Y Tír remembers.

Dinadan did not.

At least, that was what he told himself as he rode beneath the low, grey sky, hoarfrost curling over the edges of the road. The breath of his mule ghosted in the air, white as spun wool, dissolving into the hush of morning.

Bracken’s hooves struck hollow against the frozen earth. The rhythm was wrong. Too sharp. Too empty.

One. Two. Three.

He should not have been counting. He should not have noticed.

He should not have been alone.

Aidric should have stood at my side.

The thought cut like the wind, sharp-edged, unwanted. He exhaled through his nose and shifted in the saddle. The lad was well enough. Safe in some lord’s hall, learning how to bow, how to fight, how to be a knight.

Dinadan had never been much for halls.

He rolled his shoulders, letting his cloak fall heavier against the cold.

Let fate take me. A man who rides alone ought to count himself lucky—or a liar.

But the weight of something unseen pressed against his ribs, the kind of silence that came when a man had walked too far alone.

The land was watching.

Not the trees. Not the hills.

Y Tír itself.

Uther’s words still clung to him. "Y Tír does not lie. Men do."

Dinadan exhaled sharply, shifting in the saddle.

Then let it speak, and let us see if we like the telling.

The gates of Caer Llion rose from the mist, black stone slick with the night’s frost. Smoke coiled from the rooftops, carrying the scent of damp wood and old iron. The city never truly slept, but it felt different this morning. Slower. Heavier.

Dinadan nudged Bracken forward, his breath curling in the cold air.

Uther calls, and like a hound to the hunter’s horn, the fool follows.

The guards at the gate barely glanced at him. They knew his face. Knew that a man like him did not ride for war or for conquest.

He rode when the king needed ears, not swords.

And that, more than anything, should have unsettled them.

The streets were tight with the press of early trade—fishwives emptying baskets, blacksmiths stoking half-dead fires, stable hands cursing at stubborn mules. But something about the noise felt wrong.

Voices hushed as he passed. Eyes flicked away.

Not fear. Not yet. But something close to it.

Y Tír was shifting beneath them, and the people could feel it.

Dinadan set his jaw. If they could sense it, then Uther already knew.

Bracken’s hooves struck hard against the frozen road as they climbed toward the high keep. The banners snapped in the cold wind, and the doors loomed before him like the mouth of a beast.

He had not even dismounted when the hall doors groaned open.

A summons.

A man could not walk through Caer Llion without Y Tir taking notice.

Dinadan slid from the saddle, patting Bracken’s neck before leaving him with a stable boy.

He stepped inside, boots striking the worn flagstones. The scent of wax, iron, and old tallow clung to the war hall, thick as the weight in the air.

The torches burned hot, but the room felt cold.

Not the kind of cold that came from stone and winter air—the kind that settled when a king began to doubt his own crown.

Uther 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—unopened, unread.

A letter a king did not wish to read.

Dinadan tilted his head, weary amusement flickering in his eyes. "If you’re waiting for it to speak first, majesty, you may wish to settle in—it has the patience of stone, and I’ve yet to see a rock start the talking."

Uther did not look up, his voice weighed with unspoken ire. "Three lords have kept their silence for weeks."

Dinadan exhaled, rolling his shoulders. "Perhaps they’ve lost their quills—or their nerve."

Uther’s hand tightened on the letter, the parchment crumpling beneath his grip. "Or perhaps they have found a new banner to kneel before."

The torches flickered suddenly—the shadows stretching long across the stones, twisting like ink bleeding through parchment.

Dinadan sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "And you’d have me play the king’s hound, sniffing at their doors?"

Uther lifted his gaze then—a king’s gaze. Cold, heavy. Measured like a blade in a smith’s grip. "I want you to see what you always see, Dinadan—the things men dare not speak."

Dinadan scoffed, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "And if I bring you a truth that cuts deeper than you’d like?"

