magic and everything to do with something deeper. Something old. "Something very bad," he said. The shadows did not wait. They climbed Vortigern, slithering over his boots, wrapping around his legs, curling like serpents eager to sink their fangs into his flesh. They did not pass over him¡ªthey sank into him. Vortigern inhaled sharply. His head tilted back, his lips parting¡ªSupport creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions. And then he laughed. Low. Amused. Certain. The sound burrowed under the skin, wrong in a way that had nothing to do with mortal ears and everything to do with something listening from beyond. ¡°The stones may choose,¡± he murmured, his voice layered now¡ªnot just his own, but something deeper, something whispering beneath it. His smile stretched wide, too wide, too sharp. ¡°But power is taken, not given.¡± The gathered kings broke. The chaos rushed forth like a wave, shouts and murmurs rising as the gathered kings recoiled from the wrongness spilling into the circle. The air was thick, heavy, pressing down like an unseen hand squeezing the breath from their lungs. One fell to his knees, whispering prayers to gods that weren¡¯t listening. Another turned and ran, abandoning all pretense of dignity, his sword forgotten where it lay in the dirt. Others hovered between fight and flight, hands on hilts, but what blade could cut through this? Only Uther did not move. The light still wrapped him, marking him as the land¡¯s own. He watched Vortigern with something unreadable in his gaze. Not fear. Not uncertainty. Just certainty. And he reached for his sword. Then¡ªMerlin¡¯s voice cut through it all. "Hold your ground." It wasn¡¯t shouted. It didn¡¯t need to be. The command rang out, clear as steel against stone, sharp enough to halt the creeping panic. "The darkness feeds on fear." The Altar Stone pulsed, its light refusing to dim, standing against the encroaching shadow. The golden glow flickered, not with weakness, but with resistance, as if something within the stone fought back. Dinadan adjusted his grip on his sword, keeping his eyes fixed on Vortigern. Or what used to be Vortigern. The man who had once been king was shifting, stretching away from human form. His skin no longer caught the light¡ªit swallowed it, twisting with the writhing darkness curling around him like living chains. Vortigern lifted his gaze, eyes gleaming wrong, in a way that had nothing to do with light or shadow. He smiled, and the darkness stirred at his feet, eager, waiting. "The stones are relics," he sneered, voice warping¡ªtoo many voices, layered and fractured, each one hissing from somewhere beyond the circle of men. "They choose the weak. The land needs a ruler who takes what is his." Dinadan tilted his head, brow furrowing in mock consideration. ¡°Oh, sure,¡± he said casually. ¡°Because nothing screams ¡®good leadership¡¯ like shadow snakes and villainous monologues.¡± For a heartbeat, the darkness faltered. A silence stretched between them, taut as a bowstring. Then, Vortigern turned his gaze to Dinadan. Not just a glance. A weight. Like the cold pull of deep water dragging at a drowning man¡¯s legs. "Careful, fool," he said, his voice low, venomous, curling with something old and hungry. "You tread on ground you do not understand." Dinadan met his stare, his grip firm, his smirk unwavering. ¡°Understanding¡¯s overrated,¡± he said. ¡°I prefer improvisation.¡± The shadows lunged. But before they could reach him¡ª Uther moved. He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, each movement carrying the weight of something ritualistic. Steel sang as he drew his blade, the sound cutting through the unnatural stillness. The aurora above flickered, its corrupted green light casting sickly hues over the battlefield, but Uther¡¯s sword caught the last vestiges of silver and gold. For a moment, the blade seemed to burn, gleaming like the final light of a dying sun. "Enough." The word landed with the weight of stone and legacy, settling into the ground beneath them like something meant to last. "You defy not only the ancient ways, but the land itself." The darkness surged. It struck outward in tendrils, reaching, grasping, desperate to claim the ground that had already rejected it. The very air warped under its weight, thick as storm-choked water. The aurora twisted above, its corrupted green and black streaks spreading like rot through the heavens. But the stones answered. Golden light erupted from their carved surfaces, no longer a mere pulse but a roar¡ªancient, relentless, unyielding. It shot upward in searing ribbons, tracing the sigils carved by hands long turned to dust, burning away the creeping shadows with the force of something older than kingship itself. Dinadan staggered as a shockwave tore through the circle, his talisman igniting against his chest. The burn lanced through him, searing hot, like the land itself had reached through the metal to brand him with its will. He hissed through his teeth, eyes watering, but did not fall. The wave of light struck, slamming into Vortigern¡¯s encroaching darkness with the weight of ages. The two forces clashed, golden brilliance and black rot writhing together, locked in a battle that had no place in the world of men. The ground trembled beneath them, the very air shuddering with the force of it. The hum of the stones swelled into something deafening, reverberating in Dinadan¡¯s ribs, in his skull, in the marrow of every man present. Then, the balance broke. Vortigern screamed, a sound not of pain but of rage, of refusal, of something that would not surrender¡ª And then, the light consumed him. The darkness twisted, recoiling upon itself, writhing in fury. The black tendrils lashed outward, searching for purchase, but the golden force of the stones tore through them. Vortigern¡¯s form contorted, shadows peeling away from his skin in frantic, clawing wisps. For a single breath, his expression flickered¡ªnot as a warlord, not as a king, but as a man facing something he could not conquer. Then¡ª The swirling winds took him. The darkness collapsed inward, a spiraling abyss swallowing its master whole, sucking him into the void it had tried to unleash. And then, as if it had never been there at all¡ªit was gone. The wind died. The earth settled. The aurora flared one last time, streaks of gold burning defiantly across the sky before dimming into the quiet hush of the heavens. The silence stretched, vast and heavy, settling into the bones of every man present. The aurora, once a burning banner above them, flickered, its golden fire bleeding out into the cold. The stones that had roared with power only moments ago now dimmed too quickly, their glow draining like breath from a dying man¡¯s lips. The weight of the moment pressed down on them all. The land had chosen. The battle had been fought. But it did not feel like a victory. Dinadan let out a slow, sharp breath, flexing his grip on his sword before sliding it back into its sheath. The sound was too loud in the hush. ¡°Well,¡± he said, voice even, though something in his chest twisted. ¡°That was suitably dramatic.¡± He turned slightly, glancing at Aidric. ¡°Think we can go home now?¡± Nobody answered. Nobody moved. A few of the kings, their faces unreadable, exchanged glances¡ªsmall, quick, but enough for Dinadan to notice. One, a broad-shouldered warrior with a streak of silver in his beard, stepped back. Not out of reverence, but as if already calculating his next move. Dinadan felt a flicker of unease. Then, Merlin stepped forward. His robes still stirred in the dying wind, his eyes distant¡ªnot in thought, but in sight. As if he saw beyond the here and now, looking into places men were never meant to see. "The stones have chosen," he said, his voice quiet, but heavy enough to crush the air. A pause. Too long. "But the choice is only the beginning." The weight of it settled over them like a second storm. The kind that did not break easily. "The land¡¯s healing is yet to come." A shift moved through the remaining kings. A tightening of shoulders. A lingering hesitation that should not have been there. The land had spoken. But men had not finished their scheming. Dinadan exhaled, slow and steady, forcing himself not to scowl. It¡¯s never simple, is it? The light around Uther had faded just enough that he no longer looked like something divine. Now, he was just a man again. A man with a sword and a crown he had not yet placed upon his head. His grip on that sword was tight. White-knuckled. His face unreadable in the dying light. Then, finally, his voice came¡ªlow, steady, no triumph in it. Only a weight that had already begun to press on his shoulders. "Then let it begin." A gust of wind swept through the Henge, lifting dust, scattering loose leaves across the stone circle. The scent of earth, raw and unsettled, filled the air. And for a breath¡ªjust one¡ªDinadan felt something. A shift. A whisper of something unseen. The battle was over. But something else was stirring. Something watching. He turned his head slightly, scanning the edges of the standing stones¡ª Nothing. No one. But the feeling remained. A warning in the marrow of his bones. Albion had chosen its king. But not all would accept its will. And the land was not yet finished with them. 24. Burden of the Fool The Henge of Elders was never meant to feel fragile. Its towering stones had withstood countless storms and centuries of rulers vying for dominion over Albion. Yet now, in the wake of the kings¡¯ summit and Uther¡¯s selection as leader, the Henge felt¡­ tired. The air was still, the carvings on the stones faintly glowing in a rhythm too weak to reassure. Dinadan leaned against one of the smaller monoliths, rubbing his temples as the talisman beneath his tunic pulsed faintly. Aidric stood at the cracked altar, his fingers tracing the jagged split that now divided it in two. His expression was somber, almost reverent. "Well," Dinadan said, cutting through the silence. "Good riddance to all that noise. Kings bickering, stones glowing, crowns humming like they¡¯ve a mind of their own¡ªenough to make a man question every choice that led him here." Aidric cast a sharp glance over his shoulder, his face pale, jaw tight. "This was not how it was meant to be." Dinadan raised an eyebrow, his tone dry. "What, you thought Y T¨ªr would clap us on the back and send us home with a fine cloak and a flask of mead?" Aidric turned back to the altar, his voice low but unsteady. "This place¡­ it shouldn¡¯t feel like this." Dinadan approached the boy, gesturing vaguely at the Henge. ¡°Wrong or not, it¡¯s still standing. Mostly. That¡¯s more than I can say for my patience after all this.¡± The moment stretched, heavy and unnatural. Dinadan felt it before he heard it¡ªthe prickling tension in the air, the way the talisman flared hotter against his chest. Bracken shifted uneasily at the edge of the clearing, pawing the ground and tossing his head. "Dinadan," Aidric whispered, fingers tightening on the altar''s edge. "Tell me you feel that." Dinadan¡¯s sardonic grin wavered. "Feel what? The crushing regret of ever stepping foot outside that inn?" Then came the sound. A deep, guttural rumble that reverberated through the ground. The shadows at the edge of the Henge began to writhe, coalescing into a form both massive and amorphous. The darkening had returned. "Well, isn¡¯t this just perfect," Dinadan muttered, drawing his sword. "I was rather looking forward to a quiet night of not being devoured by some ancient horror." The darkening surged forward, its tendrils lashing out at the nearest standing stone. The impact sent a thunderous crack through the clearing as the ancient monolith toppled, splintering into jagged shards on the ground. Aidric stumbled back, his eyes wide with terror. "Dinadan, what do we do?" Aidric shouted, his voice cracking, raw with desperation. Dinadan tightened his grip on his sword, his knuckles white. ¡°What we always do,¡± he said, forcing a grin that didn¡¯t quite reach his eyes. ¡°Run and hope we live to regret it.¡± The darkening turned toward the altar, its tendrils slithering across the broken stone like ink spreading through water. It struck with a force that shook the earth, sending Aidric sprawling to the ground. The altar groaned, the split widening as the darkening struck again. The carvings etched into its surface dimmed, their glow fading like the last embers of a dying fire. Aidric scrambled to his feet, his voice frantic. ¡°It¡¯s breaking the altar! Dinadan, we have to do something!¡± Dinadan shot him a sidelong glance. "Do I look like a man with a plan for this?"You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version. The darkening reared back and lashed out again, toppling another standing stone. Dust and fragments filled the air, and the talisman around Dinadan¡¯s neck burned hotter. The hum rose to a crescendo, drowning out the darkening¡¯s growls, and Dinadan staggered as the voice of the land filled his mind. "The fool must stand between the crown and the darkness." Dinadan froze, the weight of the words pressing down on him like a physical force. His vision blurred, and for a brief moment, he was back at the Henge as a boy, kneeling before the stones. ¡°You laugh to bear the weight,¡± the voice had said then. ¡°But the burden is yours alone.¡± The memory tore away as another stone fell, crashing to the ground with the force of shattering thunder. Dinadan clenched his fists, his glare fixed on the darkening. "Why me?" he muttered, his voice raw. "Why is it always me?" Aidric grabbed his arm, his grip tight, his voice frantic. ¡°Dinadan, what¡¯s happening?¡± Dinadan looked at the boy, his expression raw with frustration and something deeper¡ªfear. ¡°Y T¨ªr,¡± he said bitterly. ¡°It doesn¡¯t know when to quit.¡± The Darkening loomed closer, its tendrils slithering toward the altar, drawn to the fractured stone like hungry things. Aidric¡¯s grip on Dinadan¡¯s arm tightened. "What does it want?" Dinadan forced a grin, though it wavered at the edges. ¡°To ruin my life, apparently.¡± "Good riddance," he muttered, watching as the tendrils slowly, almost gracefully, sank into the earth. Aidric didn¡¯t reply. Instead, his gaze lingered on the empty space where the jagged crown had rested, its absence feeling like a wound carved into the heart of the Henge. The altar, split but still faintly glowing, seemed to echo the same loss¡ªa broken promise, or perhaps a burden now shifted elsewhere. ¡°It¡¯s strange, isn¡¯t it?¡± Aidric said finally, his voice soft. ¡°It was only there for a moment, but now... it feels like something¡¯s missing. Like the Henge isn¡¯t whole anymore.¡± Dinadan let out a low sigh, shifting his weight against one of the leaning stones. His usual irreverence was gone, left only with a quiet weariness. "Y T¨ªr doesn¡¯t care much for being whole, lad. It¡¯s seen too many kings and crowns to believe in such things." Aidric turned to him, frowning. ¡°If Y T¨ªr gave Uther the crown, why does the darkening still come? Why hasn¡¯t it stopped?¡± Dinadan shrugged, brushing dust from his battered armor. "Because the crown isn¡¯t a fix. It¡¯s just the beginning. A shiny bit of metal that says, ¡®Here, you deal with it.¡¯ Y T¨ªr doesn¡¯t stop asking, Aidric¡ªit only changes who it asks." Aidric¡¯s brow furrowed. ¡°And what of us? What does it want from us?