The cave didn’t grow darker, but it felt darker, as if the flickering lantern light only illuminated the weight of Dinadan’s choices. Outside, the horses shuffled nervously, their movements restless and abrupt. Bracken gave a soft whinny that echoed faintly through the stone hollow, but no other sound came from the forest. That silence was worse than any noise.

Dinadan watched Aidric’s shallow breathing and felt the knot in his chest tighten. His hands fidgeted, his fingertips running over the hilt of his sword, seeking distraction in the familiar grooves of the leather-wrapped grip. The boy’s skin was pale, damp, and far too still. Even in sleep, he seemed burdened, the faint twitching of his limbs betraying dreams—or nightmares—he couldn’t escape.

Dinadan leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “What are you fighting in there, lad?” he whispered. “More importantly, what am I supposed to fight out here?”

The forest offered no reply, only the unsettling hum of its stillness. Dinadan’s throat tightened. For all his jests, for all his deflections, he knew the truth: he wasn’t equipped for this. Aidric wasn’t just any boy. He was a boy tethered to powers Dinadan neither trusted nor understood, powers that now reached through the land, suffocating him inch by inch. And Dinadan, knight or not, couldn’t stop it.

A sharp scrape echoed from the cave’s entrance, a sound out of place in the quiet. Dinadan was on his feet before he fully processed it, his sword halfway drawn. The noise came again—footsteps, deliberate and unhurried. The lantern’s light stretched toward the entrance, where a figure emerged from the gloom.

“Relax, Sir Dinadan,” Merlin said, stepping into the cave with the kind of unshakable calm that bordered on arrogance. “If I meant you harm, you’d already know it.”

Dinadan didn’t lower his blade immediately. “I don’t know what bothers me more—that you keep saying that or that you think it’s comforting.”

Merlin ignored the remark, his eyes moving to Aidric. His expression softened, his usually piercing gaze shadowed with something Dinadan might’ve mistaken for concern. Merlin crossed the cave and knelt beside the boy, his dark robes pooling around him like spilled ink.

“How long?” Merlin asked, his voice even.

“Since yesterday,” Dinadan said, sheathing his sword but not fully relaxing. “He burns like a forge, and he’s been muttering nonsense about roots and shadows. You’re late, by the way.”

Merlin’s lips twitched at that, but his attention was fixed on Aidric. He extended his hand, palm hovering just above the boy’s chest. Dinadan felt the air shift, growing cooler and heavier, like the moment before a storm breaks. Aidric stilled under the sorcerer’s touch, his labored breaths evening out, though his skin remained pale.

Merlin straightened, but the weight in his expression didn’t lift. “The chest’s power binds him still. Its magic is tied to the land, and through the land, to him. Its reach does not weaken with distance.”

Dinadan’s fists clenched at his sides. “So what you’re saying is, leaving it behind at the Henge didn’t do a blighted thing?”

“It kept the chest from falling into the wrong hands,” Merlin said, his voice calm but firm. “But its power cannot be severed so easily. It is not just a relic—it is a tether to Albion’s ancient magic, and it is demanding its due.”

Dinadan barked a humorless laugh. “Demanding its due? The boy didn’t ask for this! None of us did! Why is he the one paying the price?”

“Because he was chosen,” Merlin said simply.

Dinadan’s temper flared, and he stepped closer, his voice rising. “Chosen? By what? The land? Fate? Some blasted prophecy you and your ilk like tossing about to make sense of the mess you’ve made? That’s not choice—that’s bloody convenience!”

Merlin’s gaze didn’t waver, though his voice softened. “I understand your anger, Dinadan. Truly, I do. But Albion’s magic is not good or evil. It simply is. It requires much of those who wield it. And Aidric, for better or worse, is part of that.”

Dinadan turned away, scrubbing a hand over his face. His thoughts churned like a storm, colliding with every step he’d taken since this whole nightmare began. The boy stirred behind him, mumbling something incoherent again, and the sound cut through Dinadan’s frustration like a blade.

“And me?” Dinadan asked, his voice quieter now, though no less strained. “What’s my part in this mess? You’ve made it clear Aidric’s tied to the chest, but what about me?”

