The first king approached the Altar Stone, his breath curling into mist in the bitter air. The hush that followed was not one of reverence but of expectation—heavy, thick, a thing with weight. The wind had stilled, as if the land itself had drawn in a breath, waiting.

Steel whispered against leather as he drew his dagger, the blade catching the aurora’s light, its edge flashing with an eerie brilliance. He hesitated only a moment, then turned his palm upward, pressing steel to skin.

A sharp breath. A single line of red welled against the metal.

Then—drip.

The blood struck the Altar Stone, disappearing into the weathered grooves, as if the rock itself drank it in.

The hum began.

Faint at first, a whisper of sound too deep to be truly heard, more felt—a tremor in the ribs, a pressure behind the eyes. The kind of sound that did not belong in the world of men.

The second king stepped forward.

A blade. A cut. Another drop of blood.

The hum deepened, growing heavier, sending ripples through the frost-laden earth beneath their feet.

Then a third. A fourth. Each man stepped forward, slicing their palm, spilling their blood onto stone.

The air thickened with something unseen but unmistakable. The aurora above burned brighter, shifting like the unfurling banners of gods long turned to dust. Gold twisted into crimson, a slow and deliberate bleeding of color, as if the sky itself felt the weight of the ritual.

The hum was no longer subtle. It thrummed in Dinadan’s chest, in the bones of every man present. He shifted uncomfortably, rolling his shoulders as if trying to shake off the feeling of unseen fingers pressing against his skin.

“Never trust a rock that sings back to you,” he muttered.

Aidric glanced at him, wide-eyed. “It wasn’t singing before.”

Dinadan exhaled sharply. “That’s what worries me.”

A final king stepped forward, his blood joining the rest. The Altar Stone pulsed.

Then, the sky shattered.

Shockwaves rippled outward, setting the very air to trembling.

Dinadan barely heard himself speak over the roaring in his skull.

“Well, this is off to a promising start.”

He turned to Aidric, intending to offer some halfhearted reassurance, but the boy wasn’t looking at him.

His eyes were locked on the light.

Because it wasn’t just striking the stone.

It was gathering.

Swirling.

Choosing.

And then, as if the decision had already been made long before any of them had drawn breath, the light surged forward.

It wrapped itself around a single figure.

Uther Pendragon.

The light coalesced, thick as molten gold, moving with the certainty of something that had always known its answer. It did not waver. It did not hesitate. It chose.

It wrapped around Uther like a second skin, sinking into every seam of his armor, into every scar carved into his flesh. The dents and battle-worn edges of his mail flared with brilliance, no longer marks of war but symbols of endurance. The light did not erase them. It honored them.

For a breath, Uther did not move.

Then, slowly, he lifted his chin.

The glow did not diminish. It burned, unwavering. He was no longer just standing in the light. He was it.

Dinadan let out a slow, steady breath, exhaling through his nose as he nudged Aidric with his elbow.

“Well,” he murmured, “there’s your answer.”

But not everyone was so accepting.

Vortigern stood frozen, his expression a twisted thing, as if something inside him had broken at the sight. His jaw clenched so tightly that for a moment, Dinadan thought he might shatter his own teeth. His nostrils flared, his hands curling into fists.

Then the ground split open.

A jagged crack tore through the frozen earth at the base of the Altar Stone, gaping like a wound, and from its depths, darkness bled forth.

It did not spread like shadow. It poured, thick and slow, pooling at Vortigern’s feet like ink spilled from something rotting. It did not belong to the world of men. It did not belong anywhere.

The air soured.

Aidric inhaled sharply, the sound barely audible beneath the rising hum of power. “Dinadan,” he whispered, voice thin and unsteady. “What’s happening?”

Dinadan drew his sword in one smooth motion, all humor vanishing. The air pressing down on them felt wrong, heavy in a way that had nothing to do with magic and everything to do with something deeper. Something old.

"Something very bad," he said.

The shadows did not wait.

