The sun hung low in the sky, its golden light spilling over the sprawling camps surrounding the Henge of Elders. Albion’s lords and kings had transformed the sacred valley into a chaotic city of tents and banners, each one marking the presence of a ruler eager for their voice to be heard at tomorrow’s council. The hum of activity was constant—clinking armor, shouted orders, the bleating of livestock, and the distant, persistent murmur of shifting alliances and whispered schemes.

The meeting was less than a day away, and the air itself held its breath.

In Uther’s camp, Dinadan sat cross-legged on a cot in their shared tent, watching Aidric as he carefully polished the dagger that now hung from his belt. The boy’s face, still marked by youth, was focused, his movements precise and deliberate. The deep green tunic he wore bore Uther’s sigil—subtle but unmistakable—marking him as a squire of the Pendragon.

Dinadan adjusted the new cloak that draped over his shoulders, its crimson and gold trim marking him as a knight of Uther Pendragon’s entourage. It was fine work—too fine, in Dinadan’s opinion—and the armor beneath it was no less impressive. Polished plates, snug leather straps, and a tabard emblazoned with Uther’s roaring dragon crest completed the ensemble.

Dinadan exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders as if trying to shake off a weight. “Is it just me, or is every pair of eyes in this camp aiming to set us on fire?”

“They are.” He didn’t even glance up from where he toyed with his belt buckle. “Take comfort in this: it’s not because we’re important. It’s because we’re an oddity.”

Aidric frowned. “I’m not sure that’s better.”

Dinadan leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “Oh, it’s much worse. People forget important men. They remember fools and cautionary tales.”

Aidric’s fingers tightened around the dagger at his belt. “You’re not taking this seriously.”

Dinadan tilted his head. “Serious isn’t really my area of expertise, boy.”

Aidric looked up then, eyes dark with something too old for his face. “Maybe it should be,” he said quietly. “You heard what Merlin said. What Uther said. This isn’t just a council, is it? It’s more than that.”

Dinadan studied him for a long moment, then let out a slow breath. “Aye,” he admitted, “and that’s exactly why I’d rather not drown in the weight of it before I must.”

Outside, the faint snorts of Bracken and Thistle drifted in. The two mounts, armored and waiting, were tethered just beyond the tent. Dinadan had made sure their tack was well-fitted and secure earlier that evening, but the thought of their quiet patience unsettled him. Even the beasts seemed to know what was coming.

His stomach, however, had less patience than his mule. It growled loudly, cutting through the silence. Dinadan winced and rubbed the back of his neck. “Well,” he said, his voice light but strained, “if the end of Albion is nigh, we might as well not face it hungry.”

Aidric glanced at him, his nerves still evident, but he managed a faint smile. “Are we eating here, or does Uther send someone to feed us like noble hounds?”

Dinadan snorted. “Hardly. You’ll find no silver platters in this camp. Come on, boy. Let’s see what the Pendragon himself puts on the table.”

They left the tent, stepping into the cold evening air. The aurora rippled faintly above, casting a dim, spectral glow over the rows of tents and banners that bore Uther’s sigil. They didn’t have to go far; near the edge of the camp, another tent stood open, golden light spilling onto the frost-laden ground.

Inside, Merlin sat at a low table, a simple plate of bread, cheese, and roasted pheasant before him. The enchanter seemed untouched by the chill, his robes pooling around him like dark water. He glanced up as they entered, his piercing gaze meeting Dinadan’s with quiet understanding.

“You’re late,” Merlin said, his tone calm but deliberate.

Dinadan raised an eyebrow as he sat across from him. “Didn’t realize I was expected.”

“Time waits for no one,” Merlin replied, motioning for them to join him. “Neither does fate. Sit. Eat.”

Dinadan exchanged a glance with Aidric, then shrugged. “Well, when the most mysterious man in Albion offers you dinner, it’d be rude to refuse.”

Aidric hesitated, then took a seat beside Dinadan. Merlin said nothing more, simply pushing a second plate toward the boy and gesturing for Dinadan to help himself from the platter in the center.

The silence stretched as they ate, but it wasn’t the awkward kind. It was heavy, deliberate, as if Merlin were waiting for them to speak first. Dinadan wasn’t about to oblige. Instead, he chewed thoughtfully on a piece of bread, letting his gaze wander to the brazier that flickered at the far end of the tent.

“You’ve had an interesting day,” Merlin began, his eyes flicking over their attire. “The colors suit you, though I suspect you feel the weight of them more than the armor.”