Merlin stepped away from the boy, his gaze settling heavily on Dinadan. “You chose to carry the chest when others would have left it behind. That choice has weight, Sir Dinadan. Whether you acknowledge it or not.”

Dinadan’s laugh was sharp, bitter. “Brilliant. Another bloody weight to add to the pile. You ever think maybe I carried it because someone had to?”

“Perhaps,” Merlin said, his tone thoughtful. “But intention does not lessen the burden. It only shapes it.”

Dinadan slumped against the wall, exhaustion pulling at every muscle. The fire flickered low, and outside, the forest remained eerily still. “So, what now?” he asked, his voice flat. “More cryptic warnings? More sacrifices?”

Merlin’s gaze darkened, and for a moment, Dinadan thought he saw regret flicker there. “For Aidric, there will be trials. For you, there will be choices. And for both of you, the cost will be collected.”

The words hung heavy in the air, as final as a sealed tomb. Dinadan said nothing, his gaze falling to the boy sleeping fitfully in the firelight. He didn’t have the energy to argue anymore, and even if he did, he wasn’t sure it would change anything.

The cave grew quiet again, save for the soft crackle of the fire and Aidric’s faint breaths. Dinadan sat back, staring into the flickering flames, waiting for dawn. For what came next. For a fight he didn’t yet know how to win.

The first pale fingers of dawn crept into the cave, scattering the long shadows that had lingered through the night. Light caught on the crystalline streaks running through the cavern walls, casting shifting, spectral patterns on the stone floor. The air inside was cool and still, but a deeper hum seemed to vibrate through the chamber—a soundless pulse that only the bones could feel.

Outside, the forest stirred hesitantly, the rustle of leaves and occasional bird calls breaking the uneasy silence. But inside, the Hollow Stone held its peace, as if waiting for its guests to rise and acknowledge its presence.

Dinadan had not slept. His body ached from hours of tension, his legs stiff where he’d slumped against the wall, but he hadn’t taken his eyes off the boy lying a few feet away. Aidric was pale, his face drawn from a fever that had left him a shadow of his already fragile self.

Dinadan leaned forward, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword. The other tapped a restless rhythm on the floor, the faint clicks echoing softly in the cavern. “Any moment now, lad,” he muttered under his breath. “Don’t keep me waiting too long. I’m no nursemaid, you know.”

As if in response, Aidric stirred. His fingers twitched beneath the blanket, a small motion that sent relief surging through Dinadan’s chest. The boy murmured something incoherent, his lips forming shapes that refused to become words. Dinadan pushed himself upright, ignoring the stiffness in his joints, and crossed to Aidric’s side.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Aidric’s eyelids fluttered, his face scrunching as if fighting off some unseen dream. Then, with a shallow gasp, his eyes opened. Glassy, unfocused, but alive.

“You’re awake,” Dinadan said, his voice rough but uncharacteristically soft. Relief flooded through him, enough to make his knees weak. “About bloody time, you little menace.”

Aidric blinked up at him, his eyes unfocused but clear enough to lock onto Dinadan’s face. “Sir... Dinadan?” His voice was weak, scratchy, as if it had been dragged from some far-off place.

“That’s the one,” Dinadan said, crouching beside him. “How are you feeling? And don’t lie to me. I’ve had it up to here with people fainting around me.”

Aidric frowned faintly, his lips curling in what might’ve been a smile if he weren’t so pale. “Tired,” he murmured. “But... I dreamed.”

Dinadan raised an eyebrow, masking his worry with mock exasperation. “Dreamed, did you? Well, that’s promising. What was it? Rolling fields of sweetmeats? A dog that doesn’t bite?”

Aidric’s expression grew distant, his eyes unfocused as they drifted toward the shimmering ceiling of the cavern. His voice was soft, hesitant, as though the words were dragging themselves out of him. “It wasn’t a tree,” he murmured. “Not roots... veins. Great veins of fire and light, running under Albion. They stretched everywhere, binding the land together. But...” He swallowed hard, his voice trembling. “They were cracking. And through the cracks, shadows were crawling. Twisting. And they whispered... they whispered ‘The Darkening comes.’”