¡± Dinadan chuckled softly, though there was little humor in it. "It wants what it always does¡ªsomeone to bear the weight when no one else will. And in case you¡¯ve not noticed, lad, we¡¯re the only fools still standing." Aidric nodded, his hands curling into fists at his sides. "Then I¡¯ll keep going. With you." Dinadan tilted his head, raising an eyebrow. "Oh, you will, will you? And who said I¡¯d let you linger underfoot?" Aidric¡¯s small, hesitant smile grew, a flicker of mischief in his eyes. "Because you¡¯d miss me." Dinadan laughed, loud and unrestrained. "Well, that¡¯s a fair point." He straightened, brushing the dust from his armor. "All right, lad. Consider yourself my squire-in-suffering. First rule? Never let me say anything noble. It¡¯ll ruin my reputation." Aidric¡¯s smile widened, certainty settling in his stance as he nodded. "Got it." Dinadan cast one last look at the Henge. Some stones had fallen, others leaned as if weary, but still, they endured. The altar, though fractured, held a faint glow¡ªdefiant, unbroken despite the darkening¡¯s wrath. Y T¨ªr¡¯s voice had fallen silent, but its presence lingered, heavy as the mist before a storm. ¡°It¡¯ll hold,¡± Dinadan said, more to himself than to Aidric. ¡°The Henge always does. Even when the rest of us don¡¯t.¡± He turned and strode toward Bracken, gesturing for Aidric to follow. ¡°Come on. Let¡¯s find a warm fire and a drink that doesn¡¯t taste like regret. We¡¯ve earned at least that much.¡± Aidric fell into step behind him, his small frame seeming stronger despite the heavy chest he carried. As they mounted their mules and rode into the dark forest, the Henge faded into the distance, its faint glow a beacon of resilience. As hooves carried them further from the Henge, Dinadan glanced at Aidric and smirked. ¡°You know,¡± he said, his voice lighter now, ¡°if you¡¯re going to stick around, you¡¯ll need to learn how to tell a proper joke. Can¡¯t have a squire who doesn¡¯t know how to lighten the mood.¡± Aidric rolled his eyes, a smirk tugging at his lips. "I thought you were trying to keep your reputation intact." Dinadan grinned. "Fair enough. I¡¯ll start you with the bad ones, then." Their laughter faded into the forest, leaving the Henge behind. Damaged but unbroken, it stood as a silent reminder that even in the face of darkness, there were still those foolish enough to bear the burden¡ªand strong enough to try. 25. The King Summons Dinadan muttered, tugging his cloak tighter against the wind. Bracken snorted but kept his steady pace, hooves striking sharp against the frozen earth. The mule¡¯s breath curled white in the morning air before vanishing into the mist. The road stretched ahead, silver with frost, its edges lined with skeletal trees. Their bare limbs clawed toward the sky, black and brittle, shuddering under the weight of the season. Dinadan exhaled through his nose. Uther had summoned him. Not a warlord. Not a favored knight. Him. Not since the Henge of Elders. Not since the night the air had smelled of burning yew, since the dawn had risen on a battlefield that would never be sung of in halls. The letter had been brief. Come to Caer Llion at once. No reason. No warning. And that was the problem. The last time he had answered a summons, he had left men in the earth. Bracken¡¯s hooves struck hollow. One. Two. Three. Dinadan stopped counting and muttered a curse, rubbing a hand over his face. Bracken flicked an ear, but his steps slowed. Dinadan frowned. The mule hesitated. A gust of wind stirred the mist. A sharp, metallic tang curled through the air. Wet iron. The shard at his chest hummed. Bracken stopped. The beast¡¯s ears pricked forward, nostrils flaring. The scent clung¡ªfaint but unmistakable. Blood. Dinadan let out a slow breath. he muttered. A single crow called in the distance. Then another. Dinadan¡¯s fingers flexed at his side. He lifted his gaze. The trees lining the road were black with them. Perched in the branches, their bodies stark against the frost-laced boughs. Others crowded the ground, their talons sinking into the frozen earth¡ªor where the earth should have been. Dinadan¡¯s breath hitched. At their feet, curling between the roots of the trees, the frost was gone. In its place, wisps of black fog coiled over the ground. The tendrils did not cling to the earth the way mist did. They did not settle. They moved, stretching, shifting, bleeding into the space around them. Just like the night at the Henge. Dinadan¡¯s pulse pounded in his throat. Y T¨ªr hummed beneath his ribs. The mule snorted, his weight shifting, but the he did not move forward. Dinadan licked his teeth. The mule gave no answer. The crows did not blink. A gust of wind stirred the branches. They did not shift. The weight of their presence pressed against him. Watching. Waiting. Bracken shifted uneasily. Dinadan gritted his teeth and nudged the reins. The mule didn¡¯t. A ripple moved through the flock¡ªnot flight, not a startled shuffling of feathers¡ªa twitch, as though something unseen had passed through them. Dinadan¡¯s pulse drummed in his throat. The heaviness of the air settled deeper. Y T¨ªr was watching. The back of Dinadan¡¯s neck prickled. His grip tightened on the reins. Bracken took a single step forward. The crows turned their heads in unison. A hundred ebony eyes locked on him. Dinadan hated that. Another step. Still, they watched. Dinadan exhaled. Bracken refused to quicken his pace. Another crow landed on the road ahead, close enough that Dinadan saw the frost crusting its claws. The bird did not flinch as the mule¡¯s hooves neared. It should have flown. It didn¡¯t. The tendrils of black mist curled over its feet. A shudder ran through Dinadan¡¯s chest, through the shard hanging at his throat.If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement. The Darkening. Not here. Not again. The other crows began to shift, tilting their heads, feathers ruffling without a breeze. Dinadan¡¯s chest went tight. he muttered, pressing his heels to Bracken¡¯s sides. The mule obeyed. The moment they crossed the edge of the trees, the crows rose at once. A wall of black wings thundered against the air, shattering the quiet. And with them, the tendrils lifted¡ªspiraling upward, twisting in their wake, dark against the pale sky. For a breath, the frost lay untouched. Then, as if the land had exhaled, the ice crept back, silvering the ground where the crows had stood. Dinadan did not look back. Y T¨ªr had stirred. The Darkening had not left the world behind. --- Dinadan knew the moment the city gates came into view. Caer Llion moved as any city should¡ªcarts rattling over frozen roads, the clang of blacksmiths hammering iron, the scent of fish thick in the air as merchants haggled at the docks. But the rhythm was wrong. Voices that should have rung out in laughter or sharp bargaining faded into murmurs. The press of the crowd at the gate, which should have slowed him, parted without being asked. Merchants bartered in hushed tones, eyes flicking toward the high keep before snapping away. A woman near the tanner¡¯s stall paused mid-conversation, fingers tightening around the handles of her basket. A group of children playing by the well scattered at the first sight of him, their laughter vanishing down side streets. Bracken¡¯s hooves rang sharp against the ground as they passed, the sound too loud in the hush that settled behind them. Dinadan exhaled through his nose. He was being watched. Not with curiosity. Not with the wariness given to a man in unfamiliar colors. This was different. A murmur behind hands. A door closing too quickly. A shadow shifting behind a half-latched shutter. The smith at his forge barely glanced up, but his apprentice did. The boy¡¯s brow furrowed¡ªnot in recognition of Dinadan himself, but of what he represented. The smith caught the boy¡¯s sleeve and shook his head. Keep working. Don¡¯t stare. A butcher stood at his stall, cleaver poised over the joint of a pig, but he did not bring it down. Not while Dinadan passed. No one met his eye. No one spoke his name. No one stopped him. No one welcomed him either. Bracken flicked his ears back, uneasy. Dinadan ran a gloved hand along the mule¡¯s neck. The banners snapped overhead, crimson and gold stark against the grey sky. He should have ignored it. He had spent years walking unnoticed through the high halls of Albion, passing from court to campfire without earning a second glance. He had preferred it that way. But the way the city moved around him now¡ªas though they did not want to be near him¡ªitched beneath his skin. They had seen him. They had not expected him. They had expected war. It had been weeks since the Henge of Elders. Since the land had chosen its king. Since Uther Pendragon had emerged from the mist, crowned not by men, but by Y T¨ªr itself. The banners had returned. Yet, the war had not begun. Where were the riders sweeping south to bring the rebellious lords to heel? Where were the warbands storming the great halls of those who had refused to swear fealty? Where was the fire? Uther had been named king, but no swords had been raised in his name. Instead, he had summoned one man. A man the people of Caer Llion had never seen. A man who rode alone. And that was enough. Bracken¡¯s hooves struck stone as they passed through the inner gate, breath curling in the cold air. Dinadan muttered under his breath. A mistake to come, then. The courtyard was emptier than it should have been. Guards lined the walls, but they did not call out. The stable hands near the archway worked in silently, their shoulders stiff, attention fixed on their tasks. The moment Dinadan swung from the saddle, the doors groaned open. A summons. The stable boy who came for Bracken hesitated. Only for a breath. But Dinadan saw it. He handed over the reins without a word. Bracken huffed, ears twitching, but did not resist as he was led away. Dinadan rolled his shoulders, loosening the tightness that had settled between them. He had been called. But the people of Caer Llion watched him not as a man answering a summons¡ª As the first sign of the storm they had been waiting for. Dinadan rolled his shoulders, loosening the tightness that had settled along his spine. The city¡¯s silence clung to him, a thing unseen but felt all the same. A man did not walk through Caer Llion unnoticed¡ªnot when he had been summoned, not when he rode alone. The doors of the war hall groaned shut behind him, sealing out the courtyard¡¯s cold. The chamber was warm with torchlight, the scent of wax and old tallow clinging to the stone. But the heat did not touch the air. Not the kind of cold that came from stone and winter air¡ªthe kind that settled when a king began to doubt his own crown. The king stood at the war table, one hand pressed against it as if feeling the shape of the kingdom beneath his palm. His fingers traced the edges of a letter¡ªunopened, unread. A letter a king did not wish to read. Dinadan¡¯s gaze flicked to it, and his stomach curled with distaste. He hated letters. Nothing good ever came sealed in wax. He tilted his head, weary amusement flickering in his eyes. Uther did not look up, his voice weighed with unspoken ire. Dinadan exhaled, rolling his shoulders. The parchment crumpled under Uther¡¯s fingers. That was new. The torches flickered suddenly¡ªthe shadows stretching long across the stones, twisting like ink bleeding through parchment. Dinadan sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. Uther lifted his gaze then. A king¡¯s gaze. Cold. Heavy. Measured like steel in a smith¡¯s grip. Ah. There it was. Dinadan¡¯s stomach sank. He had never wanted to be a knight. Never cared for oaths, for duty, for the weight of another man¡¯s crown pressing on his shoulders. He had learned long ago that truth was an ungrateful thing¡ªit burned in the hands of those who carried it. Dinadan muttered, running his tongue along his teeth. A pause. The weight of flame, stone, and silence. Uther¡¯s hand moved, pushing the letter across the table. He did not let itgo. The wax seal did not appear heavy, but it felt it. His voice dropped lower. Quieter. Dinadan did not move. He had spent years avoiding the weight of that kind of expectation. A man who listened was rarely trusted by those who ruled, but Uther¡ªUther had never been one to trust lightly. Now, he was trusting Dinadan. Trust was a dangerous thing. A man did not ride to find silence without risking being silenced himself. He should have refused. The wax seal gleamed in the firelight, and beneath the shard, deep in his ribs, Y T¨ªr hummed. He reached out and took the letter. It sat in his palm like a stone pulled from deep water. Dinadan did not move. Uther had called for him. Not for his warlords. Not for his favored champions. Not for men who would ride at dawn with banners and steel. Him. A man who did not like to fight. A man who did not like to kneel. A man who listened. The fire cracked in the hearth, throwing flickering light over Uther¡¯s face. His jaw was set, but his eyes held something harder than iron. That should have been a comfort. It wasn¡¯t. Because when a king trusts no one but a fool, the kingdom is already lost. Dinadan exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders. He let his thumb run over the wax seal, feeling the smoothness of it. The weight of it. Fate take me, he thought, dryly. A poor choice, majesty, but yours to make. He slipped the letter into his cloak. he said finally. Uther exhaled, stepping back from the table. His voice was measured. Dinadan arched a brow. Uther¡¯s eyes did not waver. Dinadan muttered words not fit for polite company. He turned for the door. Uther¡¯s voice stopped him before he reached the threshold. That was worse. Dinadan did not glance back. He had never liked riding toward waiting silence. His grip tightened on the hilt of his sword as he stepped out into the morning. The gates of Caer Llion closed behind him, but the weight of them did not lift. The land held its silence. Dinadan did not. He hummed under his breath, low and tuneless, more to fill the air than for any pleasure in it. Bracken¡¯s hooves struck hollow against the frostbitten earth, the sound stretching too far in the hush of morning. Three lords. Three halls. Three silences. Castell Raglan. Cwmbran. Caerwent. He knew the names like a gambler knew the weight of dice in his palm. Old, familiar, but uncertain once cast. The first would be Lord Morys of Castell Raglan. A cautious man. Steady. Slow to anger, slower to laugh. A man who did not speak quickly, but spoke wisely when he did. For him to go silent was not just troubling. It was unnatural. Next, Cwmbran¡ªLord Cadoc¡¯s lands. A younger lord, ambitious. A man who measured his words too carefully, like each one was a blade he might have to parry. Dinadan had never trusted a man who smiled more than he spoke. And last¡ªCaerwent. Lord Owain¡¯s seat. An old warrior, long in the tooth, but still sharp where it counted. He had fought for Uther¡¯s crown. Bled for it. Now he said nothing. Dinadan exhaled, breath curling white in the air. Men did not fall silent for no reason. Uther¡¯s words sat in his ribs, heavy as the letter pressed to his side. The road stretched long before him, winding into mist. Y T¨ªr was silent. But silence was never still. When it spoke, Dinadan would listen. 