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—those 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—

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—but 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.

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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 ignored them just as easily.

His path was clear—to 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—

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—a 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.

Dinadan dismounted with a grunt, rubbing his shoulder as he strode forward. "A hawk, then. And here I thought you spent your mornings wrestling fate at a map table."

Uther did not glance at him. "One must have more than one skill, Dinadan."

"Ah, of course. King, warlord, falconer. A fine set of titles." He tilted his head, watching the bird as she flexed her wings. "Though I wouldn’t have thought you the patient type."

Uther’s mouth curved faintly. "You do not train a falcon by force. You offer your hand, your steadiness, and when the time is right—you let go."

Dinadan arched a brow. "And does she return?"

Uther’s fingers flexed slightly beneath the leather of his glove. "Most of the time."

"Most of the time."

"Better than most men, then."

Uther made a quiet sound—something between amusement and thoughtfulness—before lifting his arm slightly. The falcon flexed her talons, wings stretching, sensing the moment before it came.

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.

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Dinadan watched her go, watched the way she wheeled once, twice, before cutting away toward the tree line beyond the fortress walls.

"A fine bird," he said at last. "And yet I doubt you called her here to hear me praise her."

Uther turned, meeting Dinadan’s gaze. "No. I called you here to tell me what you have seen. Speak then."

Dinadan ran a hand down his face, suddenly aware of the exhaustion weighing on him. "Three halls. And not a single lord left whole within them."

Uther’s expression darkened, his jaw tightening.

"Morys," he said. "Cadoc. Owain."

Not a question. Only names.

Dinadan nodded, setting his shoulders. "Morys still sits on his throne, but it is not his. He breathes, yet his tongue is stilled. His people bow, but not to him."

Uther’s fingers curled slightly, but he said nothing.

"Cadoc’s hall still stands," Dinadan continued. "But hollow. Burned. Not sacked. Not seized. Just… left to the wind."

The silence stretched taut between them.

"And Owain?" Uther’s voice was quieter now.

Dinadan hesitated.

Then, steadily, he met Uther’s gaze. "Owain waited."

Uther frowned. "For what?"

Dinadan exhaled. "For you."

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.

"And he believes I did not come," Uther said, quiet.

Not a question. A fact.

Dinadan inclined his head. "He does."

A moment passed. The silence was thick, weighted. Like the air before a storm, before the first crack of thunder.

Slowly, Uther leaned forward, his gaze colder than doubt, sharper than anger.

"Then tell me," he said, voice sharp as the air before a storm, "why does my kingdom crumble beneath me, while I still sit upon its throne?"

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.

"Because no swords alone can stand against what waits beyond the hills."

Uther’s expression did not change. "Then what holds it?"

Dinadan sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. Then he met his king’s gaze.

"The knowing, Brenin, that when a man calls for his king—his king will answer."

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.

"Three halls," Uther said at last. "Three warnings. And still, you stand before me, whole."

Dinadan’s mouth quirked, though no humor touched his eyes. "Whole is a generous word, Brenin. I am merely unbroken in ways that show."

Uther exhaled through his nose. "Then perhaps I need men like you more than I thought."

Dinadan shifted, arms folding across his mismatched cuirass. "Ah. And here I thought you only needed men of steel and banners."

Uther’s gaze did not waver. "I have plenty of those. What I lack are men who see what others refuse to."

Dinadan’s shoulders tensed, the words pressing against him like a smith’s hammer to cooling iron.

"You wish me to serve you," Dinadan said. Not a question.

Uther inclined his head. "I wish you to be my knight."

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.

"You're serious." Dinadan's voice was quiet.

"I would not waste my breath otherwise."

Dinadan looked away, rubbing the back of his neck as if shaking off a weight he had not yet agreed to carry.

"I am no champion, Uther." His voice was lighter, but there was an edge beneath it, like a knife tucked in a gambler’s sleeve. "You already have men who stand straight-backed in polished steel, eager to die for you."

Uther’s brow furrowed. "And yet, not a one of them returned from those halls. Not a one saw what you saw. Not a one knew the weight of a kingdom crumbling from within." He leaned forward, his voice quieter now, heavier. "It is no simple thing, Dinadan, to be needed. To be valued. I do not ask for your sword alone. I ask for your mind, your words, your knowing."

Dinadan exhaled, rubbing his face with both hands.

"Flattering," he muttered. "But unnecessary. You already have Merlin for that."

Uther’s lips twisted. "Merlin sees too much." His gaze sharpened. "You see just enough."

Dinadan let out a long breath. "I wear no shining armor. I do not ride into battle like the warriors in old songs." He gestured vaguely at himself. "I wear what I can, what fits, what has saved my hide more times than I can count."

"Then you’ll need new armor," Uther said, tone turning brisk, as if already thinking ahead. "Fit for my court."

Dinadan scoffed. "This armor has carried me further than any fine plate ever would."

"It does not suit my court," Uther said.

"It suits me," Dinadan countered.

Uther glanced at Dinadan’s armor—an 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.

"And yet, if you wear my mark, you will wear my steel." Uther’s voice was patient, but unyielding. "You are not a hedge knight now. You will stand among my men as my own. And my own are fitted for more than survival."

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—Annwen take him—was right.

Still, Dinadan scowled, running a hand over the old steel at his side. He knew this battle was already lost.

"Fine," he said at last, though the word tasted bitter. "But only because I refuse to be skewered by some puffed-up lord in the court who thinks I am less than him."

Uther’s lips barely curved, but the shadow of a smile was there. "That is precisely why I would have you in my service."

Dinadan rolled his eyes. "Oh, delightful. A test of patience and vanity. I shall be thrilled."

Uther straightened, the moment shifting, settling. "Then you will go to Boscastle. You will find the armorer there—one of the best in Albion. He will fit you with armor fit for my court."

Dinadan arched a brow. "And let me guess. While I’m there, you’d like me to listen to the right whispers and bring them back to you."

Uther did not confirm it. He did not have to.

"The Tintagel lords stir," he said instead. "There is unrest. I would know how deep the roots run."

Dinadan sighed, shaking his head. "Ah, yes. I did think this was too simple."

Uther tilted his head. "Do you refuse?"

Dinadan exhaled. "No. But I'll complain the whole way."

"Then it shall be as it always is."

Dinadan gave him a long look, then shook his head, turning for the door. "If I must be a knight, Uther, then at least let me be a useful one."

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.