Dinadan’s gut twisted at the words. He didn’t know why they struck him so deeply, but the phrase carried a weight that pressed against his chest like a blade. He shot a sharp glance at Merlin, sitting cross-legged near the extinguished fire. The wizard’s face, usually calm and impenetrable, was pale, his eyes shadowed by something darker than unease.

“Well?” Dinadan’s voice was rougher than he’d intended, his humor stripped away. “What does that mean? And don’t give me another riddle.”

Merlin rose slowly, his staff in hand. The faint hum of the Hollow Stone deepened, a soundless vibration that made Dinadan’s teeth ache. The air in the chamber thickened, pressing against his skin as though the cavern itself had become aware of them. When Merlin finally spoke, his voice was quiet but heavy with something ancient and undeniable.

“The Darkening is not merely a shadow, Sir Dinadan,” Merlin said, his gaze falling to Aidric. “It is a force older than Albion itself, a wound in the land’s very essence. The veins the boy saw... they are the Threads of Binding, the magic that knits Albion together. When they fracture, when shadows creep through the cracks, the land begins to unravel.”

Dinadan felt a chill crawl up his spine, but he forced his voice to remain steady. “And these shadows? What are they? Just... shadows? Or something worse?”

Merlin’s expression darkened, his eyes flickering to the shimmering pools scattered across the cavern floor. “The shadows are alive. They are agents of The Darkening, sentient and insidious. They slip through the fractures in the Threads, feeding on Albion’s magic, turning it against itself. They whisper to the weak and the desperate, promising power while spreading corruption.”

Aidric stirred, his hands trembling as he clutched at the blanket wrapped around him. His voice was barely audible, hoarse and tinged with fear. “They whispered about a king... a king who... who opened the way.”

Merlin’s jaw tightened, and he looked away, his grip on his staff whitening. Dinadan caught the movement, his eyes narrowing as suspicion flared in his chest. “A king?” he pressed. “You don’t mean... Vortigern?”

Merlin nodded grimly, his voice laced with quiet fury. “Vortigern is no mere tyrant. He is an agent of The Darkening, whether he realizes it or not. He has made a bargain with the shadows, using their power to twist Albion to his will. The chest, the shard you carried to the Henge, is part of his plan—part of what he seeks to unravel.”

Dinadan’s temper flared, and he stepped closer, jabbing a finger at the wizard. “So, leaving the shard behind didn’t stop a blasted thing? The Henge, all its glowing rocks and ancient power—it couldn’t even keep him from twisting Albion into knots?”

“It slowed him,” Merlin countered, his tone sharp. “The shard’s power is tied to the Threads of Binding. It strengthens the Henge’s wards and holds the shadows at bay. Without it, Vortigern would already be at the gates of the Henge, tearing it down stone by stone.”

Dinadan barked a harsh laugh, though it carried no humor. “So we’ve traded one disaster for another? Albion’s bleeding out, the boy’s burning up, and now I’m supposed to believe that shadows and cracked veins are going to finish us off unless we... what? Stroll into the Henge and fix it?”

“You cannot fix what is broken by force alone,” Merlin said, stepping toward the center of the chamber. His voice dropped, quiet but resonant, as the Hollow Stone seemed to hum in unison. “The Threads of Binding are ancient. They hold Albion’s magic together, but they demand balance. If Vortigern severs them entirely, Albion will fall into chaos. The Darkening will consume the land, and no force—neither man nor magic—will be enough to stop it.”

“And Aidric?” Dinadan’s voice cracked despite himself. He glanced at the boy, pale and fevered on the cavern floor. “What happens to him?”

Merlin’s gaze softened, but the weight in his eyes didn’t lessen. “Aidric is tied to the Threads. He carries their echo in his blood. The shadows know this—they are drawn to him because of it. If the Threads fracture completely, the land will unravel, and he will not survive it.”