They climbed Vortigern, slithering over his boots, wrapping around his legs, curling like serpents eager to sink their fangs into his flesh. They did not pass over him—they sank into him.

Vortigern inhaled sharply. His head tilted back, his lips parting—

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

And then he laughed.

Low. Amused. Certain.

The sound burrowed under the skin, wrong in a way that had nothing to do with mortal ears and everything to do with something listening from beyond.

“The stones may choose,” he murmured, his voice layered now—not just his own, but something deeper, something whispering beneath it. His smile stretched wide, too wide, too sharp. “But power is taken, not given.”

The gathered kings broke.

The chaos rushed forth like a wave, shouts and murmurs rising as the gathered kings recoiled from the wrongness spilling into the circle. The air was thick, heavy, pressing down like an unseen hand squeezing the breath from their lungs.

One fell to his knees, whispering prayers to gods that weren’t listening. Another turned and ran, abandoning all pretense of dignity, his sword forgotten where it lay in the dirt. Others hovered between fight and flight, hands on hilts, but what blade could cut through this?

Only Uther did not move.

The light still wrapped him, marking him as the land’s own. He watched Vortigern with something unreadable in his gaze. Not fear. Not uncertainty.

Just certainty.

And he reached for his sword.

Then—Merlin’s voice cut through it all.

"Hold your ground."

It wasn’t shouted. It didn’t need to be.

The command rang out, clear as steel against stone, sharp enough to halt the creeping panic.

"The darkness feeds on fear."

The Altar Stone pulsed, its light refusing to dim, standing against the encroaching shadow. The golden glow flickered, not with weakness, but with resistance, as if something within the stone fought back.

Dinadan adjusted his grip on his sword, keeping his eyes fixed on Vortigern. Or what used to be Vortigern.

The man who had once been king was shifting, stretching away from human form. His skin no longer caught the light—it swallowed it, twisting with the writhing darkness curling around him like living chains.

Vortigern lifted his gaze, eyes gleaming wrong, in a way that had nothing to do with light or shadow. He smiled, and the darkness stirred at his feet, eager, waiting.

"The stones are relics," he sneered, voice warping—too many voices, layered and fractured, each one hissing from somewhere beyond the circle of men.

"They choose the weak. The land needs a ruler who takes what is his."

Dinadan tilted his head, brow furrowing in mock consideration.

“Oh, sure,” he said casually. “Because nothing screams ‘good leadership’ like shadow snakes and villainous monologues.”

For a heartbeat, the darkness faltered.

A silence stretched between them, taut as a bowstring.

Then, Vortigern turned his gaze to Dinadan.

Not just a glance. A weight.

Like the cold pull of deep water dragging at a drowning man’s legs.

"Careful, fool," he said, his voice low, venomous, curling with something old and hungry. "You tread on ground you do not understand."

Dinadan met his stare, his grip firm, his smirk unwavering.

“Understanding’s overrated,” he said. “I prefer improvisation.”

The shadows lunged.

But before they could reach him—

Uther moved.

He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, each movement carrying the weight of something ritualistic.

Steel sang as he drew his blade, the sound cutting through the unnatural stillness.

The aurora above flickered, its corrupted green light casting sickly hues over the battlefield, but Uther’s sword caught the last vestiges of silver and gold.

For a moment, the blade seemed to burn, gleaming like the final light of a dying sun.

"Enough."

The word landed with the weight of stone and legacy, settling into the ground beneath them like something meant to last.

"You defy not only the ancient ways, but the land itself."

The darkness surged.

It struck outward in tendrils, reaching, grasping, desperate to claim the ground that had already rejected it. The very air warped under its weight, thick as storm-choked water. The aurora twisted above, its corrupted green and black streaks spreading like rot through the heavens.

But the stones answered.

Golden light erupted from their carved surfaces, no longer a mere pulse but a roar—ancient, relentless, unyielding. It shot upward in searing ribbons, tracing the sigils carved by hands long turned to dust, burning away the creeping shadows with the force of something older than kingship itself.

