Dinadan glanced at Aidric, who had been uncharacteristically quiet since they left the merchant’s camp. The boy’s eyes were downcast, his shoulders slumped, and the weight of whatever he’d seen in the mirror seemed to press him deeper into himself.
“You’re going to wear a groove in the road with all that brooding,” Dinadan said, his tone light but not unkind.
Aidric didn’t look up. “I can’t stop thinking about it. What I saw... what they said.”
Dinadan sighed, scratching the back of his neck. “Let me guess. They said it was your fault.”
Aidric nodded, his brow furrowing.
“Well, they’re wrong,” Dinadan said simply.
“How can you know that?” Aidric’s voice wavered, frustration creeping in. “The mirror said it shows the truth.”
Dinadan stopped, turning to face the boy. “The mirror shows fears, Aidric, not facts. You think you’re alone? You’re not. You think you’ll fail? You won’t. You think I’ll leave you?” He crouched slightly to meet Aidric’s gaze. “Not happening.”
Aidric stared at him for a moment, then nodded, though his expression remained uncertain. Dinadan straightened, clapping a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Come on. There’s a tavern at the next village, and I’ll wager a hot meal will chase off the ghosts in that head of yours.”
As the road dipped into a wooded hollow, they caught the faint strains of music drifting through the trees. It was haunting and beautiful, a melody that seemed to twist the air itself into shapes unseen.
Dinadan slowed, his hand instinctively brushing the hilt of his sword. “Either we’re about to meet the world’s best bard, or we’re walking into a trap.”
Aidric perked up slightly, the music drawing his attention away from his thoughts. “It doesn’t sound dangerous.”
“Neither does a snake, until it bites you,” Dinadan muttered, though he allowed himself a grudging curiosity as they followed the sound.
They rounded a bend to find a man sitting on a fallen log, a lyre balanced on his knee. He was dressed simply but finely, his cloak edged with silver thread that glimmered faintly in the dappled light. His hair was dark and unruly, his eyes sharp and green, and his fingers moved over the lyre with an effortless grace that matched the song’s otherworldly quality.
The bard’s voice weaving through the air, haunting and full of reverence, as if the land itself was speaking through him.
> "THE SONG OF ALBION’S PAST"
>
> Verse 1
>
> Beneath the stones where old roots creep,
>
> A secret stirs in shadows deep.
>
> The rivers hum, the mountains sigh,
>
> A kingdom lost beneath the sky.
>
> Chorus
>
> O Albion, your heart still beats,
>
> In broken halls and empty streets.
>
> Your kings have fallen, their banners frayed,
>
> But in the dark, your hope is laid.
>
> Verse 2
>
> In forests wild, the hunters rove,
>
> Their songs are echoes in the grove.
>
> The past is written in the soil,
>
> In blood and tears, in sweat and toil.
>
> Chorus
>
> O Albion, your heart still beats,
>
> In broken halls and empty streets.
>
> Your kings have fallen, their banners frayed,
>
> But in the dark, your hope is laid.
>
> Bridge
>
> When light has fled and stars are blind,
>
> When peace is but a dream confined,
>
> Your heroes rise from ash and flame,
>
> To mend the land, to heal your name.
>
> Chorus
>
> O Albion, your heart still beats,
>
> In broken halls and empty streets.
>
> Your kings have fallen, their banners frayed,
>
> The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
>
> But in the dark, your hope is laid.
The bard looked up as they approached, his lips curling into a faint smile. “Travelers on this lonely road. How fortunate.”
“For whom?” Dinadan asked, crossing his arms.
The bard’s smile widened. “For all of us, I hope. Though fortune is a fickle thing, is it not?”
Aidric stepped closer, his curiosity overcoming his caution. “That song—it’s beautiful. What is it?”
“A song of Albion,” the bard replied, his voice rich and warm. “A song of its past, its present, and its future.”
Dinadan snorted. “That’s an awfully ambitious tune.”
“Ambition is the seed of legend,” the bard said, rising to his feet. “And legend, my friend, is the only thing that survives the passage of time.”
Dinadan tilted his head, studying the bard. “Legend, eh? And what’s your stake in it? Are you one of those who spins tales to pass the time, or do you actually believe in them?”
The bard’s eyes gleamed with something unreadable. “I believe in the power of stories. They shape us, even as we shape them. Albion’s greatest tales are not yet written, though their seeds have been planted.”
Aidric looked between them, his brow furrowed. “Do you think... do you think anyone can be part of a legend?”
The bard turned to the boy, his expression softening. “Anyone who has the courage to walk the uncertain road can leave a mark. The question is not whether you can be part of a legend, but whether you are willing to bear the weight of it.”
Dinadan rolled his eyes. “You make it sound like a noble cause. Most legends are born from blood and misery, not courage.”
“Perhaps,” the bard conceded, inclining his head. “But without them, what would we have? Truth alone is cold and harsh. It is the story wrapped around it that gives it warmth, that makes it worth remembering.”
Dinadan opened his mouth to reply, but Aidric spoke first. “Do you think... do you think there’s a story about me?”