26. Three Silences The mist clung thick to the lowlands, curling in the hollows of Y T¨ªr like a beast settling into its den. Dinadan rode through it, Bracken''s breath steaming in the cold air, the steady rhythm of hooves muffled by the damp. Ahead, the dark shape of Castell Raglan loomed against the gray sky. High walls, thick stone, built to withstand siege. Its banners should have been flying. Its gates should have stood open. Instead¡ªnothing. The gates of Castell Raglan were shut. Not barred. Not chained. Just... closed. Dinadan swung from the saddle, boots striking hard against the frost-laced earth. No challenge came from the walls. No guard called his name. That was wrong. Dinadan exhaled, running a hand down Bracken¡¯s neck. The horse was tense, ears flicking back, nostrils flaring. The beast knew before the man. "Aye, I feel it too," Dinadan muttered. He stepped forward and pressed a palm against the gate. The wood was cold, slick with mist. It should have groaned when he pushed. Should have resisted. Instead¡ªit swung open without a sound. He stepped inside. A lord¡¯s keep is never quiet. There should have been the clang of iron from the forge, the chatter of stable hands, the bark of hounds waiting for the morning scraps. There was nothing. A single torch burned near the entrance to the great hall, its flame guttering in the still air. Still. Not windless. Not dead. Just... waiting. Dinadan¡¯s fingers hovered near the hilt of his sword, but he did not draw it. Steel was for men. Silence was something else. "Well then," he muttered, pulling his cloak tighter. "Let¡¯s see if the lord of this hall keeps to the old ways¡ªhospitality first, or steel at the door." He climbed the steps to the great hall, boots echoing against the stone. He pushed the heavy doors open and stepped into silence. Dim firelight flickered against the high beams, stretching shadows too far.. The hearth burned low, embers pulsing in the half-light. The high table stood untouched. Trenchers still set. Wine cups half-drunk. A loaf of bread gone hard at the edges. It had been left in the middle of a meal. Not abandoned in panic. Just left. A breath of wind stirred the flames in the sconces, making them gutter. Shadows rippled against the walls. And then he saw them. Figures. Not standing. Not sitting. Just there. At the edges of the hall, in the alcoves near the pillars. Men and women in their cloaks, their hoods drawn, their faces hidden. Watching. Dinadan did not move. Neither did they. The torchlight flickered again, stretching their shadows, turning them taller, longer, wrong. Dinadan exhaled through his nose, slow and careful. "I would have words with Lord Morys," he said, though the heavy stillness seemed to drink his voice whole. No one answered. But in the hush of the hall, something shifted. Not the figures. The silence itself. As if it had been holding its breath. No one moved. The fire popped in the hearth, sending up a brief lick of flame before settling again. The air in the hall did not stir. No whispers. No breath of wind. Just the weight of silence pressing against the stone. Dinadan let his gaze move slowly over the figures¡ªhooded, cloaked, standing too still. Not fearful. Not hesitant. Waiting. Dinadan exhaled through his nose, patience thinning like a blade worn to its edge. He tried again, his voice now carrying the weight of expectation. "Lord Morys. I¡¯ve not the time nor the mood for shadows¡ªwhere is he?" A shift. A stir, so slight he might have imagined it. Then, movement. One of the figures¡ªa woman, by the shape of her shoulders¡ªstepped forward. Slowly. Deliberately. But she did not lift her hood. She did not speak. Instead, she raised a hand and pointed. Not at him. Past him. Dinadan did not turn immediately. Because that would have been too easy. "Ye were expected," the woman said, her voice thin as breath. A breath passed. Then another. The woman¡¯s words still hung in the air, too thin, too certain. He exhaled through his nose, tilting his head slightly. "Expected, was I?" The woman did not answer. Neither did the others. That was answer enough. He had heard men lie before. Heard them stumble over their own tongues, grasping for words that would not condemn them. This was not that. This was certainty. Dinadan exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. The shard of Y T¨ªr was pressing warmly against him now, heavy against the folds beneath his cloak. Dinadan¡¯s gaze flicked over the dim hall, his tone carrying the weight of a man long used to disappointment. "Would I be askin¡¯ too much for a scrap of bread while I linger? A draught of ale, mayhap? No? Only hard eyes and silence, then. A welcome fit for a cursed man." Nothing. "Right, then." His voice was still wry, but his gaze was sharp. "If I was expected, I¡¯d wager Lord Morys knew it too. And yet, here I stand, talkin¡¯ to shadows." Silence. Then¡ªanother shift. Not from the woman. From somewhere beyond the hall. A slow creak of wood. A weight settling. A door opening. Dinadan turned his head slightly, just enough to catch the movement. The woman lowered her hand. "You should see him." Her voice was quieter now. But not softer. He inhaled slow and deep, rolling his shoulders before stepping deeper into the silence. He did not look at the spectral figures again. They did not follow. They did not need to. His boots scuffed against the floor as he walked, each step a quiet intrusion into the hush. This was not the emptiness of an abandoned place. This was silence that was waiting to be broken. A final turn. A heavy wooden door. Not locked. Not barred. But closed. Dinadan reached for the handle, fingers curling over the worn iron and pushed the door open. And there, in the dim firelight, sat Lord Morys, unmoving in the high-backed chair. Not slouched. Not stiff. Just¡­ placed. His hands rested lightly on the armrests, fingers unfurled, as though he hadn¡¯t quite decided whether to hold on or let go. His eyes were open. Watching.Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere. Waiting. Morys was not dead. But he did not move like a man entirely alive. Dinadan¡¯s gaze swept the chamber¡ªnot searching, exactly, but gathering. There were no signs of struggle, no overturned chairs, no shattered goblets. Nothing to suggest a man taken or trapped. And yet¡ªhe had been kept. His clothes were neat, his beard trimmed. Someone had tended to him. Someone had made sure he remained. Dinadan pushed off the door frame and crossed the room in slow, measured strides, letting his boots scuff against the stone. A sound. A reminder that noise still had a place in the world. He pulled a chair forward, dragging the legs over the floor. Not carelessly. Not loudly. Just enough to hear it. He did not sit. Not yet. Instead, he leaned against the back of the chair, studying the lord as the lord studied him. "I was sent to listen, my lord." His voice was low, even. Measured. "But a man cannot heed what is never spoken." A pause. Then Morys blinked. Once. Slowly. It was such a small thing. A simple thing. And yet, it should not have made Dinadan¡¯s stomach coil the way it did. He tilted his head, letting out a long, deliberate sigh. "Ah. Well then. That sets the wyrm¡¯s teeth on edge." Another blink. And then, beyond the hall, footsteps. Slow. Measured. Approaching. Not hurried. Not hesitant. Just¡­ coming. Dinadan did not move. But Morys¡¯ gaze flicked past him. Toward the door. Something shifted in the lord¡¯s eyes. Something that looked very much like fear. Dinadan did not turn. He had learned long ago that those who wished to be feared often demanded to be seen. Better to let them close the distance on their own terms. Let them reveal themselves before offering the courtesy of acknowledgment. Morys had no such patience. His fingers¡ªmotionless until now¡ªcurled suddenly against the chair¡¯s armrest. His throat worked, but no sound came. A man caught between speaking and swallowing the same words that might save him. The footsteps stopped. Only then did Dinadan turn. A man stood in the doorway. No banners marked his station. No sigil stitched into his cloak. But he carried himself like one who had not been denied in years. His eyes, however, were untouched by age¡ªsharp, pale, unwavering. Dinadan did not move. But the lord of Castell Raglan pressed himself deeper into the chair, as though the wood could shield him. "Morys," the man said. Morys flinched. Dinadan tapped his fingers against the chair. "I¡¯d ask for an introduction, but it seems the two of you have already shared more than a passing word." "Aye." The fire burned low. Then, suddenly, it flickered. Morys moved. Not to rise. Not to greet. To pull away. The newcomer had not offered a name. And that, more than his presence, was what set Dinadan¡¯s teeth on edge. A man without a name was either a fool or far worse. Well. That was unfortunate. Because Dinadan had never been fond of fools, and he certainly had no patience for the latter. Dinadan lounged against the chair, all easy arrogance. "Since names are scarce, let¡¯s play a game." He clicked his tongue. "Too polished for a steward, too fed for a monk, too fine for a lost wanderer. Not a swordsman. Not a scribe." A slow, measured exhale. "Yet here you stand, and Morys looks fit to bolt." Silence. Morys¡¯ knuckles whitened. That was enough. Dinadan tapped the chair. "Not a knight. Not a scholar. Not a servant." He gave a long, exaggerated sigh. "That leaves the most interesting kind of man." The man tilted his head, just slightly. "Ye talk too much." "Aye, well." Dinadan stretched lazily. "Some of us still have tongues to use." Morys flinched. A full-body recoil, like a man who had been struck¡ªthough no hand had touched him. Dinadan did not miss it. Then, the man exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly. Not angered. Not amused. Just¡­ conceding. "Ye may call me Anwir." Dinadan¡¯s smile did not fade. But inside, he did not like that name. It fit too well in the mouth. Slid too easily into place. A name given, but not a name true. He leaned back just so, letting the weight of the moment shift. ¡°Well then, Anwir. Shall I take it that Lord Morys is your honored guest?¡± Morys¡¯ breath caught. Anwir smiled, the expression easy but unreadable. ¡°Ye¡¯re free to assume as you will, Sir Dinadan.¡± Dinadan let his eyes drag back, slow and deliberate. ¡°I am beginning to wonder,¡± he murmured, ¡°if this silence is not wholly of Morys¡¯ own making.¡± Anwir did not answer. He did not have to. Because Morys had pushed himself back, hands now gripping the chair like a man grasping the edge of a sheer drop. "What is it you''ve wrought?" Dinadan asked, though his words were not for Morys. Anwir did not answer. But he did tilt his head, as if considering the weight of the question. "A kingdom does not hold its tongue." But Morys did. And his silence was not the absence of words. It was pressed into the man. There was a time for questions. A time for dragging the truth out of a man¡¯s throat, no matter how raw it left him. This was not that time. He exhaled and turned back to Anwir. "It seems my lord Morys has taken a sudden vow of silence." Dinadan dusted off his hands, his tone light, almost amused. "Which means, I suppose, I¡¯ll have to find my answers elsewhere." A pause. Then Anwir smiled. ¡°Then by all means, Sir Dinadan,¡± Anwir said, his tone smooth as still water, offering nothing and everything at once. He stepped aside, just enough to clear the doorway. "Listen well." The gates of Castell Raglan closed behind him with no fanfare. The doors simply swung shut, silent and smooth, as if the castle itself had grown weary of his presence. Dinadan let out a slow breath, letting the rhythm of the road settle in his bones. He had two more halls to visit, two more lords to hear, two more silences to break.
The wind bore the ghost of old fire as Dinadan rode on, Bracken¡¯s hooves striking hard against the road. The trees thinned, the land yawned wide, and there, etched against the slate-gray sky¡ªstood Cwmbran. The palisade had been devoured by flame. Some beams stood in jagged defiance, too burned to collapse, too broken to hold. Others had crumbled to blackened heaps. The gates were open. Not shattered. Not forced. Just¡­ open. Dinadan reined in at the threshold. No guards. No bodies. No movement. Not like Castell Raglan. That keep had been silent, but whole. This was different. A place stripped bare, left to settle into its own ruin. He walked forward, leaving Bracken at the gate. The wind coiled through the courtyard, curling through broken beams and hollow doorways. Something had stopped the fire from taking all. Or something had let it take only what it wished. The great doors of the keep stood open, warped by heat but not broken. He stepped through them without hesitation. The fire had touched the rafters, left soot clinging to the stone, but the hall still stood. Unmanned. Unmended. Unclaimed. The long tables remained, not overturned, not abandoned mid-meal¡ªjust left. There had been no effort to restore anything. No servants clearing wreckage, no signs of a struggle fought and lost. Just absence. And then¡ªa sound. Soft. Barely more than the shift of weight against wood. Dinadan turned his head. At the far end of the hall, in the high-backed chair beneath the scorched crest of his house, sat Lord Cadoc. He was not like Morys. He was not waiting. He was not watching. He was simply there. A man who had not left, but had been left behind. "My lord," Dinadan said. No response. No twitch of the fingers. No shift in the shoulders. As still as the ruined hall around him. Dinadan sighed, tilting his head. "If you''re set on ignoring me, fair warning¡ªI¡¯ve a talent for wearing down men who''d rather be left in peace." Still, nothing. He stepped closer. Close enough to see the man¡¯s hollowed eyes, the deep lines carved into his face. His clothes were neat, his hair unshorn, but only because grief does not unmake a man the way hunger does. It unravels him slower. "The fire did not take you." Dinadan let his gaze sweep the ruined hall. "Did it take the others?" A breath. Shallow. Uneven. Cadoc¡¯s fingers twitched, then clenched¡ªnot in anger, but as if trying to hold something in place. Dinadan frowned, his tone edged with quiet warning. "If you will not speak, I¡¯ll be left to draw my own conclusions. And I¡¯ve a knack for finding the most unpleasant ones." Cadoc¡¯s breath left him in a shudder. His throat worked. Still, no words. Just a low, cracking sound. Dinadan stilled. His breath hitched¡ªa sharp, broken sound, not meant for another man¡¯s ears. And then¡ªhe broke. He folded inward, shoulders shaking, hands gripping the arms of his chair as though he could steady himself against something unseen. The sound he made was not a word, not a name¡ªjust raw, cracking grief. Dinadan''s jaw tightened. He had spoken to men who feared for their lives, their families, their honor. To men who had faced the ruin of everything they¡¯d built. But he had never spoken to a man who had already lost. And he did not know what to do with it. "Right, then," he murmured. Not to Cadoc. To himself. He had come for answers. But what was left of Lord Cadoc had none to give. Dinadan lingered. It was not hesitation, not exactly. Hesitation implied there was a choice to be made, a right course of action waiting to be taken. There wasn¡¯t one. Lord Cadoc sat where he had collapsed into himself, breath unsteady, grief rippling through him in silent waves. Not a man who had broken in this moment, but one who had been breaking for too long. Dinadan had nothing for him. No words. No comfort. No way to mend a thing already shattered. "I cannot help a man who does not speak," he told himself, turning away. The road stretched on. One hall still waited. One lord still needed to be found. This was why he had come. This was what Uther had asked of him. And yet, as he swung himself into the saddle, his mind did not leave Cwmbran behind as easily as his body did. Cadoc would still be sitting there when he was gone. Still lost. Still breaking. Dinadan exhaled, gripping the reins tighter than he needed to."Fate take me, this is a cursed road." The path to Caerwent waited. And so, he rode.