Uther’s jaw was sharp, his voice sharper. "Then you will tell me all the same."

A pause. The weight of flame, stone, and silence.

Then Uther’s hand moved, pushing the letter across the table. But he did not let go. The wax seal did not look heavy, but it felt it.

His voice dropped lower. Quieter. "You are the only man I trust to hear Y Tír when it whispers."

Slowly, he took the letter.

It sat in his palm like a stone pulled from deep water.

Dinadan did not move.

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—it burned in the hands of those who carried it.

And yet, 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.

"You are the only man I trust to hear Y Tír when it whispers."

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.

"You are the only man I trust."

Fate take me, he thought, dryly. A poor choice, majesty, but yours to make.

Still, he slipped the letter into his cloak.

"The road is long," he said finally. "Best I start riding it before it decides to ride me."

Three lords. Three keeps.

Uther did not need to name them. Dinadan already knew. Castell Raglan, Cwmbran, and Caerwent.

He had ridden to their halls before. Sat at their tables, drank their wine, listened to their boasts. Men of good blood, steady hands, sworn oaths.

And yet—now, silence.

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Uther exhaled, stepping away from the table. His voice was measured, but the weight of command sat heavy in his throat.

"Go first to Castell Raglan. Then Cwmbran. Then Caerwent. I will not wait a month to hear what they would not send."

Dinadan tilted his head, expression unreadable. "And if they’ve nothing worth hearing?"

Uther met his gaze. "Then listen to Y Tir beneath their feet—it never lies."

That was worse than an order. That was a warning.

Dinadan turned for the door. "I’ll send word—though whether you’ll like it is another matter."

Uther’s voice stopped him before he stepped into the cold.

"You will not send word, Dinadan. You will return."

Dinadan did not look back. But 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.

Then Cwmbran—Lord 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—Caerwent. 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.

And now he said nothing.

Dinadan exhaled, breath curling white in the air.

Men did not fall silent for no reason.

"Then listen to the land beneath them."

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 Tír did not speak yet. But it would.

And when it did, Dinadan would listen.

---

The mist clung thick to the lowlands, curling in the hollows of Y Tír 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. The road to Castell Raglan had always been clear, well-kept, a nobleman’s pride reflected in the land he ruled.

But today, the road felt different.

No carts. No farmers moving to market. No sound but the slow creak of branches and the whisper of unseen things in the hedgerows.

He did not like that.

Ahead, the dark shape of Castell Raglan loomed against the grey sky. High walls, thick stone, built to withstand siege. Its banners should have been flying. Its gates should have stood open.

Instead—nothing.

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.

Morys was a man of caution, steady as the tide. His gates should have been manned. His walls should not have been empty.

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 gloved palm against the gate. The wood was cold, slick with mist.

It should have groaned when he pushed. Should have resisted. Instead—it swung open without a sound.

Dinadan stilled.

Silence does not always mean absence.

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.

The ground was wet from last night’s rain, but there were no footprints. No wheel ruts. As if no one had walked it in days.

Dinadan walked further in, the air thick with the scent of damp stone and something else—something faint, beneath the earth, like wood left too long in the dark.

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 the hall has a mind for hospitality—or for trouble."

He climbed the steps to the great hall, boots echoing against the stone.

The doors did not creak.

They should have. Old wood, thick iron hinges—those should have groaned like an old man in the cold. But instead, they swung inward without a sound.

The hall swallowed him whole.

Dim firelight flickered against the high beams, stretching shadows too far. The rushes on the floor were damp, the scent of old rain and cold ash clinging to the air. The hearth was burning, but only barely—coals banked low, embers pulsing in the half-light.

Someone had been here. Someone had tended it.

So where were they?

Dinadan stepped forward, boots muffled against the sodden rushes.

The high table stood untouched. Trenchers were 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 in panic. Not in haste.

Just… abandoned.

Dinadan’s fingers flexed at his side. He had seen battlefields. He had seen villages emptied by plague.