The bard studied him for a long moment, his gaze piercing. “There is always a story. The question is, what role will you choose to play in it?”
Without warning, the bard began to play again. The song was different this time, sharper and more urgent, each word striking like the beat of a war drum.
"THE SONG OF ALBION’S FUTURE"
> Verse 1 A crown unclaimed, a throne laid bare, The sword of kings awaits the heir. The stones remember, the winds still cry, For one to answer Albion’s why.
>
> Chorus Who dares to rise, who dares to lead? The land will test your heart and creed. Through fire’s trial, through shadow’s blight, Will you endure the coming night?
>
> Verse 2 The rivers rage, the forests moan, The land will not be ruled alone. A unity both hard and true, Will forge the path for what is new.
>
> Chorus Who dares to rise, who dares to lead? The land will test your heart and creed. Through fire’s trial, through shadow’s blight, Will you endure the coming night?
>
> Bridge When hope is lost and swords are drawn, When dusk has swallowed Albion’s dawn, One voice will rise, one step will stand, To heal the scars upon this land.
>
> Chorus Who dares to rise, who dares to lead? The land will test your heart and creed. Through fire’s trial, through shadow’s blight, Will you endure the coming night?
The air grew heavier, and the world around them seemed to shift.
Aidric gasped as the forest dissolved, replaced by a vast battlefield. He saw himself standing at the edge of the fray, clutching a sword that glowed with faint, golden light. Around him, warriors clashed and fell, their cries filling the air.
Dinadan blinked, finding himself standing on a different field. The Henge rose before him, its stones cracked and crumbling, and in its center, the crown of Albion lay shattered. He reached for it, but his hands were bound, and his legs refused to move.
The bard’s voice wove through the song like a thread. “The land calls to those who would shape its future. But the weight of its call is heavy, and not all who hear it can answer.”
The visions faded, the forest snapping back into focus. Aidric and Dinadan exchanged a glance, their faces pale.
“What was that?” Dinadan demanded, his voice sharp.
“A glimpse,” the bard said simply, setting his lyre aside. “A reminder that stories, like choices, are never without consequence.”
The bard slung his lyre over his shoulder and began walking away, his steps light and unhurried, as if the weight of what he’d left behind in their minds was nothing at all.
“Wait,” Aidric called after him, his voice sharp with lingering uncertainty. “What's next?”
The bard paused at the edge of the clearing, his silhouette framed by the dim light filtering through the trees. He turned just enough to meet Aidric’s gaze, his smile as enigmatic as ever. “What happens next, my young friend, is up to you.”
And with that, he disappeared into the shadows, leaving only the faint rustle of disturbed leaves and the lingering echo of his song.
Dinadan stood in silence for a moment, the stillness pressing in like an unwelcome guest. Then, with a long exhale, he ran a hand through his hair and muttered, “I don’t know about you, but I’m starting to think I preferred the mirror.”
Aidric didn’t laugh. He didn’t even glance Dinadan’s way. He stood motionless, staring after the bard as if he could still see him, his thoughts clearly miles away. The flickering torchlight from the merchant’s stall caught the edges of the boy’s pale face, illuminating the furrow in his brow and the quiet intensity in his eyes. Whatever the bard’s parting words had sparked in him, it had left roots deep enough to keep him rooted to the spot.
Dinadan studied the boy, his usual quips abandoned in favor of rare silence. Whatever Aidric had seen, whatever he’d felt, Dinadan could still feel the weight of it in the air between them. The mirror’s vision gnawed at him as well, its implications threading through his mind like brambles he couldn’t untangle. Yet, for once, he didn’t press the boy for a response or a reaction.
“Come on,” Dinadan said finally, his voice quieter than usual, but not without its usual wry edge. “We’ve had our fill of cryptic merchants and mysterious bards for one night. Let’s find somewhere with proper chairs, a fire, and a cup of something stronger than riddle-speak.”
Aidric tore his gaze away from the trees, blinking as if waking from a dream. “Where?” he asked, his voice soft but steady.
Dinadan gestured toward the faint lights clustered further down the dirt road leading away from the edge of the merchants' stalls. “Tavern. Or as close as this collection of kings and cutthroats can manage.”
Aidric hesitated, but the pull of fatigue and the need for something resembling comfort won out. He fell into step beside Dinadan, their boots crunching softly against the dirt.
The road toward the tavern wound through the outskirts of the camp, weaving between crude stalls and fire pits where merchants packed away their wares for the night. The sounds of the day’s chaos had faded to a low murmur of voices and the occasional burst of drunken laughter.
When the tavern came into view, it was more ramshackle than either of them had hoped for. The roof sagged in places, its thatch uneven and riddled with holes, while the wooden sign swinging above the entrance bore no name—just a crude painting of a foaming mug.
Dinadan sighed dramatically. “Well, isn’t this a beacon of hospitality.”
Aidric glanced at him, managing the faintest flicker of a smile. “It’s better than the ground.”
Dinadan smirked, holding the door open with a flourish. “Barely. But at least the ground doesn’t charge you for the privilege of misery. Come on, lad—let’s see if this place serves disappointment by the pint.”