Caerwent¡¯s gates were shut. Not barred. Not fortified. Just closed. Even Castell Raglan, even Cwmbran¡ªthey had let him in. But Caerwent had shut its doors. Dinadan dismounted, pressing his hand to the wood. It was whole. No cracks. No siege. Still, the doors did not open easily. The hinges groaned. Not from disrepair¡ªbut as if the hall itself resisted. Dinadan stepped into the courtyard. And it was not empty. The horses stood in their stalls, well-fed, their coats brushed. Barrels at the well were full, not left to dry and crack in the cold. A neat stack of firewood rested beside the kitchen door, ready for a fire that had never been lit. Everything in its place. Except the people. Dinadan scanned the yard. The hall doors stood open. No torches burned, but the high windows let in just enough light to see inside. And then he saw him. Lord Owain. Seated at the high table. Back straight. Hands placed neatly before him. Not like Cadoc. Not collapsed. Not grieving. Just¡­ still. "Twice now, I have ridden into halls unannounced and met with nothing but silence," Dinadan said. "A man might think he''s lost his charm." Owain did not answer. Did not blink. Did not breathe. Not in the way a man should. Dinadan¡¯s fingers flexed at his sides. "My lord," he said, more firmly now. And then¡ª Owain inhaled. Long. Slow. Too slow. And when he exhaled, it came out in a whisper. "Too late." Dinadan stilled. "What is too late?" Owain¡¯s lips parted again, his throat working, his chest rising¡ªeach breath a thing dragged from deep within. His voice barely rose above the hush. "We waited." The words were thin, stretched over too much time. "Waited for what?" A longer pause. Owain¡¯s fingers twitched. His gaze drifted¡ªnot to Dinadan, but to the empty chair beside him. Dinadan frowned. "Whose shadow did you wait to see?" Owain¡¯s lips moved. No sound. Then, barely more than breath¡ª "Him." It was not the word itself, but the way he said it. No hesitation. No need for explanation. As if there was no other answer. Dinadan followed his gaze to the empty chair. "You''ll have to sharpen the telling, fy arglwydd," Dinadan murmured. "Whose steps did you wait to hear?" Owain inhaled again¡ªslow, too slow. And then, in the same hollow voice¡ª "Our brenin. Our king." The words did not echo. Dinadan¡¯s jaw tightened. "King Uther?" he asked carefully." He let the silence hang before speaking again, voice steady. "Uther sent me." The words should have carried weight. They didn¡¯t. Owain¡¯s fingers twitched¡ªthe first sign of movement since Dinadan had stepped into the hall. "Nay," he murmured. "He is not my king." Owain inhaled sharply. A breath that pulled him back into himself. Dinadan exhaled. "What was done here, Owain?" Silence stretched between them. Then, slowly, the truth unwound itself, thread by thread, heavy as a noose tightening with each word. Owain had sent word to King Uther when the first shadows stirred along his borders¡ªwhen riders vanished between one village and the next, their horses found wandering but their saddles empty. He had sent word when the roads grew hungry, swallowing travelers whole, leaving only the whisper of boot prints in the mud, fading like breath on glass. Still, no answer. He had sent word again when the silence came, creeping into the marches like a living thing, slithering through the hills and halls, snuffing out voices one by one. The torches still burned, the hearths still smoldered, but the laughter, the quarrels, the clatter of cups¡ªgone, as if stolen in the night. And still, Uther had not answered. No messengers had come. No knights. No banners. Nothing. "You believe Uther cast you aside," Dinadan said, his voice quiet, but edged like a blade left in the cold. Owain did not answer. Because he did not need to. Dinadan had seen this silence before. Not the silence of fear. Not the silence of grief. The silence of a man who no longer believed in anything. And that was worse. "Your king has not turned from you, Owain." The words should have felt true. They didn¡¯t. Because Dinadan did not know if they were. 27. A Reluctant Knight The road back to Caer Llion stretched long and empty. Not in miles. Not in the weary trudge of Bracken¡¯s hooves against the frost-hardened earth. But in the hollow way the land seemed to hold its breath. It was not the silence of the halls he had left behind¡ªthose unnatural voids, where the air itself felt thick with something unspoken, where shadows gathered not only in corners but in the eyes of those who remained. No burned-out ruins marred this path. No lords stood in doorways, waiting with the resignation of men who had already been forsaken. And yet¡ª It was empty all the same. Bracken¡¯s hooves struck hard against frost-bound earth, their rhythm steady, unwavering, the only tether to the present. But Dinadan¡¯s mind walked another road, caught between three halls where echoes still lingered. One lord silenced. One lord burned. One lord who had given up waiting. None had given him the answer he sought. Because there was no answer. Only the shape of something missing. A hollowness, growing wider. A kingdom where light still burned¡ªbut where the darkness had begun to press in, thick and silent, coiling at the edges of sight. Not yet a storm. Not yet a flood. But something moving. Something waiting. Dinadan exhaled through his nose, sharp against the cold, and clicked his tongue. Bracken picked up the pace, eager for the walls of Caer Llion, for the safety of stone and torchlight. Not for the first time, Dinadan envied him. A mule did not have to name the thing creeping at the edges of the land. A mule did not have to kneel before a king and tell him that no swords alone could stand against what was coming. ¡ª¡ª The gates of Caer Llion yawned open before him, the great ironwood doors lined with bands of weather-worn steel. The fortress loomed above the valley, a monument of stone and will, but even here, in the seat of Uther¡¯s strength, Dinadan could feel the weight of something shifting. Something unseen. The courtyard was not empty. It was never empty. Stablehands led horses to water, messengers rushed past, and knights stood in loose clusters, their voices hushed as they murmured of border skirmishes, of strange lights in the west, of lords who had fallen silent. But none of them spared more than a glance for the man on the mule, his mismatched armor catching the morning light in dull, uneven flashes. Dinadan brushed past without a glance. His path was clear¡ªto the great hall, to the map-strewn table where Uther would be waiting, fingers braced against parchment, jaw set like a man who thought he could hold the land together by sheer force of will alone. Only¡ª Uther was not in the hall. Dinadan reined Bracken to a stop, gaze settling on the figure at the far end of the courtyard. The king stood near the mews, one gloved hand extended, steady as the wind shifted around him. And perched upon his arm¡ªa falcon. A falcon. Dark-feathered, sharp-eyed, she held herself with the same quiet power that Uther did, her talons wrapped firm around his wrist. She did not fidget, did not stir beyond the occasional shift of her head, scanning the courtyard as if measuring the worth of those within it.The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there. Dinadan dismounted with a grunt, rubbing his shoulder as he strode forward. Uther did not glance at him. He tilted his head, watching the bird as she flexed her wings. Uther¡¯s mouth curved. A single brow lifted in response. Dinadan asked. Beneath the leather of his glove, Uther¡¯s fingers tightened. A quiet sound escaped Uther, caught between amusement and thought. He lifted his arm, just enough for the falcon to notice. Talons tightened. Wings stretched. The bird sensed the moment before it came, anticipation rippling through every feather. Then Uther flicked his wrist, and the bird took flight. Feathers caught the wind, talons released their hold, and she soared upward in a streak of dark against the pale morning sky. Dinadan watched her go, watched the way she wheeled once, twice, before cutting away toward the tree line beyond the fortress walls. he said at last. Uther turned, meeting Dinadan¡¯s gaze. Dinadan ran a hand down his face, aware of the exhaustion weighing on him. Uther¡¯s expression darkened, his jaw tightening. he said. Not a question. Only names. Dinadan nodded, setting his shoulders. Uther exhaled, tension flickering through his stance, but he kept his silence. Dinadan continued. The silence stretched taut between them. Uther¡¯s voice was quieter now. Dinadan hesitated. He met Uther¡¯s gaze. Uther frowned. Dinadan exhaled. The words settled like a stone dropped into deep water. A silence rippled outward. The wind shifted, the banners above the courtyard snapping against the sky. Uther said, quiet. Not a question. A fact. Dinadan inclined his head. A moment passed. The silence was thick, weighted. Like the air before a storm, before the first crack of thunder. Uther leaned forward, his gaze colder than doubt, sharper than anger. he said, voice sharp as the air before a storm, Dinadan let the silence breathe before he answered. He studied the king. The way his fingers flexed against his gloves. The way his shoulders held tension like a drawn bowstring. The way the shadows in his gaze had lengthened over the years. Uther¡¯s expression did not change. Dinadan sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. Then he met his king¡¯s gaze. The torches flickered. The wind shifted again. The falcon called high above. Dinadan let the silence stretch. He had come to bring answers. He had only brought more proof that The Darkening was here. Uther did not move, but something in him had shifted, like a blade tilting toward the light before a strike. His eyes burned steady, measuring Dinadan as if he were weighing not only the man before him, but the shape of the kingdom he needed. Uther said at last. Dinadan¡¯s mouth quirked, though no humor touched his eyes. Uther exhaled through his nose. Dinadan shifted, arms folding across his mismatched cuirass. Uther¡¯s gaze did not waver. Dinadan¡¯s shoulders tensed, the words pressing against him like a smith¡¯s hammer to cooling iron. Dinadan said. Not a question. Uther inclined his head. The air between them thickened. Dinadan let the words settle, rolling them in his mind like dice across a game board. A knight. Not just a wanderer in Uther¡¯s employ, not just a whisper in the dark. A knight of Caer Llion. A knight bound. Dinadan''s voice was quiet. Dinadan looked away, rubbing the back of his neck as if shaking off a weight he had not yet agreed to carry. His voice was lighter, but there was an edge beneath it, like a knife tucked in a gambler¡¯s sleeve. Uther¡¯s brow furrowed. He leaned forward, his voice quieter now, heavier. Dinadan exhaled, rubbing his face with both hands. he muttered. Uther¡¯s lips twisted. His gaze sharpened. Dinadan let out a long breath. He gestured at himself. Uther said, tone turning brisk, as if already thinking ahead. Dinadan scoffed. Uther said. Dinadan countered. Uther glanced at Dinadan¡¯s armor¡ªan assortment of plates that had belonged to better men, scavenged from misfortune and necessity. The dented breastplate, the old gauntlet strapped with mismatched leather, the faded red cloak that once borne a sigil long worn away. Uther¡¯s voice was patient, but unyielding. Dinadan clenched his jaw, shifting his weight. He had lived long enough in the cracks between lords to know that men were judged first by what they wore, then by what they spoke, and last by what they did. The world saw armor before it saw the man. And Uther¡ªAnnwen take him¡ªwas right. Still, Dinadan scowled, running a hand over the old steel at his side. He knew this battle was already lost. he said at last, though the word tasted bitter. A glance, steady and unreadable, held for a beat before Uther spoke. Dinadan rolled his eyes. Uther straightened, the moment shifting, settling. Dinadan arched a brow. Uther did not confirm it. He did not have to. he said instead. Dinadan sighed, shaking his head. Uther tilted his head. Dinadan exhaled. Dinadan gave him a long look, then shook his head, turning for the door. The falcon¡¯s cry echoed as she wheeled once more above the fortress, a dark silhouette against the late morning sky, where the sun hung high and bright, its golden light spilling over the stone walls like molten steel. Uther watched him go, watched the way the torchlight caught on the edges of his tattered armor. A man of sharp wit and sharper knowing. A man the court would underestimate, because they did not see beyond steel. But Uther saw. And as Dinadan disappeared into the hall, bound for the forge at Boscastle, the king let himself exhale. Some wars were fought with swords. Others, with whispers. He would need both. 28. Overheard in a Market Boscastle was not a large town, nor was it a quiet one. It was a place forever at the edge of something greater¡ªwhere ambition flickered but never took hold, where dreams were like candle flames, snuffed before they could catch. he sea ruled here, shaping lives with the pull of the tide, dictating when men worked, when they rested, when they set their eyes to the horizon with wary eyes. Fishing boats rocked in the cove, their hulls creaking as they knocked against the wooden piers. The cries of gulls tangled with the rhythmic clang of a blacksmith¡¯s hammer, and the scent of salt and hot iron mingled in the air. The streets, narrow and winding, never stood empty. But it was not the sea that cast the longest shadow over Boscastle. That belonged to Tintagel. The fortress loomed beyond the cliffs, unseen but always present¡ªa name that hushed voices in the tavern, that turned a careless jest into something sharp-edged and uneasy. High stone walls and heavy doors. Wind howling through halls that were never warm. A place where loyalty was a currency and those who could not afford it learned to live beneath its weight. And behind those walls, a woman watched the waves but was not free to follow them. They said Duchess Ygraine lived well, wrapped in fine cloth, her tables heavy with silver dishes and summer fruit. But a gilded cage was still a cage, and a wife given to an old warrior-lord with more land than kindness had little room to fly. And Lord Gorlois¡ª He did not rule as he once had. Once, men spoke his name with respect. Once, he led with the cold, unyielding precision of a soldier who had lived and bled on the battlefield. But time had ground him down. War, ambition¡ªtoo many years spent chasing power had stripped him until only the steel remained. And even that was rusting at the edges. The years had turned him cruel. Where once his punishments had been fair, now they were swift and unrelenting. A man who spoke out of turn was dragged to the stocks for the amusement of his betters¡ªor worse, never seen again. He ruled not with loyalty, but with fear, and it spread through Tintagel like oil through water, thick and cloying. Some said it had begun with whispers, brought to him in the dark by men who did not belong to Uther¡¯s court. Men who carried words like knives, who knew how to carve fear into the marrow of a man¡¯s bones. Others blamed the dreams. Dark things clung to him like rot, dragging him from sleep with breath-like smoke and eyes hollowed by restless nights. His wariness had turned to paranoia, his sharp mind to suspicion. Treason lurked in every hall, every hushed conversation, in the glance of every servant who moved past his door. So he struck first. He struck often. The halls that had once carried the laughter of his household now carried silence, save for the whispers that slithered through the stone like rats. The fortress had grown colder, its fires burned low, its great doors opening less often. And still, The Dark came creeping in. Men had begun to vanish from Tintagel¡¯s ranks¡ªknights, stewards, merchants who had served him for years. Some fled, though few made it past the fortress walls. Others simply¡­ disappeared, their names slipping from the tongues of those who had once called them friends. And Ygraine¡ª Ygraine, the prize he had once carried home, the golden treasure he had won with blood and steel. Now he watched her now as if she, too, might betray him. She had learned caution. To step with care. To speak only when bidden. She moved through Tintagel as if it were a nest of vipers, each one waiting, fangs poised, ready to strike. And where there is weakness, there are always men ready to feed. Men like Vortigern¡¯s ilk. They had passed through Boscastle enough times¡ªenvoys with too much coin, men with smiles too sharp, men who carried words like blades. They never stayed long. They never had to. Boscastle did not belong to Gorlois. It did not belong to Vortigern. But it knew how to survive beneath them both. Men here worked hard. But they listened harder.
The forge sat at the very edge of the land, where the world seemed to end and the sea dared men to hold their ground. The wind battered the thick stone walls, but the building stood firm¡ªas if daring the sea to come any closer. Dinadan dismounted, leading Bracken to a nearby hitching post. The scent of burning coals curled from the open doorway, thick with iron and oil, the weight of metal being shaped. Inside, the armorer worked without pause. His hammer rose and fell, slow and steady. Each strike deliberate, each silence between them weighted. Dinadan leaned against the doorframe. He did not speak. Not out of patience. Out of habit.This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. He had learned long ago that a man deep in his craft would finish his work before acknowledging another. The armorer completed the shaping of the metal before setting his tools aside. He did not turn at once, but when he did, his gaze swept over Dinadan like a man taking the measure of steel before deciding how to temper it. Dinadan huffed. The armorer snorted, wiping his hands on a cloth. Dinadan stepped inside. No armor waited for him. No steel laid out for a knight¡¯s approval. Just measuring cords, waxed linen, and the beginnings of something not yet made. He frowned. The armorer gestured for him to stand still. He looped the measuring cord over Dinadan¡¯s shoulder, tugging it firm. Dinadan smirked. The armorer grunted. Dinadan sighed and let the man work. The cord wrapped around his chest, his arms, his shoulders¡ªeach measurement quick, efficient. No wasted movement. No wasted words.