Dinadan snorted, breaking off a piece of bread. “Uther has a way of making everything heavier.”

Merlin’s lips twitched into something resembling a smile. “He does, doesn’t he? And yet, he carries that weight willingly. Few would do the same.”

Do you think the kings will agree tomorrow?” Aidric asked, his voice cautious but curious. “To unite Albion, I mean?”

Merlin set down the piece of pheasant he had been delicately picking apart. His pale eyes studied the boy, his expression unreadable. “That depends,” he said finally, his tone soft but pointed.

“On what?” Aidric asked.

“On whether the kings can see beyond themselves,” Merlin replied. “And on whether those who stand beside them can show them the way.”

Aidric frowned, his brow creasing as he puzzled over the enchanter’s words. Dinadan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and leaned back. “Cryptic as always, Merlin,” he said, his voice tinged with dry amusement. “Do you ever give a straight answer?”

Merlin’s gaze shifted to Dinadan, sharp and piercing. “Would you hear it if I did?”

Dinadan froze for a moment, caught off guard by the weight of the question. He recovered quickly, though, and smirked. “Depends on whether it’s worth listening to.”

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Merlin tilted his head, his expression thoughtful. “You’re a man who pretends not to listen, Sir Dinadan. But you hear more than most.”

Dinadan met his gaze, the smirk fading. There was something about Merlin’s tone, something that made him feel stripped bare, like the enchanter could see straight into the parts of him he tried to keep hidden.

Merlin’s attention drifted to Aidric. “And you, boy? Do you understand what’s at stake tomorrow?”

Aidric swallowed hard, his grip tightening around his mug. “I think so,” he said. “But... I don’t know what I can do.”

Merlin’s lips quirked into the faintest smile. “You’ve already done more than you realize. Your place in this is no accident, Aidric. Nor is his,” he added, nodding toward Dinadan.

Dinadan frowned, his usual wit faltering under the weight of Merlin’s words. “And what does the land want from me?”

Merlin didn’t answer immediately. He tore a piece of bread and studied it, as though deciding how much to reveal.

“That,” he said, leaning forward, “is something only you can decide.”

The brazier crackled softly as Dinadan processed the words, his thoughts churning. He glanced at Aidric, who seemed equally shaken, though the boy tried to hide it.

“You really think Albion chose us?” Dinadan asked, his voice quieter now.

Merlin’s gaze returned to him, steady and unyielding. “I know it did.”

He regarded them for a long moment before continuing, “I think Uther sees further than most. He understands the cost of division, and he knows that a divided Albion will crumble under its own weight. But his vision is not without its challenges. And its dangers.”

Dinadan raised an eyebrow. “You sound like you’ve seen this before.”

“I’ve seen much before,” Merlin said, his tone distant. “But this moment is unlike any other. The Henge stands on the edge of history. Tomorrow will decide whether Albion steps forward or falls back into shadow.”

Sleep didn’t come. Dinadan lay staring at the roof of the tent, his thoughts churning like a storm-tossed sea. Finally, with a muttered curse, he swung his legs off the cot and stood. Aidric, already curled under a thick wool blanket, murmured something incoherent but didn’t stir.

Dinadan pulled his cloak tight around his shoulders and stepped out into the night. The camp was quieter now, the fires banked low, but the tension in the air hadn’t lessened. It pressed against his chest, heavy and suffocating, as if the land itself was alive and waiting.

Above him, the aurora danced, its greens and golds brighter than they had been in years. The light rippled across the sky like a living thing, casting the valley in an unearthly glow. Dinadan walked slowly, his boots crunching softly against the frost-tipped grass.

He didn’t know where he was going, only that he needed to move, to escape the confines of the tent and the weight of his thoughts. The aurora painted the ground in ghostly hues, and the Henge rose in the distance like a sentinel, watching over it all.

Dinadan found a flat stone near a cluster of gorse and sat, his cloak pooling around him. The night was cold, the air sharp and biting, but he hardly noticed. His eyes were fixed on the sky, where the light twisted and danced in patterns he couldn’t begin to understand.

He exhaled, the breath curling white in the air. “What are you trying to tell me?” he muttered, as though the aurora might answer.

The quiet only deepened the questions in his head.

The events of the day raced through his mind, each thought heavier than the last. Uther’s words rang in his ears—about unity, about the future of Albion, about the weight of what lay ahead. Merlin’s quiet gaze had lingered too, filled with a knowing that unnerved him.