This was neither.

This was something else.

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 should like to speak with Lord Morys," he said, his voice swallowed by the heavy stillness.

No one answered.

He shifted his weight, fingers hovering near the hilt of his sword.

"Well now," he murmured, mostly to himself. "That’s a cold welcome."

Still—no answer.

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—hooded, cloaked, standing too still.

Not fearful. Not hesitant.

Waiting.

He had seen silence in many forms before. The hush of men before battle. The stillness of a man deciding whether to draw steel or speak truth. The silence that followed grief.

This was none of those.

This was something held. Something kept.

Dinadan exhaled through his nose, slow and measured. Y Tír was watching through these people. He could feel it pressing against his ribs.

"If this is how you welcome travelers, Castell Raglan has grown a touch inhospitable." His voice was dry, but low. Careful. "No greetings? No courtesies? No cup of wine for a weary rider?"

Still, no answer.

His fingers flexed at his side. He had been sent to listen, and listen he would.

He tried again, his tone edged with patience wearing thin. "Lord Morys. Where is he?"

A shift. A stir, so slight he might have imagined it.

Then, movement.

One of the figures—a woman, by the shape of her shoulders—stepped 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.

Instead, he let his breath settle in his chest, let his hand drift a fraction closer to the hilt of his sword. Not to draw. Not yet. But to remind himself that steel still existed in the world.

Only then did he glance over his shoulder.

And there—in the shadows beyond the high table—stood a single wooden chair.

Not the lord’s seat. Not the seat of honor.

Something set apart from the rest.

It was empty.

But it had not been.

The torchlight guttered again, casting flickering light over the back of the chair.

And there, burned deep into the wood, was a mark.

A sigil Dinadan did not recognize.

His jaw tightened.

"Well now," he murmured, low enough that only Y Tír could hear. "That’s new."

The woman was still pointing.

Dinadan turned back to her.

"What does it mean, then?"

This time, she did not stay silent.

Her voice, when it came, was thin and distant, as if pulled from some place too far from here.

"It means ye were expected."

A breath passed.

Then another.

The woman’s words still hung in the air, too thin, too certain.

"It means ye were expected."

Dinadan studied her. She did not lower her hand. She did not move at all, as if carved from the same stone as the hall itself. None of them did.

He had been in many places where he was unwelcome.

This expecting was worse.

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. Y Tír was pressing against him now, heavy in the stones beneath his boots.

"I don’t suppose I’ll be offered a meal while I’m here?" he muttered. "A bit of ale? No?"

Nothing.

"Right, then." His voice was still wry, but his gaze was sharp. "If I was expected, I’d wager Lord Morys knew I was coming too."

Silence.

Then—another 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.

One of the side doors—leading deeper into the keep.

The woman lowered her hand.

"You should see him."

Her voice was quieter now. But not softer.

Dinadan met her gaze—or where her gaze should have been, beneath the heavy hood.

"I should, should I?"

She did not answer.

But she did not need to.

Because from beyond that open door, in the dark beyond the torchlight—someone was waiting.

And Dinadan was expected.

Dinadan did not move immediately. The hall had been too still for too long.

A new path opening so easily?

That was invitation, not discovery.

He inhaled slow and deep, rolling his shoulders before stepping toward the doorway. He did not look at the silent figures again.

They did not follow.

They did not need to.

The passage beyond was dim, the torches set too far apart, the shadows pooling between them deep enough to swallow a man whole.

But the air changed here.

It was warmer. Less like stone and frost, more like breath.

Someone had been in these halls. Recently.

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.

Then, in the silence—

A voice. "You took your time."

Not from behind the door.

From inside the room.

Dinadan exhaled sharply, not with relief, not with surprise—but with something closer to inevitability.

"Aye, well." He pushed the door open. "Ye weren’t going anywhere."

The hinges groaned.

And there, in the dim firelight, sat Lord Morys.