Dinadan had been given lodging in a small inn near the harbor. The kind of place meant for passing through, not for staying. The room was clean, the bed sturdy, the walls thick enough to keep out the worst of the wind that howled through the narrow streets at night. It would do. His morning had been spent standing half-naked in the forge, enduring the armorer¡¯s measuring, shaping, and muttered complaints about his shoulders. By midday, he had been sent away. Which left him with nothing to do but wait. And Dinadan hated waiting. So, he walked. The market stretched along the harbor road, a winding, uneven line of carts, stalls, and low stone buildings where voices tangled over the cry of gulls. Men called their wares with the cadence of habit rather than enthusiasm, their voices rising and falling in time with the shifting tide. Fish, fresh from the morning catch, glistening with salt. Woven goods, rough-spun and dyed in colors pulled from inland fields. Knives and trinkets of beaten tin, polished just enough to fool a dull eye into seeing silver. Dinadan had no interest in any of it. Because markets were never about the goods. They were about the people. A king could hang his banners high, but a market spoke for itself. The stalls told one story¡ªthe voices behind them, another. Dinadan moved through the press of bodies, pausing here and there, tilting his head toward conversations that weren¡¯t meant for him but weren¡¯t being kept secret either. A fruit seller shook his head as a well-dressed noble extended a coin. Dinadan let the moment land, quiet and unspoken. The noble¡¯s hand hovered a breath too long before withdrawing. No argument. No protest. Because they both knew this was not about coin. A woman bent over a child¡¯s cloak, stitching charms of rowan and iron into the hem. she murmured. Dinadan¡¯s lips pressed into a line. He had seen sickness. He had seen fear. This was not fear of death. This was fear of something standing at the door, waiting to be let in. A smith sharpened a blade¡ªnot a farmer¡¯s sickle, not a fisherman¡¯s gutting knife, but a sword. he said. The young man watching him nodded. But his hands clenched at his sides. Not in readiness. In waiting. Dinadan drifted between the stalls, pausing where the crowd thickened. Not to buy. Not to speak. Just to listen. To the hum of quiet deals, to the weight of unspoken worries, to the shifting of wealth in hands that had learned to keep hold of it. Near the ale carts, a small man hunched over a worn wooden table, counting coins with quick, clever fingers. Dinadan did not stop, but his eyes tracked the movement. Coins turned, stacked, shifted. And clipped. The edges were too smooth. The weight, too light. A silver penny, shaved just enough to slip unnoticed from one hand to the next. Not enough for most men to see. But Dinadan did. He let the moment settle, then moved on. Some men made their way with steel. Some, with words. And some, like the man at the table, shaved the world down piece by piece, hoping no one knew what had been taken. A dagger caught his eye. Simple. Clean. Balanced. A weapon meant for work, not show. Dinadan ran a thumb over the pommel, cool metal pressing back against his skin. And he felt it. The weight of eyes. Not the idle glance of a passing merchant sizing up a potential sale. Not the quick flick of interest from a pickpocket scanning for an easy mark. This was different. Heavier. Sharper. He turned ¡ªnothing. The market moved as it had before. Merchants haggled, the wind tugged at the edges of cloaks, boots scuffed against stone. A fisherman argued over the price of a salted cod. A woman bartered for thread, her fingers testing the weave. Nothing had changed. Except it had. Dinadan¡¯s gaze flicked across the crowd, searching for the break in the pattern, the place where something was watching but did not want to be seen. A merchant leaned across his stall, his hands smoothing the worn wood, but his eyes¡ªthey were on Dinadan. Dinadan smirked, shaking his head. The merchant did not smile. His voice was careful. Pointed. Dinadan held the merchant¡¯s gaze for a moment, then let his smirk widen¡ªjust enough to be unreadable. He tapped the hilt of the dagger once against the stall¡¯s wooden edge, then stepped away, slipping back into the moving crowd. The market carried on around him, voices rising, boots shifting, hands exchanging coin. But the weight of unseen eyes never quite left his back. So he walked. The alley was narrow, caught between the leaning walls of two shops. The scent of salt and damp stone clung to the air, but no one paid it any mind. They were listening. A storyteller sat on a low wooden crate, a small crowd gathered close. His voice was steady, practiced¡ªrich in the way of men who knew how to make silence lean forward. Dinadan did not stop. He let himself drift toward the edge of the gathering, boots light on the worn cobbles. A good story pulled its own audience. A dangerous one held them like a blade at their throats. And this was a dangerous story. The man leaned forward, his voice lowering just enough to make the crowd press in. A pause. A breath. Someone muttered. A woman folded her arms tight across her chest. A man shifted his weight, hands curling at his sides. But no one answered. Because they wanted him to say it. The storyteller smiled. A sharp exhale. Someone spat onto the ground. Another man shook his head, his jaw tight. They did not ask if the story was true. They did not need to. It had been spoken. And once a story was spoken, it became something more. A truth men did not question. A wound that demanded vengeance. A blade sharpened before it had even been drawn. Dinadan exhaled, stepping back. He recognized what was happening. The fruit seller refusing coin. The smith sharpening blades that no one admitted to needing. The woman stitching rowan wards into her children¡¯s cloaks. Fear was taking shape. And stories were shaping it. A single story was enough to shape an army. And somewhere, someone was already preparing for war. 29. The Alchemy of Words Dinadan walked away, but the words clung to him like damp wool. Stories could move men faster than a king¡¯s decree and shift the weight of a kingdom¡ªnot by steel, but by the quiet, relentless pull of belief. And this one? This one was already moving. The market carried on, voices rising, coin changing hands, but the whispers gnawed at the edges of his thoughts. The land blackened. The animals dead. The tithe demanded all the same. Had it happened? Maybe. Had it happened that way? That was another matter altogether. Stories twisted, reshaped with every telling. Truth never made it to the end whole. Dinadan pulled his cloak tight against the wind and made for the inn. He needed distance. A quiet corner. A night unburdened by stories refusing to settle. But the night was waiting. The wind carried whispers. The shadows stretched too far. And when he closed his eyes, the ink was still wet on his hands.
The scent of ink and old parchment filled the air¡ªthick, familiar, unshaken by time. Candlelight flickered over bowed shelves, their wooden frames sagging under the weight of scrolls and books, while dust clung to the air like forgotten words. Dinadan sat at a long wooden table, a reed pen cool between his fingers. The parchment before him was pristine, waiting. The voice came from behind him. Measured. Firm. Dinadan glanced down. The letters he had written were smudged where his hand had rested too long, the ink blurred from hesitation. the voice said. A hand, ink-stained and calloused, rested on his shoulder. Dinadan swallowed. He dipped the reed pen into the inkwell, careful this time. The nib scraped against the vellum, leaving letters dark and certain. Truth must be written. Truth must endure. But as he pulled the pen away, the ink bled. At first, just a stray blot¡ªhis hand lingering a breath too long. Then the letters shifted. The ink twisted, stretched, forming into shapes he hadn''t made. Not what he had written. Not what he had meant. His father¡¯s voice echoed in his mind. But this¡ªthis was not truth. The words warped. Blurred. Changed. He tried to stop it. His hands pressed to the page, but the letters smudged beneath his fingers, curling into new shapes, new meanings. Not what he had written. Not what he had meant. A story told once. A story told twice. And by the third telling, it was no longer the same. The letters darkened, thickened¡ª And in the ink, he saw figures moving. A farmer, kneeling in the blackened ruins of his fields. A tax collector, unmoved by his grief. A sword drawn not in defiance, but in desperation. A kingdom tilting, not by war, not by conquest¡ª But by the weight of a thousand voices speaking a story into truth. Dinadan¡¯s chest tightened. He pressed his hands flat against the parchment, but the ink kept shifting. Twisting. Rewriting itself. Truth must endure. But whose truth? The ink seeped through the vellum, darkening, spreading¡ª Until the whole page was black. The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
Dinadan jerked awake. The scent of ink and parchment faded, replaced by salt and cold stone. His breath came quick, sharp against the hush of the room. He sat up, rubbing a hand over his face. He sat up, rubbing a hand over his face, but the dream clung to him¡ªnot in memory, but in meaning. Truth had to be written. Truth had to endure. He swung his legs over the side of the bed. He needed ink.
The path to the abbey cut through a thin stretch of woodland, the ground damp from the morning mist. The oaks stood ancient and gnarled, their roots buried deep in the damp earth, their branches twisted like the fingers of an old storyteller weaving a tale into the wind. Beneath their canopy, a lone monk moved with quiet purpose. His robes were worn, the hem dusted with fallen leaves. One hand clutched a wicker basket, half-filled with small, knobby growths, the other gripped a long wooden staff, which he used to knock more loose from the branches above. Brother Caelus. Dinadan had met many scribes in his travels, but few who spent their days beneath the open sky instead of hunched over a desk. Caelus straightened, rubbing an ink-stained thumb over one of the gathered oak galls. The stain was old, sunk deep into his skin¡ªthe mark of a man who had spent his life in the service of words. Dinadan eyed the dark little spheres in the basket. Caelus chuckled, breath clouding in the crisp air. Dinadan raised a brow. Caelus tapped the gall against his palm. he lifted the gall ¡ª Dinadan glanced upward at the towering oaks, their leaves burnished gold in the slanting morning light. Caelus said. Dinadan smirked. Caelus grinned, lifting the staff and pressing it into Dinadan¡¯s hands. Dinadan huffed a laugh, rolling up his sleeves. With practiced ease, he hauled himself up into the low branches, balancing against the rough bark. The oak swayed beneath his weight, its leaves whispering secrets only the wind could carry. He reached out with the staff, rapping it against the higher limbs, watching as the galls rained down into the waiting basket below. They fell with soft, hollow thuds, rolling in the damp earth¡ªsmall pieces of a forgotten war, now gathered for a different kind of battle. When the basket was full, Dinadan swung down, landing on his feet. Caelus said, shaking the basket. Dinadan asked, brushing the dust from his hands. Caelus smiled, cradling the basket as if it held something far more precious than hardened oak growths. His voice was thoughtful. Dinadan exhaled, nodding. Together, they started down the path, walking toward ink, vellum, and the weight of truth waiting to be written. Dinadan walked with his hands loose at his sides, his thoughts caught between what he had heard and what he meant to write. A shadow rippled across the path ahead. Long. Gliding. He lifted his gaze. High above them, a shape circled against the pale sky. Wings outstretched, riding the wind in slow, deliberate arcs. Dinadan mused, watching the wyvern tilt its head as if listening. Beside him, Brother Caelus squinted against the light. Dinadan huffed. Caelus chuckled, adjusting the basket of oak galls against his hip. wyvern banked to the side, shifting with the wind, then drifted westward¡ªtoward the cliffs. Caelus murmured, watching it go. Dinadan smirked. Caelus shook his head, a knowing glint in his eye. Dinadan let out a slow breath, glancing once more at the sky. The wyvern was gone now, its shadow no longer stretching across the hills. But it had seen them. And if Wyott was watching, so was Merlin. Dinadan muttered, rolling his shoulders. Caelus smiled. They walked on, toward the waiting halls of the abbey. Its weathered stone walls rose from the hillside as it had grown from the land itself. Age clung to it¡ªnot in decay, but in permanence. A place built to endure. The great wooden doors stood open, the scent of beeswax and parchment drifting from within. Brother Caelus led the way, nodding to a passing novice who hurried toward the cloisters, his arms laden with stacked vellum. The quiet hum of work filled the air¡ªthe kind of silence made by thought, not emptiness. Dinadan followed, his boots echoing against the stone. Caelus remarked. Not a question. Dinadan huffed. Caelus smiled. They turned down a narrow passage lined with tall arched windows, the sea visible through the latticework. The wind scraped against the glass, a restless whisper never finding its way inside. At the end of the corridor, a smaller door stood ajar. Beyond it, the scriptorium stretched wide and long, filled with rows of wooden desks. Monks hunched over their work, quills scratching, candlelight flickering against the gilded edges of illuminated pages. The scent of ink, vellum, and oil lamps thickened the air. Caelus strode forward, setting his basket of oak galls on a worktable where a large pot of darkened liquid was already steeping. he said, dusting off his hands. Dinadan glanced over the room, eyes drawn to a shelf lined with stacked rolls of parchment. Caelus gestured toward the opposite wall. Dinadan exhaled, running a finger along the edge of an empty page. He had come to write the truth. Now he only had to decide where to begin. The road back from the abbey wound along the cliffs, the sea stretching endless and grey beneath the sky¡¯s low-hanging hush. Dinadan walked with his satchel slung across his chest, the weight of vellum and fresh ink pressing against his ribs. A strange kind of armor, this¡ªa defense made not of steel, but of words. He had what he needed. Now, he only had to decide how to use it. The thought lodged in his chest, pressing deep, unmoving. Ink held truth, but it also held permanence. And if the market had taught him anything, it was a story spoken often enough could become truth, whether it was or not. The wyvern was gone from the sky, but the weight of its shadow still lingered in his thoughts. Merlin had seen him. Perhaps the old man already knew what he meant to write. Perhaps he was waiting. The road he walked was uneven, worn by years of wind and passing feet. But further ahead, where the path bent inland, it was not just time wearing it down. Dinadan slowed. Three men¡ªmaybe four¡ªstooped over a section of stone, iron rods wedged between the cracks, prying the slabs free. They were not mending what had broken. They were taking. He stepped closer, watching as the men heaved another stone loose, stacking it beside the others. he said. One of them glanced up. Not startled. Not welcoming. the man grunted, shifting his grip. Dinadan let his gaze drift to the growing pile. he suggested. One of the men gave a short snort. Dinadan tipped his head. Another man wiped his brow, setting his iron rod against the pile. he muttered. Dinadan huffed a quiet breath, looking down at the jagged wound left in the road. he said. He stepped past them, letting the conversation settle behind him. It was not the first time he had seen a road taken apart. And it would not be the last. The forge came into view, its thick stone walls standing stubborn against the wind¡¯s assault. Even from the road, Dinadan could hear the steady rhythm of the hammer inside, each strike ringing like a heartbeat against the anvil. A fire that never dimmed. He stepped inside, the scent of coal smoke and hot metal wrapping around him. The armorer glanced up, pausing mid-strike. Dinadan smirked, tossing his satchel onto a nearby workbench. The armorer snorted. Dinadan tapped a finger against the satchel. The armorer¡¯s hammer stilled. Dinadan exhaled, rolling his shoulders. The armorer studied him, his grip tightening on the hammer¡¯s worn handle. With a grunt, he returned to his work, steel ringing again against the anvil. Dinadan leaned against the workbench, watching the forge¡¯s fire glow against the darkened steel. Ink and iron. One to carve history. One to write it. 30. Whispers of Another King The armorer grunted, lifting the breastplate, turning it once in the firelight before setting it down with a decisive thud. Dinadan narrowed his eyes at the scattered plates. The armorer didn¡¯t bother looking up. Dinadan drummed his fingers against the workbench, glancing around the cluttered forge. The heat bore down on him, thick with coal smoke and the sharp tang of molten iron. Sweat clung to his skin, the forge pressing in, suffocating in its stillness. Half-forged blades lay stacked in shadowed corners, rust creeping along their edges like neglect made visible. Dinadan drummed his fingers on the workbench, resisting the urge to push. The armorer shrugged, hammering the question into silence. Dinadan exhaled. If his armor wasn¡¯t going anywhere, he must find somewhere less miserable to pass the time. He hated waiting. The forge door groaned as Dinadan shoved it open, the heat rolling off his back as he stepped into the night. The wind struck hard, sharp against the sweat trapped beneath his armor. He rolled his shoulders, shifting the weight, feeling where the steel pinched, where it pressed in new places. Familiar, but never quite right. His own, yet not his. He had worn steel most of his life, but this set felt like a collection of borrowed time. It fit where it had to, dug in where it shouldn¡¯t, and carried too many stories that weren¡¯t his own. The new armor, once finished, would be his alone. If it was ever finished. The streets stretched ahead, slick with rain, lantern glow pooling in the puddles like spilled gold. The scent of roasting meat curled through the damp air, thick with spice and char, tangled with the sharper bite of ale and old wood. Laughter. Voices layered over one another, rolling out from behind heavy oak doors. Someone was telling a story. A good one, judging by the hush between words, the way the night itself seemed to lean in. Stories. They had a way of finding him, whether he sought them or not. Dinadan pushed open the door. If he was to waste an evening, he might as well do it with a drink in his hand and an ear to the room.
