A kingdom does not fall in war—it crumbles in silence. The eastern marches of Uther’s realm have gone quiet. No messengers. No oaths renewed. No banners flown. Lords who once knelt in fealty have ceased to answer their king’s call. And silence is never just silence—it is hesitation. It is doubt. Uther has no patience for doubt. He has armies to keep his throne, knights to fight his wars. But war is not yet upon him, and armies cannot be sent for ghosts. He does not need a sword. He needs a man who listens. Sir Dinadan. A knight who does not fight. A fool who does not jest. A man who walks roads others fear to tread. The oaths that bound this kingdom together are fraying. The land grows restless. The old blood remembers. And as Uther fights to hold his realm with steel and fire, Dinadan walks into the places where men whisper of things that came before the crown, before the knights, before the walls of Caer Llion were even raised. Something ancient stirs between the stones, between the trees, in the silence where men once spoke. This is not a war of banners. This is not a war of swords. This is a war of truths. And some truths should never be heard. The land does not lie. Men do. But this time, even Y Tir is uncertain.