The Henge of Elders was never meant to feel fragile. Its towering stones had withstood countless storms and centuries of rulers vying for dominion over Albion. Yet now, in the wake of the kings’ summit and Uther’s selection as leader, the Henge felt… tired. The air was still, the carvings on the stones faintly glowing in a rhythm too weak to reassure.

Dinadan leaned against one of the smaller monoliths, rubbing his temples as the talisman beneath his tunic pulsed faintly. Aidric stood at the cracked altar, his fingers tracing the jagged split that now divided it in two. His expression was somber, almost reverent.

"Well," Dinadan said, cutting through the silence. "Good riddance to all that noise. Kings bickering, stones glowing, crowns humming like they’ve a mind of their own—enough to make a man question every choice that led him here."

Aidric cast a sharp glance over his shoulder, his face pale, jaw tight. "This was not how it was meant to be."

Dinadan raised an eyebrow, his tone dry. "What, you thought Y Tír would clap us on the back and send us home with a fine cloak and a flask of mead?"

Aidric turned back to the altar, his voice low but unsteady. "This place… it shouldn’t feel like this."

Dinadan approached the boy, gesturing vaguely at the Henge. “Wrong or not, it’s still standing. Mostly. That’s more than I can say for my patience after all this.”

The moment stretched, heavy and unnatural. Dinadan felt it before he heard it—the prickling tension in the air, the way the talisman flared hotter against his chest. Bracken shifted uneasily at the edge of the clearing, pawing the ground and tossing his head.

"Dinadan," Aidric whispered, fingers tightening on the altar's edge. "Tell me you feel that."

Dinadan’s sardonic grin wavered. "Feel what? The crushing regret of ever stepping foot outside that inn?"

Then came the sound. A deep, guttural rumble that reverberated through the ground. The shadows at the edge of the Henge began to writhe, coalescing into a form both massive and amorphous. The darkening had returned.

"Well, isn’t this just perfect," Dinadan muttered, drawing his sword. "I was rather looking forward to a quiet night of not being devoured by some ancient horror."

The darkening surged forward, its tendrils lashing out at the nearest standing stone. The impact sent a thunderous crack through the clearing as the ancient monolith toppled, splintering into jagged shards on the ground. Aidric stumbled back, his eyes wide with terror.

"Dinadan, what do we do?" Aidric shouted, his voice cracking, raw with desperation.

Dinadan tightened his grip on his sword, his knuckles white. “What we always do,” he said, forcing a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Run and hope we live to regret it.”

The darkening turned toward the altar, its tendrils slithering across the broken stone like ink spreading through water. It struck with a force that shook the earth, sending Aidric sprawling to the ground. The altar groaned, the split widening as the darkening struck again. The carvings etched into its surface dimmed, their glow fading like the last embers of a dying fire.

Aidric scrambled to his feet, his voice frantic. “It’s breaking the altar! Dinadan, we have to do something!”

Dinadan shot him a sidelong glance. "Do I look like a man with a plan for this?"

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The darkening reared back and lashed out again, toppling another standing stone. Dust and fragments filled the air, and the talisman around Dinadan’s neck burned hotter. The hum rose to a crescendo, drowning out the darkening’s growls, and Dinadan staggered as the voice of the land filled his mind.

"The fool must stand between the crown and the darkness."

Dinadan froze, the weight of the words pressing down on him like a physical force. His vision blurred, and for a brief moment, he was back at the Henge as a boy, kneeling before the stones.

“You laugh to bear the weight,” the voice had said then. “But the burden is yours alone.”

The memory tore away as another stone fell, crashing to the ground with the force of shattering thunder. Dinadan clenched his fists, his glare fixed on the darkening. "Why me?" he muttered, his voice raw. "Why is it always me?"

Aidric grabbed his arm, his grip tight, his voice frantic. “Dinadan, what’s happening?”