The inn was dim, thick with the weight of damp wood, old ale, and too many voices pressed into too little space. The hearth smoldered, more embers than flame, throwing jagged shadows against the walls. Dinadan sat alone, turning his cup in his hands. He did not drink. He only listened. The door opened. A gust of cold wind slipped inside, curling through the room before the door slammed shut again. A man stood in the entry, letting his gaze rake over the space, searching. His eyes landed on Dinadan. He moved without hesitation, the stride of a man who had already decided his course. The chair scraped against the floor as he pulled it out and sat¡ªuninvited, unbothered. Dinadan did not look up. He could feel the weight of the man¡¯s stare, the kind that expected answers before the question was even spoken. A pause. Measured. Intentional. Dinadan¡¯s fingers tightened around his cup. His shoulders rolled beneath the weight of steel¡ªnot polished, not uniform, just his. A mismatched thing, piece by piece, shaped by years and battles instead of by a king¡¯s decree. His own. And yet, here he was. A knight, called as such, asked the same question men had been asking for months. Who do you serve? He leaned back, slow, measured. His fingers tapped against the rim of the cup, an idle motion that did nothing to quiet the question hammering against his ribs. A truth. A lie. Both. The man¡¯s mouth curved, but it wasn¡¯t quite a smile. His eyes moved over Dinadan like a blade weighing its edge. Dinadan exhaled, slow, controlled. He had seen few battles and fought fewer still. Not with steel¡ªhis wars were quieter. Loyalty against doubt. Oaths spoken, others left unspoken. He had stood in halls heavy with banners, surrounded by men who bent the knee. And all the while, a question sat heavy in his chest, waiting for an answer he did not have. This was another battlefield. The man across from him knew it, too. Dinadan lifted his cup but didn¡¯t drink. The man studied him, fingers tracing idle patterns against the rough wood of the table. The movement was casual, but his words struck with purpose. This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report. He leaned in, voice lowering beneath the noise of the tavern. Dinadan did not react. Because he had heard this before. Because he had stood before men who spoke of rightful heirs and stolen thrones, of war and what should have been. The stones had spoken. The land had bent. No blade had forced the hand of fate¡ªUther¡¯s crown had been granted, not stolen. But that did not quiet the old loyalties of men. A log shifted in the hearth. The room flickered with the sudden glow of firelight, as if the world itself were listening. The man did not pull away. His presence was steady, pressing against the space between them. Dinadan¡¯s fingers tightened against his cup. Bled for it. He had seen the cost of war. He had listened to the ghosts it left behind, to the men who mourned not just kings but futures they would never see. A sword could carve a path, but it could not mend the world it cut through. The weight of his armor shifted over his shoulders¡ªhis own, not Uther¡¯s. A patchwork of years, of places he had outlived, of choices he still could not name. The man¡¯s eyes held steady. Waiting. Dinadan had spent a lifetime learning when to speak. And when to let silence hold the answer. He lifted his cup and finally drank. The ale burned, sharp and bitter. The moment stretched. It passed. The man exhaled through his nose and pushed back from the table. He stood, adjusting his cloak, then left without looking back. Dinadan set his cup down. The taste lingered. So did the question. He sat in the silence left behind. He listened. The tavern pulsed with warmth and noise¡ªlaughter, clinking tankards, the steady hum of voices woven together like threads in a tapestry. Predictable. Constant. Until it wasn''t. A voice cut through the hum, quiet but sharp enough to pull at the edges of Dinadan¡¯s attention. His fingers stilled against the rim of his cup. He did not turn immediately. Did not shift, did not show he had heard. another voice countered, softer, weightier. Something coiled tight in his chest. A slow, creeping tension. And beneath his armor, where metal met flesh, the shard stirred. A pulse of heat. A whisper of movement, curling along his ribs like the first breath of a smoldering ember. Dinadan exhaled, slow and steady. He set his cup down and rose¡ªstretching his legs, moving toward the fire, toward the bar. Toward them. The two men sat pressed against the far wall, their voices no more than a whisper. Not drunks. Not fools spilling secrets for the price of ale. These were men who had learned to speak softly, who understood the danger of speaking at all. But Dinadan had spent a lifetime listening to the things men did not want heard. He stopped near their table, hands loose at his sides, gaze drifting¡ªunfocused, unthreatening. Just another man moving through the room. Another shadow among many. But beneath his armor, the shard stirred. His voice, when he spoke, was casual. Careful. The first man stiffened. A flicker of instinct¡ªa hand twitching toward his belt before stilling. The second exhaled, his chair groaning as he pushed back. He did not look at Dinadan as he moved toward the door. Before stepping into the night, he murmured¡ª The words landed like iron striking stone. Dinadan did not move. Not at first. The door hung open behind them, the cold seeping in, curling around his boots. The tavern¡¯s warmth pressed against his back, but it felt distant, thin¡ªlike something fading from another life. Beneath his armor¡ªthe shard flared. Heat seared against his ribs, sharp and insistent. Not pain. Not warning. Recognition. It pulsed. Alive. A thing remembering. His mind turned the words over, again and again. The rightful king. No hesitation. No doubt. There was only one man left in Albion who still claimed that title. Vortigern. Dinadan exhaled, slow, quiet. Then he followed. Outside, the street stretched in damp stone and shadow. The men moved quickly, their boots silent over the cobblestones, their heads low, their course certain. They did not look back. They did not need to. Men who spoke of ghosts did not expect to be overheard. Dinadan kept his steps measured, distant enough to appear like another traveler braving the cold, another soul with no purpose but the road ahead. But he listened. one muttered, his voice thin against the wind. the other answered. Dinadan¡¯s jaw tightened. Not a rumor. Not a dream. Something real. The men turned into an alley. Dinadan slowed, waiting, letting the dark take them before he followed. The passage was tight, the walls pressing close. He stepped with care, his movements no louder than the wind, until he caught sight of them again¡ªahead, half-lit by a sliver of moonlight. They had stopped. One of them stood still, hands braced against the wall, head lowered as if listening. The other turned, scanning the alley, gaze flicking over the darkness behind them. His eyes landed on Dinadan. The moment stretched. A heartbeat. Then they moved. Not away. Toward him. Dinadan reached for his sword. The first man raised his hands, slow, deliberate, not in surrender but in patience. The second man¡¯s gaze flickered down, taking in Dinadan¡¯s armor¡ªnot Uther¡¯s, not sworn to any king. A pause¡ªa knowing look. It wasn¡¯t a question. Dinadan said nothing. The first man tilted his head, considering him. His voice was steady, heavy with certainty. Dinadan did not answer. Could not. The men did not linger. They knew they had given him enough. They slipped past him, disappearing into the night. Dinadan let out a breath, his hand still resting on his hilt. The stones chose Uther. And yet¡ª Men do not whisper of ghosts unless they are ready to follow them.
Dinadan retraced his steps, boots pressing into the damp stone, his thoughts tangled in the cold air. The alley was empty. The men were gone, but their words lingered, settling into the marrow of the night. If the stones chose Uther, why do they still whisper of another? The question coiled tight in his ribs, winding itself into the places he had long ignored. The rightful king. Not a dream. Not a memory. A man. He reached the tavern door, the warmth leaking from the threshold, heavy with the scent of wood smoke and ale. He should step inside, let the heat pull him back into the world of men who did not whisper of ghosts. But something held him. A pause. A weight. Not hesitation. Watching. The air around him stretched too thin, the wind too still. A presence brushed the edges of his mind¡ªnot a sound, not a movement, but something beyond reach. His breath curled in the cold, but he did not turn yet. He had played this game before. The fastest way to catch a shadow was to let it think it had not been seen. His fingers flexed at his sides, aware of the pull of his armor, the weight of the shard burning low beneath it. He turned his head. Nothing. The street lay empty, the alley still. But the feeling remained. A presence, just beyond sight. His breath left him slow, measured. If someone meant to strike, they would have done so already. Whoever¡ªor whatever¡ªwatched him now only wanted to be known. That was enough. Dinadan exhaled once more, rolling his shoulders, shaking off the tension. With the same ease as before, he reached for the door and stepped back into the warmth of the tavern. The fire burned low in the hearth, throwing long, twisting shadows against the walls. The tavern had settled into quiet. The drunken revelers had faded, the raucous energy of the night dimming into something slower, heavier. Dinadan sat near the flames, a thin scrap of parchment laid flat before him. A quill rested between his fingers, ink pooling at the nib. He had written little. He did not know what to say. The rightful king. Vortigern¡¯s name remained unspoken, yet it filled the room all the same. Dinadan tapped the quill against the edge of the parchment, watching as the ink marked the wood in small, uneven dots. What if he forgot? Not tonight, perhaps. Not tomorrow. But later. What if he misremembered? What if, in time, the words changed as all stories did? His fingers brushed the fresh ink, his voice a breath above a whisper. The words lingered. They did not feel like his own. Perhaps they never were. 31. A Knight Out of Place The tavern reeked of stale ale and sweat, the air thick with the fug of an evening well-lived and now deeply regretted. Dinadan stood at the threshold of the common room, rolling his shoulders, loosening the stiffness in his spine. The dawn had not yet shaken the world fully awake, but inside these walls, a different kind of stillness reigned¡ªthe silence of men trapped between the foolishness of the night and the reckoning of the morning. Ropes hung from the rafters, loops of rough hemp, knotted and frayed with use. The Hangover¡¯s Mercy, they called it. A tradition among those who drank beyond their wisdom. The sight of it was absurd and strangely ritualistic¡ªhalf a dozen men slumped forward, their arms draped over the ropes, bodies sagging like marionettes cut from their strings. Their heads lolled, chins resting on their chests, breath rattling through open mouths. A few still clutched at the ropes with white-knuckled desperation, as though the weight of their sins might drag them straight to Annwn if they let go. One poor soul, his tunic darkened by spilled ale, hung boneless, swaying slightly as he exhaled a groan. His cheek had been pressed against the rope long enough to leave an angry red line across his face. Another snored through chapped lips, his fingers twitching as if still raising a phantom tankard in dreams. A third had long since abandoned the effort¡ªhis grip had failed him sometime in the night, and now he lay sprawled on the floor beneath the others, motionless save for the occasional twitch of a boot. Dinadan watched, brow arched, as a man shifted, stirring from the depths of his misery. He blinked blearily at his surroundings, confused for a moment as to why he was dangling like a half-gutted hare, then groaned and let his head fall back, submitting to fate. Dinadan exhaled through his nose. ¡°Ah, the unkind weight of a night too well spent.¡± His voice was low, wry, carrying the measured cadence of a man who had seen this far too often to be surprised. ¡°I¡¯d say ¡®never again,¡¯ but we both know how this tale ends.¡± The barkeep, a man with the shoulders of an ox and the face of a man who had seen this all before, snorted. ¡°Ends the same way every time. They wake, they swear off drink, and they¡¯re back here by sundown making the same mistakes.¡± Dinadan cast a last glance at the swaying penitents, then shook his head. And so it goes. Outside, the world darkened¡ªnot with the turning of time, but with something heavier, more insidious. The roads whispered of ill omens, the forests watched with unseen eyes. The land was stirring, uneasy beneath his feet. Dinadan felt the pull of it beneath his skin. The hum of Y Tir, the call he pretended not to hear. He pulled his cloak tighter, shaking off the thought. "Best not linger," he muttered, stepping past the groaning relics of last night¡¯s poor decisions. "I¡¯ve an appointment with discomfort."
The forge burned hot, an open-mouthed beast belching heat and the scent of scorched metal. Hammers rang like dull bells, and the rhythmic hiss of quenched steel filled the air with the sharp tang of iron and oil. Dinadan stood in the center of the smithy, arms lifted in the reluctant posture of a man about to be condemned, while the armorer buckled him into his newest discomfort. The breastplate was fine work, thick where it needed to be, shaped with the careful hands of a craftsman who knew his trade. It gleamed dully in the firelight, waiting to become part of some ballad about valor and death. But Dinadan, ever the ill-suited hero, found himself a poor fit. The steel gripped him like an overeager lover, biting into his ribs when he breathed too deep. The pauldrons locked his shoulders in place, their edges flaring too wide, making it feel as though he might topple over if he turned too sharply. The greaves pressed against his knees like shackles, and when he shifted, something in the faulds pinched at a spot most men would rather leave unpinched. Dinadan exhaled slowly. ¡°Ah. A work of art. A prison cell. And a fine instrument of torture. All in one.¡± The armorer, a broad, grim-faced man with a permanent squint, scowled at him. ¡°It¡¯s new. Needs breaking in.¡± Dinadan turned his head slightly, testing the stiffness of the gorget. ¡°A shame, then, that I¡¯m the one who¡¯ll be broken first.¡± The armorer ignored him, stepping back to survey his work. His eyes narrowed. Then, without warning, he seized the front of the cuirass and yanked¡ªhard. The metal groaned but refused to settle. The smith grunted, muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a curse and reached for a hammer. Dinadan watched as the man braced him like an anvil and struck the breastplate with measured, deliberate force. ¡°Ah, so we¡¯ve moved to the ¡®beating the problem into submission¡¯ stage of fine craftsmanship,¡± Dinadan said lightly. ¡°I respect the approach.¡± The armorer gave him a withering glance before stepping back. ¡°Move.¡± Dinadan did. The armor still bit at him in all the wrong places. When he attempted to bend, the metal caught and refused to yield. The armorer swore, shaking his head. ¡°Blight it to Annwn. I¡¯ll have to resize the whole damned thing.¡± Dinadan straightened with effort. ¡°A dire fate indeed. And how long does a resurrection of fine steel take?¡± ¡°Come back tomorrow.¡± Dinadan groaned, throwing his head back dramatically. ¡°Tomorrow? But I was hoping to strut through the streets today, gleaming like a knight of legend, admired by all.¡± The armorer snorted, already pulling at the fastenings, forcing Dinadan free. ¡°I¡¯d wager you were more likely to trip on the cobblestones and land flat on your back like a tipped turtle.¡± Dinadan grinned, flexing his shoulders as the weight lifted from him. ¡°Touche.¡± He swept his cloak back over his tunic and made for the door. ¡°Very well. I shall return on the morrow. Assuming, of course, that I am still alive to be poorly dressed once more.¡± The armorer didn¡¯t look up from his work. ¡°Try not to die before I finish.¡± Dinadan chuckled, stepping out into the cooling air of the street. The armor would wait. And if fate had any humor left, so would he.