Dinadan staggered as a shockwave tore through the circle, his talisman igniting against his chest. The burn lanced through him, searing hot, like the land itself had reached through the metal to brand him with its will. He hissed through his teeth, eyes watering, but did not fall.

The wave of light struck, slamming into Vortigern’s encroaching darkness with the weight of ages.

The two forces clashed, golden brilliance and black rot writhing together, locked in a battle that had no place in the world of men. The ground trembled beneath them, the very air shuddering with the force of it. The hum of the stones swelled into something deafening, reverberating in Dinadan’s ribs, in his skull, in the marrow of every man present.

Then, the balance broke.

Vortigern screamed, a sound not of pain but of rage, of refusal, of something that would not surrender—

And then, the light consumed him.

The darkness twisted, recoiling upon itself, writhing in fury. The black tendrils lashed outward, searching for purchase, but the golden force of the stones tore through them.

Vortigern’s form contorted, shadows peeling away from his skin in frantic, clawing wisps. For a single breath, his expression flickered—not as a warlord, not as a king, but as a man facing something he could not conquer.

Then—

The swirling winds took him.

The darkness collapsed inward, a spiraling abyss swallowing its master whole, sucking him into the void it had tried to unleash.

And then, as if it had never been there at all—it was gone.

The wind died.

The earth settled.

The aurora flared one last time, streaks of gold burning defiantly across the sky before dimming into the quiet hush of the heavens.

The silence stretched, vast and heavy, settling into the bones of every man present.

The aurora, once a burning banner above them, flickered, its golden fire bleeding out into the cold. The stones that had roared with power only moments ago now dimmed too quickly, their glow draining like breath from a dying man’s lips.

The weight of the moment pressed down on them all.

The land had chosen.

The battle had been fought.

But it did not feel like a victory.

Dinadan let out a slow, sharp breath, flexing his grip on his sword before sliding it back into its sheath. The sound was too loud in the hush.

“Well,” he said, voice even, though something in his chest twisted. “That was suitably dramatic.” He turned slightly, glancing at Aidric. “Think we can go home now?”

Nobody answered.

Nobody moved.

A few of the kings, their faces unreadable, exchanged glances—small, quick, but enough for Dinadan to notice. One, a broad-shouldered warrior with a streak of silver in his beard, stepped back. Not out of reverence, but as if already calculating his next move.

Dinadan felt a flicker of unease.

Then, Merlin stepped forward.

His robes still stirred in the dying wind, his eyes distant—not in thought, but in sight. As if he saw beyond the here and now, looking into places men were never meant to see.

"The stones have chosen," he said, his voice quiet, but heavy enough to crush the air.

A pause. Too long.

"But the choice is only the beginning."

The weight of it settled over them like a second storm. The kind that did not break easily.

"The land’s healing is yet to come."

A shift moved through the remaining kings. A tightening of shoulders. A lingering hesitation that should not have been there.

The land had spoken. But men had not finished their scheming.

Dinadan exhaled, slow and steady, forcing himself not to scowl.

It’s never simple, is it?

The light around Uther had faded just enough that he no longer looked like something divine. Now, he was just a man again. A man with a sword and a crown he had not yet placed upon his head.

His grip on that sword was tight.

White-knuckled.

His face unreadable in the dying light.

Then, finally, his voice came—low, steady, no triumph in it. Only a weight that had already begun to press on his shoulders.

"Then let it begin."

A gust of wind swept through the Henge, lifting dust, scattering loose leaves across the stone circle. The scent of earth, raw and unsettled, filled the air.

And for a breath—just one—Dinadan felt something.

A shift. A whisper of something unseen.

The battle was over.

But something else was stirring.

Something watching.

He turned his head slightly, scanning the edges of the standing stones—

Nothing.

No one.

But the feeling remained.

A warning in the marrow of his bones.

Albion had chosen its king.

But not all would accept its will.

And the land was not yet finished with them.