Dinadan looked at the boy, his expression raw with frustration and something deeper—fear. “Y Tír,” he said bitterly. “It doesn’t know when to quit.”

The Darkening loomed closer, its tendrils slithering toward the altar, drawn to the fractured stone like hungry things. Aidric’s grip on Dinadan’s arm tightened. "What does it want?"

Dinadan forced a grin, though it wavered at the edges. “To ruin my life, apparently.”

"Good riddance," he muttered, watching as the tendrils slowly, almost gracefully, sank into the earth.

Aidric didn’t reply. Instead, his gaze lingered on the empty space where the jagged crown had rested, its absence feeling like a wound carved into the heart of the Henge. The altar, split but still faintly glowing, seemed to echo the same loss—a broken promise, or perhaps a burden now shifted elsewhere.

“It’s strange, isn’t it?” Aidric said finally, his voice soft. “It was only there for a moment, but now... it feels like something’s missing. Like the Henge isn’t whole anymore.”

Dinadan let out a low sigh, shifting his weight against one of the leaning stones. His usual irreverence was gone, left only with a quiet weariness. "Y Tír doesn’t care much for being whole, lad. It’s seen too many kings and crowns to believe in such things."

Aidric turned to him, frowning. “If Y Tír gave Uther the crown, why does the darkening still come? Why hasn’t it stopped?”

Dinadan shrugged, brushing dust from his battered armor. "Because the crown isn’t a fix. It’s just the beginning. A shiny bit of metal that says, ‘Here, you deal with it.’ Y Tír doesn’t stop asking, Aidric—it only changes who it asks."

Aidric’s brow furrowed. “And what of us? What does it want from us?”

Dinadan chuckled softly, though there was little humor in it. "It wants what it always does—someone to bear the weight when no one else will. And in case you’ve not noticed, lad, we’re the only fools still standing."

Aidric nodded, his hands curling into fists at his sides. "Then I’ll keep going. With you."

Dinadan tilted his head, raising an eyebrow. "Oh, you will, will you? And who said I’d let you linger underfoot?"

Aidric’s small, hesitant smile grew, a flicker of mischief in his eyes. "Because you’d miss me."

Dinadan laughed, loud and unrestrained. "Well, that’s a fair point." He straightened, brushing the dust from his armor. "All right, lad. Consider yourself my squire-in-suffering. First rule? Never let me say anything noble. It’ll ruin my reputation."

Aidric’s smile widened, certainty settling in his stance as he nodded. "Got it."

Dinadan cast one last look at the Henge. Some stones had fallen, others leaned as if weary, but still, they endured. The altar, though fractured, held a faint glow—defiant, unbroken despite the darkening’s wrath. Y Tír’s voice had fallen silent, but its presence lingered, heavy as the mist before a storm.

“It’ll hold,” Dinadan said, more to himself than to Aidric. “The Henge always does. Even when the rest of us don’t.”

He turned and strode toward Bracken, gesturing for Aidric to follow. “Come on. Let’s find a warm fire and a drink that doesn’t taste like regret. We’ve earned at least that much.”

Aidric fell into step behind him, his small frame seeming stronger despite the heavy chest he carried. As they mounted their mules and rode into the dark forest, the Henge faded into the distance, its faint glow a beacon of resilience.

As hooves carried them further from the Henge, Dinadan glanced at Aidric and smirked. “You know,” he said, his voice lighter now, “if you’re going to stick around, you’ll need to learn how to tell a proper joke. Can’t have a squire who doesn’t know how to lighten the mood.”

Aidric rolled his eyes, a smirk tugging at his lips. "I thought you were trying to keep your reputation intact."

Dinadan grinned. "Fair enough. I’ll start you with the bad ones, then."

Their laughter faded into the forest, leaving the Henge behind. Damaged but unbroken, it stood as a silent reminder that even in the face of darkness, there were still those foolish enough to bear the burden—and strong enough to try.