The market square should have been louder. It was midmorning, the hour when the market stretched into its full sprawl, when the scent of fresh-baked bread mingled with spiced cider and the salt tang of fish hauled in from the river. Merchants should have been shouting, bartering, and cursing at their customers¡¯ stubbornness while weaving a dance between desperation and greed. A cluster of children should have been racing between the stalls, snatching loose apples before vanishing like sparrows into the alleyways. And somewhere, surely, a bard should have been attempting to drown the din with the wail of a poorly tuned lyre, hoping for a scattering of coins. But the town square of Boscastle did not hum as a market should. Oh, the sounds were there¡ªthe shuffle of boots, the creak of cartwheels, the murmur of negotiations¡ªbut they came muted, stretched too thin. People moved through the motions of daily life with the slow, deliberate care of men stirring from uneasy dreams. They spoke, but not with any heat or liveliness. Laughter, where it should have been, was absent. Dinadan walked at an easy pace, hands tucked into his cloak, gaze skimming over the vendors and their wares. The morning air was crisp, the sky a washed-out blue streaked with slow-moving clouds, and yet the unease that had settled between his ribs at the armorer¡¯s forge did not fade. Something was wrong with this place. He could feel it, like the subtle tilt of a floor that made a man question his balance. His steps carried him past traders folding their cloth bundles with mechanical efficiency, past a smith¡¯s apprentice hauling a bundle of iron nails, past a cluster of washerwomen hunched over a fountain, scrubbing linen with dull, distant expressions. And then¡ª The stocks stood at the far end of the square, placed prominently where a man¡¯s humiliation could be made public. The wooden beams were weathered, streaked with old stains, their hinges rusted with time. This was not an unfamiliar sight; Dinadan had passed through countless villages where thieves and swindlers were locked in place, forced to endure the mockery of their neighbors. But here, the stocks drew no attention. The man inside them¡ªgaunt, with wiry gray hair and a face like a dried fig¡ªwas bound at the wrists and neck, his posture slumped as if he had forgotten how he¡¯d come to be there. No one jeered. No one threw old cabbages. No merchant chuckled in satisfaction, pleased that justice had been served. No one noticed him at all. Dinadan stopped, boots scraping against the dust, and tilted his head. That was¡­ strange. He stepped closer, watching as the man stirred sluggishly, as though only now realizing he was being observed. Dinadan rested a hand against his belt. ¡°What crime?¡± The vintner swallowed, his Adam¡¯s apple bobbing in a throat that had seen too many lean winters. ¡°They told me¡­ stealing?¡± Stolen story; please report. Dinadan frowned. ¡°They told you?¡± The man¡¯s brows knitted. He looked down at his own hands, rough with the callouses of a working man, blinking as though seeing them for the first time. ¡°I don¡¯t remember doing it,¡± he admitted, voice hoarse. ¡°But they said I did.¡± Dinadan¡¯s gaze flicked to the nearest guard, standing at his post near the mayor¡¯s hall, a pike held loosely in his grip. He was a broad man, sun-weathered, with the heavy-lidded expression of someone who had spent too long in a profession that asked little of him. Dinadan stepped toward him. ¡°What¡¯s this one in for?¡± The guard blinked, shifting his weight slightly. He chewed his cheek, then shrugged. ¡°Not my decision.¡± ¡°Then whose?¡± The question hung in the air. The guard¡¯s expression remained unchanged. He did not frown. Did not sneer. Did not react at all, save for a faint flicker of something in his gaze¡ªsomething cloudy, uncertain. Then he turned and walked away. Dinadan stood there, watching him go, something cold unfurling in his gut. The stocks remained silent. The vintner remained forgotten. The town moved around them, as though neither existed at all. Dinadan exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand over his chin. A crime without memory. A punishment without reason. It left a sour taste in his mouth. He had seen towns where justice was cruel, where men were locked in iron for a stolen loaf, and where the strong twisted the law into a cudgel to batter the weak. But this? This was something else. This was justice without meaning, and that was more unsettling than cruelty could ever be. Dinadan let the thought sit like an unwelcome guest in the back of his mind as he veered toward the vegetable stalls, drawn less by hunger and more by habit. The air was thick with the mingling scents of the market¡ªfresh bread cooling on wooden trays, the sharp tang of pickled onions, the sweetness of overripe peaches left too long in the sun. The calls of the merchants rang out like competing war cries. ¡°Turnips! Fine and fat¡ªnone better this side of the river!¡± ¡°Fresh milk, still warm from the pail!¡± ¡°Spiced apples, sweet as a noblewoman¡¯s whisper!¡± Dinadan arched a brow at that last one but let it pass. He stopped at a stall piled high with carrots, twisting one between his fingers with the air of a man considering a grave decision. A meal? Hardly. But it was easier to carry than a loaf of bread, and less likely to be stolen by an opportunistic pigeon. Then the shouting started. Dinadan turned, unsurprised. Two men stood at a nearby stall, their voices raised, their tempers hotter than the cobblestones beneath their feet. Between them, resting atop a stack of cabbages like some coveted relic, sat a single sack of potatoes¡ªthe last one. The broader of the two bristled like an ill-tempered ox, his hands curled into fists. ¡°I was here first.¡± ¡°No, you weren¡¯t,¡± the other shot back, a wiry fellow with a scar carving a pale line from temple to jaw. His hand was already on the sack, fingers tightening against the burlap. ¡°I saw it first.¡± ¡°That¡¯s not how it works.¡± ¡°That¡¯s exactly how it works.¡± A shove. A tightening of jaws. The moment had all the makings of a proper scrap¡ªscarcity, stubborn pride, and an audience eager for a bit of midday entertainment. The vegetable seller muttered something unkind about grown men fighting over root crops and edged away from his cart. Dinadan leaned against a barrel, watching with mild interest. If nothing else, it was something to do. The broad man squared his shoulders. ¡°I¡¯ll not be cheated.¡± The scarred man¡¯s lips peeled back. ¡°Then take your best shot.¡± A hush spread through the crowd. Someone let out a low whistle, anticipation thick as smoke in the air. Then¡ªnothing. The broad man hesitated, shoulders rising and falling with his breath. His face remained flushed with anger, but something flickered behind his eyes¡ªhesitation, uncertainty. His fists loosened, fingers flexing as if suddenly aware of themselves. The scarred man blinked, his scowl fading. He glanced at his hand, still gripping the sack, as though seeing it for the first time. A crease formed between his brows. A silence stretched between them, charged with something unseen. Then, softly, the broad man muttered, ¡°It¡¯s not worth it.¡± He stepped back. The other hesitated, then nodded, slow and uncertain. ¡°Aye. Don¡¯t know why I got so¡ª¡± He trailed off, shaking his head, confusion lingering in his eyes. And just like that, they turned away. No resolution. No bargain struck. No triumphant winner gloating over a sack of spuds. They parted, not in peace, but in emptiness. Dinadan straightened, narrowing his eyes. That was odd. He turned to the vendor, a wiry old man with knotted hands and a face carved by years of bargaining. ¡°Do fights always end like that?¡± The vendor¡¯s gaze remained on the retreating men, his expression unreadable. ¡°Not before.¡± Dinadan frowned. ¡°Before what?¡± The vendor did not answer. Dinadan exhaled, rubbing his thumb against his jaw. Something was happening in this town. Something quiet. Subtle. Dinadan let the unease settle in his bones as he wove through the market, hands tucked into his cloak, gaze flickering between the stalls. The world moved as it always did¡ªvendors haggled, craftsmen boasted, and children darted between carts with pilfered apples in their fists. And yet¡­ something gnawed at the edges of it all. The vintner in the stocks. The men who forgot their fight mid-blow. It was as if the town itself were slipping¡ªfraying at its seams. Dinadan muttered under his breath, flipping a coin between his fingers as he passed a stall selling dried herbs. He glanced absently at the bundles of lavender, thyme, and sage hanging from wooden beams¡ª And then he saw him. At the far end of the market, just beyond the swell of the crowd, a hooded figure lingered near another spice merchant¡¯s stall, fingers tracing the edges of a sprig of thyme as though testing its weight. Dinadan froze mid-step. The figure stood slightly apart from the rest of the market, not by distance but by presence¡ªas though the air bent subtly around him, shifting the way light bends through smoke. The people nearest to him did not glance his way. Did not jostle past. Did not seem to acknowledge that he stood among them at all. But Dinadan saw him. And he knew him. The figure lifted the sprig of thyme, rolling it idly between his fingers, his movements measured, deliberate. Then, as though he had felt the weight of Dinadan¡¯s stare, he looked up. Their eyes met. For the briefest moment, time stretched between them, taut as a bowstring. Merlin smiled¡ªjust slightly. Dinadan¡¯s breath left him in a sharp exhale. Ah, blight it to Annwn. He turned on his heel and stepped into the nearest open door before he could think better of it. The scent of hot lye and sharpened steel greeted him as he crossed the threshold. A barber¡¯s shop. Small. Quiet. A single flickering candle on the shelf. The dull gleam of razors on the counter. Dinadan let the door close behind him and exhaled slowly. If Merlin had seen him slip in, he would pretend otherwise. The barber¡ªa thin, dark-eyed man with sleeves rolled past his elbows¡ªlooked up from stropping a razor against a strip of leather. His gaze flicked over Dinadan, quick and assessing, before he gestured to the empty chair. Dinadan hesitated, then smirked to himself. ¡°Why not? If I¡¯m to die today, I might as well be well-groomed for it.¡± He slung his cloak over the back of the chair and settled in, stretching out as the barber tucked a cloth around his shoulders. ¡°Been on the road long?¡± the barber asked, voice steady, unhurried. ¡°Long enough,¡± Dinadan replied, tipping his head back. The chair creaked beneath him as he adjusted, letting his body relax even as his thoughts whirled. Merlin. Here. Why? The barber took up a small pot of soap and a brush, working the lather into a fine froth before smoothing it over Dinadan¡¯s jaw with the practiced ease of a man who had done this a thousand times before. ¡°Strange town, this,¡± Dinadan murmured. The barber hummed, dragging the razor along the leather once more. ¡°Strange how?¡± Dinadan closed one eye, watching the man¡¯s reflection in the dim silver of the mirror. ¡°Men forget their quarrels before they land a blow. Thieves forget their crimes before they finish their sentence.¡± The razor hovered just over his throat. The barber¡¯s fingers flexed on the handle. Then he set the blade against Dinadan¡¯s skin, cold as river stone. ¡°Some things are best left unsaid.¡± The words came quiet, measured. Dinadan¡¯s muscles tensed. He kept his voice light. ¡°Such as?¡± The barber met his gaze in the mirror. ¡°Things that used to be true.¡± The blade pressed too close. Dinadan felt it against his pulse, a touch too firm, too deliberate. A warning. His breath left him in a slow, steady stream. He did not move. The barber did not smile. ¡°You ask too many questions, sir knight.¡± Dinadan held the barber¡¯s gaze a moment longer, the weight of the words lingering between them. The razor hovered just above his throat, its cold edge a whisper against his skin. Then, slowly, deliberately, the barber withdrew the blade. ¡°Fair enough,¡± Dinadan murmured. The barber said nothing. The rest of the shave passed in silence. The rhythmic rasp of steel against skin, the faint scrape of a cloth wiping away excess lather¡ªsmall, measured sounds that felt too loud in the hush of the shop. When the last stroke was made, the barber stepped back, wiping the razor clean with the same unhurried care he had given to his words. Dinadan exhaled and rose from the chair, rolling his shoulders beneath the weight of something unseen. He reached into his belt, pulled out a coin, and set it on the counter with a practiced flick of his fingers. It landed with a soft chime, but even the sound felt dull here¡ªlike something wrapped in wool, distant. He did not thank the barber. The barber did not watch him leave. The moment he stepped outside, the air felt sharper, cooler despite the lingering heat of the sun. The town stretched before him, its familiar shapes unchanged¡ªyet something in it felt different. As if he had walked through a threshold without meaning to, stepping into a place that looked the same but wasn¡¯t. The square was still full of motion¡ªmerchants calling final bargains, carts rattling over uneven stones, the scent of roasting meat wafting from a cookfire¡ªbut it all felt like a performance running past its curtain call. Dinadan hesitated. The thought crept in unbidden. Had Merlin seen him? He almost turned back, almost cast another glance toward the shop¡ª No. Better to keep walking. He made his way to the tavern, letting his feet find their own path. It should have felt like any other day, like any other town. It didn¡¯t. Dinadan sat outside, boots resting on the lower rung of the bench, a tankard beside him untouched. His fingers toyed with a coin, rolling it over his knuckles in absent thought as he watched the last of the market fold itself away. The sun slanted low, stretching the shadows long, turning the corners of buildings into deep pools of dimming gold. The barber¡¯s words echoed in his mind, circling like a hunting hawk. "Some things are best left unsaid." Dinadan exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple as if he could press the unease from his skull. The feeling had not passed. If anything, it had deepened¡ªseeping into his ribs like the slow chill of standing water. He glanced at the tankard before him, its surface still and undisturbed, the ale untouched. It should have been a comfort, a simple pleasure, something to wash away the strange weight pressing at the edges of his thoughts. But he didn¡¯t trust himself to drink it. Not here. Not now. Instead, he reached for his belt, fingers brushing over the worn leather pouch where he kept his writing things. The charcoal stub was near spent, its edges dulled from use, but it would do. He pulled out a scrap of parchment, flattened it against the rough wooden table, and set the tip of the charcoal against it. The words came slow at first, hesitant, like something resisting being remembered. A fight without an ending. A punishment without reason. A crime without a memory. He paused, the tip of the charcoal lingering just above the page. He had seen plenty of odd things in his time¡ªknights with more honor than sense, lords with less wit than their hounds, fools with a kind of wisdom that made the gods laugh. He had seen men fight to the death over spilled ale and others forgive betrayals sharp enough to break kingdoms. But he had never seen a man forget his crime. Never seen a quarrel end with neither a winner nor a loser¡ªjust a hollow, fading silence. He had felt the wrongness of it, like a string being plucked inside his chest. A thread unraveling. He set his jaw and pressed the words down harder, carving them into the parchment with the stubborn weight of certainty. Because if he didn¡¯t write them down¡ª If he let them sit too long in his mind, shifting, fading¡ª Then he feared they might disappear entirely. He needed to remember. Even if no one else did. His hand stilled. The charcoal smudged slightly under his fingertips. Dinadan stared at the page, then let out a breath and wrote the final words. "If I don¡¯t start writing things down, I¡¯ll forget them too." 32. A Book of Cures and Curses The road to Tintagel stretched before him, dark and slick from the dampness of the evening air. The forge still glowed behind him, casting flickering