And then there was Aidric, the boy who had grown so much in so little time. He wore his new role as a squire with pride, but beneath it, Dinadan saw the uncertainty, the fear. Aidric had looked to him for reassurance, for guidance, and Dinadan had given him... what? A joke? A deflection?

“I’m no leader,” Dinadan muttered, his voice low and bitter. “I’m barely a knight.”

The aurora flickered, its light catching on the dew that clung to the gorse. As he watched, the first webs of the morning appeared, strung between the thorny branches. The intricate patterns shimmered like silver, delicate but unyielding against the cold.

Dinadan’s chest tightened. He thought of the mirror, the vision of the Henge crumbling, the crown shattered at his feet. He had told himself it was a trick, a meaningless illusion. But here, under the weight of the aurora and the coming dawn, he couldn’t escape the feeling that it was a warning.

“What if I’m not enough?” he whispered. The words tasted bitter, foreign, but once spoken, they wouldn’t leave him. “What if they’re all wrong?”

He thought of Uther’s confidence, Merlin’s cryptic wisdom, Aidric’s growing trust. They all saw something in him, something he wasn’t sure existed. A bridge, Merlin had called him. A thread. But threads frayed, bridges crumbled. And Albion deserved more than a knight who hid behind wit and clever words.

The aurora shifted again, its light spilling across the valley in a wave. The webs on the gorse glistened brighter, each strand holding

His father’s words surfaced unbidden: “The land doesn’t make mistakes.”

Dinadan scoffed, tilting his head toward the heavens. “Doesn’t it, though?” he asked aloud, his breath curling in the frosty air. “Because if the land thinks I’m its chosen knight, then its got a twisted sense of humor”

And then it happened.

The hum started softly at first, a deep, resonant vibration that echoed in his chest like the faint pluck of a harp string. He froze.

“No,” he said sharply, his voice cutting through the quiet. “Not this again.”

The hum deepened, filling the air, and Dinadan stumbled back, his breath catching in his throat. He felt the weight of the burden on his shoulders, his chest, his very soul—as if its presence alone demanded submission.

“I don’t want this!” Dinadan shouted, his voice cracking. “Find someone else! Someone stronger, braver—someone who actually wants it!”

And then, from the heart of the darkness, a voice spoke. It was low and resonant, ancient and commanding, filling the air with the weight of stone and time.

“The crown is not given to the willing.”

Dinadan’s breath hitched. His fists clenched at his sides, his heart hammering. “Then why me?” he whispered, his voice trembling.

The voice responded, calm and unyielding. “Because you see the burden for what it is.”

“And what if I fail?” he demanded, his voice shaking with raw emotion. “What if I can’t carry it? What if I drop it? What if—”

“You will fail,” the voice interrupted, cutting through his words like a blade. “You will stumble, bleed, and break. But the land does not ask for perfection. It asks only for those who will try.”

The weight in Dinadan’s chest eased, though it did not vanish entirely. The voice softened, though it retained the weight of the ages.

“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.”

The hum began to fade, but its memory lingered, a ghostly impression against his palms. Dinadan tilted his head back, staring up at the aurora as it rippled and danced. The stars shone faintly behind it, scattered across the sky like fine grains of sand.

Before the first light of dawn crept over the horizon, soft and tentative, Dinadan rose from the stone, his joints stiff from the cold, and turned back toward the camp.

The valley was waking, the kings’ camps stirring to life as the faint light of dawn seeped over the horizon. Fires were stoked, voices called out in sharp commands, and the metallic clink of armor signaled the armies' readiness. The air was thick with anticipation, each sound a reminder that today, the fate of Albion would be decided.

Dinadan stood , watching as the aurora began to fade. Its brilliance ebbed, the greens and golds dissolving into the pale blues and grays of early morning. But as the sky shifted, a dense white fog rolled in from the forest, creeping like a living thing across the Plains of Aelwyd. It swallowed the flickering campfires and softened the edges of the banners, shrouding the camps in an ethereal stillness.

He exhaled, his breath mingling with the mist as he turned back toward the camp. The weight of the day pressed against his shoulders, but it no longer felt like an impossible burden. Instead, it was something he could carry, if only for a little while longer.

As he walked, his gaze lingered on the gorse bushes that dotted the hill, their spiderwebs still glistening with frost in the fading light. The delicate strands had held fast through the night, their patterns unbroken and quietly enduring.

Dinadan let out a low breath, his steps steady as he descended into the fog. The camp loomed ahead, its shapes blurred and softened, but his purpose felt sharper than ever.

Today, Albion would rise or fall—and whether he was ready or not, Dinadan would be thrust into the storm.