light on the stones, but its warmth no longer reached him. The scent of worked iron clung to his clothes, settling in his lungs like something he could not quite shake. Dinadan stood at the edge of the village, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword, thumb tapping absently against the worn leather. His new armor sat too well on his shoulders, the weight of it familiar but different. It was not like his old, mismatched pieces¡ªno loosened straps, no dents where another knight had fallen before him. This had been made for him. He didn¡¯t like it. Armor that fit too well carried expectations. It made him visible. It made him known. A knight¡¯s armor was not just steel¡ªit was a name, a claim, a promise that he stood for something. But what did he stand for? He had a king. He had a name. He had a place, whether he liked it or not. But even the sound of Uther¡¯s name no longer held the weight it once had. There were whispers now, growing in the corners of courts, in the low voices of tavern halls, in the careful hush of villages where men gathered in twos and threes, too wary to speak too loud. Doubt did not take root all at once¡ªit grew slow, creeping, twisting its way into the minds of men who would have once sworn Uther was Albion¡¯s certainty. Vortigern¡¯s name had begun to creep through Albion like a sickness. Not just as a threat, but as an alternative. The things he said, the claims he made¡ªthey were not ignored. Not as quickly as they once were. Dinadan exhaled sharply, shaking his head. Tintagel lay ahead. He had no desire to return to court, to listen to another round of games between men who played with swords and treaties like pieces on a game board. But he had spent long enough on the road, and he needed to hear what they were saying at the heart of things. If men doubted Uther in their fields and taverns, what did they say in their halls? Bracken shifted beneath him, sensing the decision before it was spoken. "A knight¡¯s armor, a knight¡¯s road," he muttered, clicking his tongue for the mule to move. A king to whisper to, and yet no certainty beneath his name." He swung into the saddle. The mule shifted beneath him, waiting for a command. He gave none, and still, Bracken stepped forward, his hooves settling into the worn path as though he had known it all along. The road unwound before him, silvered by the moonlight. He rode in silence, the steady rhythm of hooves against damp earth filling the air. The scent of the forge faded, replaced by the clean bite of the night air, the lingering dampness of distant rain. Bracken slowed, ears flicking. Dinadan saw the figure before he caught the details. Cloaked, walking at an easy pace along the road ahead, as if he had nowhere urgent to be. He moved with the weight of someone who already knew the path, as though the road itself had bent to meet him. Merlin. Dinadan pressed his heels lightly into Bracken¡¯s sides, urging him forward. The mule quickened his pace, overtaking the old wizard with little effort. Dinadan turned his head as he passed. "You¡¯re walking the wrong way for a man who likes to be dramatic," he called back. "I expected you to be waiting in some cave, lighting fires in the shape of prophecies." Merlin did not pause in his steps, nor did he turn his head. "I expected you to be quicker," he answered. Dinadan let out a dry chuckle. "You have strange expectations for a man who does nothing but sit around and wait for things to happen." "I do not wait," Merlin said, finally lifting his gaze. "I watch. And then, when the time is right, I choose where to step." Dinadan slowed Bracken, letting the mule fall into step beside the old man. "And tonight, your steps led you here?" "Of course," Merlin said, as though it were obvious. "You were always meant to be here. You just didn¡¯t know it yet." Dinadan sighed, running a gloved hand over his face. "Blight it all. This is going to be one of those nights, isn¡¯t it?" Merlin gave the smallest nod of acknowledgment as if Dinadan had simply stated the obvious. Ahead, a fire burned low against the night. A small fire, nothing grand, nothing meant to be seen from afar. It burned as if it had always been waiting. Merlin stepped toward it without hesitation, and Dinadan, despite himself, followed. The fire flickered, catching the sharp edges of the old man¡¯s face. Dinadan crossed his arms, tilting his head. "Let me guess. You¡¯re going to tell me something cryptic and then vanish in a dramatic swirl of wind and shadow?" Merlin almost smiled, but the weight of whatever he carried in his chest did not allow it. "No. I am going to give you a task." Dinadan scoffed, shaking his head. "I¡¯m not in the habit of running errands for old men in cloaks." "Then consider this a test of new habits." The fire crackled, snapping against the cold. Dinadan glanced down. Pages curled at the edges, their ink lost to the flame. Charred scraps of parchment smoldered, their words carried into the air as nothing more than drifting smoke. His jaw tightened. He had seen pages burn before. He had seen stories lost to men who needed them forgotten. "Do you understand what is happening to Albion?" Merlin¡¯s voice was quiet but steady. "That¡¯s a broad question." This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. "You¡¯ve seen the signs. The stories changing. The past unraveling. The people forgetting." Dinadan did not deny it. "What is lost in memory is lost in truth," Merlin said. "And what is lost in truth is lost in power." The flames licked higher, curling around the last of the parchment. "You think history is written in stone?" Merlin asked. "It is not. It is written in the minds of men. And minds can be rewritten." A gust of wind stirred the embers. The last of the words scattered into the dark. Dinadan watched them go. Merlin reached into his cloak, withdrawing a small scrap of parchment, unmarked, worn soft at the edges. "There was once a book," he said. "Written by a healer long before our time." Dinadan flipped the parchment between his fingers. "And?" "It held knowledge of more than herbs and remedies. It held the secrets of how things are meant to be." "Meant to be?" Dinadan raised a brow. "That sounds suspiciously like fate." "It is missing." Dinadan exhaled through his nose, tossing the parchment back at Merlin. "You¡¯re asking me to find the book?" "No. I am telling you to." Dinadan sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "And what happens if I refuse?" Merlin caught the parchment with ease, his fingers folding around the frayed edges. "Then one day, you will wake up and not know you ever had a choice." The fire crackled, burning low. The night held its breath. Dinadan clenched his jaw. He wanted to refuse. But the weight in his chest said otherwise. He rubbed the back of his neck, exhaling sharply. "Let¡¯s assume, for the sake of argument, that I agree to this madness. Where would I even begin?" Merlin smiled slightly, as if he had known Dinadan would ask. Of course he had. Merlin¡¯s voice shifted, lighter now, but no less deliberate. "The Book is missing," he said. "But it has not been lost. It rests in the hands of a woman who holds knowledge the way others hold power¡ªwith a firm grip and little intention of letting it go." Dinadan frowned. "A sorceress, then." "Call her what you like," Merlin said. "She has gathered those who remember the old ways¡ªthe ones who will not allow their history to be rewritten. And so she keeps the book, not to destroy it, but to decide who is worthy of reading it." Dinadan exhaled through his nose, shifting in his saddle. "And let me guess¡ªyou want me to go in, charm the woman, and ride off with the book before she notices?" "If you go in thinking it is yours to take, you will fail before you begin." "Wonderful. I do love a challenge that comes with a promise of failure." Merlin ignored the quip. "The Healer¡¯s Book is not a simple collection of remedies, Dinadan. It is one of the oldest texts in Albion, passed from healer to healer since before men built their first strongholds. It is not just a book of knowledge¡ªit is a book of laws. The old kind. The kind that is not written in edicts, nor upheld by swords, but woven into the very fabric of life itself." Dinadan scoffed. "That sounds suspiciously like magic." "Magic is only a word for what men do not yet understand," Merlin said. "This book carries something deeper¡ªa record of what was, and what should be. Not just how to mend flesh, but how to mend what is broken in the land." Dinadan narrowed his eyes. "And you think a book can do that?" "A book cannot heal the world any more than a sword can win a war on its own," Merlin admitted. "But what is written in this book may change the course of battles before they are ever fought. There is knowledge in those pages that was meant to shape Albion¡¯s future. But only if it is in the right hands." Dinadan tilted his head. "And whose hands are those?" "Not hers." There was something final in Merlin¡¯s tone, a rare certainty that was not clouded by his usual riddles. "The woman who holds it now is no healer. She is no guardian of wisdom. She is a weaver of belief, a woman who understands that knowledge if wielded well, is the sharpest blade of all." "A liar, then." "A sculptor," Merlin corrected. "She does not lie outright, because she does not need to. She bends the truth, shaping it in the minds of those who listen. She does not hoard the book to keep it safe¡ªshe holds it because she knows its power. She knows what happens when men believe in something written in ink instead of something written in their bones. And she will not let that power slip from her grasp." Dinadan let his fingers drum against his saddle. "So you¡¯re telling me she has a book full of great and terrible secrets, and she¡¯s waiting for the right moment to twist it to her will?" "She is already twisting it, Dinadan. Even if she never speaks a word from its pages, the act of keeping it means no one else can use it. No healer can hold it, no dying man can benefit from what is written there. She has ensured that whatever wisdom it holds is hers alone to wield¡ªor to withhold." Merlin¡¯s gaze darkened. "That book belongs to no one. But neither should it belong to her." "And who exactly is this woman?" "Her name is known only to a few," Merlin said. "But to those who whisper of her in darkened halls, she is known as Vortigern''s witch." Dinadan set his jaw. "I suppose I shouldn¡¯t be surprised. A man like Vortigern doesn¡¯t rally a kingdom on words alone¡ªhe needs someone to shape those words, to bend them into something men will believe." "And that is exactly what she does," Merlin said. "You think this is only about a book, Dinadan, but it is far more than that. The words written in those pages hold the past, yes, but they also shape the future. And if the past can be altered¡ªif the right knowledge is buried, twisted, or burned¡ªthen what future do you think will follow?" Dinadan did not answer. He did not need to. The weight of something ancient pressed against his chest, a heat that pulsed just beneath his new armor. The shard. His fingers twitched at his side. He had nearly forgotten about it¡ªnearly. But it had never left him. The sliver of something not meant for mortal hands, something that should not belong to this world, nor to any king who sought to rule it. It never stirred, never warmed, never reminded him of its presence unless it chose to. And yet, as the name Vortigern settled in the air, the shard came alive. "You feel it, don¡¯t you?" Merlin asked. Dinadan clenched his teeth. "I feel something." "Then you understand why this must not remain in her hands." Dinadan scoffed. "Ah, so I am stealing it after all." "You are returning it to Albion," Merlin said. "Not to kings, not to cults, not to those who wish to wield it as proof of their righteousness. This book was never meant to be used for power¡ªit was meant to be used for healing." "And yet here we are," Dinadan muttered. "With another relic held hostage by fools who think they know best." "Not fools," Merlin corrected. "People who believe their version of the truth is the only one that matters. That is always the most dangerous kind." Dinadan exhaled, rubbing his jaw. The shard still burned, a dull pulse that matched the faint rhythm of his heartbeat. "And once I have it?" "Then you will decide what must be done." Dinadan let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "You¡¯re putting a great deal of faith in my ability to make wise decisions, Merlin." "No," Merlin said simply. "I am putting faith in the fact that you are the only man who has not already decided what the book should be." Dinadan sat in silence, rolling Merlin¡¯s words through his mind like a gambler weighing loaded dice. The fire crackled low at his back, its warmth doing little to chase away the cool press of the night. The wind had stilled, but the weight of something unseen had settled over the road. Bracken shifted, flicking an ear, as if the mule had already decided what to do. Dinadan let out a slow breath. He wasn¡¯t sure what he had been waiting for¡ªsome final push, some clarity that refused to come. Instead, there was only the road, stretching ahead toward Tintagel, toward whatever useless squabbling Uther¡¯s court was drowning itself in this time. He swung into the saddle, settling against the familiar weight of the reins in his hands. Bracken did not wait for a command. He simply turned, hooves picking up their steady rhythm, following the path that led toward the seat of power. "Of course," Dinadan muttered, shaking his head. "Loyal as ever, aren¡¯t you?" Bracken did not respond. He rarely did. Dinadan let the movement of the ride settle into his bones. The dull ache in his shoulders, the way the new armor sat too well, the way the road stretched ahead like it had been waiting for him all along. He should forget what Merlin had said. It was not his concern. It was some old magician¡¯s riddle, another twist of fate that had nothing to do with him. And yet. The Book. The sorceress. Vortigern. Dinadan sighed. Why did it matter? That was the real question, wasn¡¯t it? He had no stake in what some sorceress hoarded away in sacred groves, no reason to meddle in secrets. And yet, Merlin¡¯s voice pressed against the edges of his thoughts, the certainty in it, the knowing weight of a man who had already seen the road ahead. Was this another test? Another way to drag him into the shape of something he had no interest in becoming? Bracken kept walking. Dinadan exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "If I die over some moldy book, I hope you carve something poetic on my grave," he muttered to no one in particular. Behind him, the fire crackled lower. "If you die," came Merlin¡¯s voice, quiet and knowing, "there will be no grave to carve it on." Dinadan clicked his tongue, shaking his head. "Comforting." Bracken did not break stride. The night stretched ahead, long and waiting. Behind him, Merlin watched the fire burn to embers. He did not look triumphant. He did not look relieved. He looked as though he were already mourning something that had not yet happened. 33. When Good Men Kneel 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¡ªnot 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 T¨ªr 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.
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¡ªnot 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¡ªevery treachery, every tragedy. And now, it remembered him.
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¡ªa 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¡ªrelief, 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¡ªMorgana, fierce-eyed, Gausse trembling, Elaina small and wide-eyed, pressing against her mother''s skirts like she could hide from the world. Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website. 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¡ªVortigaunt, 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¡ªsomething that made the hair on his neck rise. Y T¨ªr 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¡ªnot 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.
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¡ª" 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¡ªdirections 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¡ªit 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¡ªAidric 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.