Dinadan felt the words like a blow to his chest. He ran a hand through his hair, pacing a tight circle as his mind raced. “Brilliant. So we’ve got a boy tied to some cursed Threads, a mad king making pacts with shadows, and an ancient land ready to fall apart at the seams. And me? What’s my grand role in this nightmare, Merlin? Just to drag him along and hope for the best?”

Merlin’s expression grew grave, his staff striking the stone floor with a dull thud. The hum of the Hollow Stone deepened, the pools of water rippling faintly. “You are not here by chance, Sir Dinadan. The shard you carried to the Henge—its power bound you to this path. You may not carry it now, but its reach remains. Every choice you make ripples through Albion’s heart. The land watches you.”

Dinadan stopped pacing, his hand dropping to his sword hilt. “Watches me? I’m no chosen knight, Merlin. I’m just a man trying to keep a boy alive. If Albion’s watching, it’s looking at the wrong fool.”

Merlin stepped closer, his gaze piercing. “Perhaps it is not looking for a hero. Perhaps it is looking for someone who knows the cost of failure—and who will not shy from it.”

Dinadan let out a breath, his chest tight with the weight of the words. Aidric stirred again, his voice a faint whisper: “The Darkening... it’s coming.”

The Hollow Stone seemed to pulse with the boy’s words, the hum vibrating through the chamber like a warning. Dinadan glanced at Merlin, his jaw tightening. “So what do we do now? How do we stop this?”

Merlin turned toward the cavern’s exit, his staff glowing faintly in the dim light. “We must reach the Henge before Vortigern twists the shadows to his will. The wards there hold the Threads together, but they are not invincible. If Vortigern breaches them, The Darkening will spill into Albion unchecked.”

Dinadan looked down at Aidric, his fists clenching. The boy’s breathing was shallow, his face drawn with fever. The Hollow Stone whispered around them, its hum a reminder of the fragility of everything.

“Then let’s not waste any more time,” Dinadan said, his voice low but steady. He hoisted Aidric into his arms, ignoring the weight pressing against his shoulders. “If we’re running toward the end of the world, I’d rather meet it head-on.”

“No.” Merlin’s voice cut through the tension, calm but implacable. His staff struck the stone floor again, the sound reverberating through the cavern like a ripple across water. “Aidric cannot travel tonight. His spirit is tethered to the strain Albion bears, and if we push him now, he will break before we ever reach the Henge.”

Dinadan turned to face him fully, his voice rising. “And if we wait, what? Vortigern reaches the Henge first? What then, Merlin? Do we just hope we can pick up the pieces after the world’s gone to ruin?”

Merlin’s gaze didn’t waver, though there was a flicker of something beneath his calm exterior—regret, perhaps, or a sorrow too deep to name. “If Aidric falls, so does the Henge. His connection to Albion is not one we can sever. He is tied to the land, its magic, its hope—and its weight. One more night will not break the wards, but it may break him if we leave now.”

Dinadan’s jaw tightened, the fight bleeding out of him as his placed the boy gently on the pallet. Aidric murmured faintly in his sleep, his head twitching as though caught in some distant dream. Dinadan ran a hand over his face, his fingers digging into his temple.

“One night,” he said finally, the words heavy. “That’s all we have to spare.”

Merlin nodded, stepping toward the cavern’s entrance. “I will keep watch. Rest while you can, Sir Dinadan. The path ahead will demand every ounce of strength you have.”

Dinadan didn’t answer. He sank down beside Aidric with a sigh, the tension in his shoulders refusing to leave him even as he rested his back against the cool stone. The lantern flickered, casting restless shadows on the walls, and the ever-present hum of the Hollow Stone seemed to grow softer, more subdued, as though it too were waiting.

His gaze lingered on Aidric. The boy’s breaths came too light, too quick, and each twitch of his hand or flicker of his brow sent a pang of unease through Dinadan’s chest. “What’s left of you, lad?” Dinadan muttered under his breath. “What’s Albion taking from you while you fight in your sleep?”

The boy didn’t answer, of course, but Dinadan didn’t expect him to. He pulled his cloak tighter around himself, feeling the weight of exhaustion settling in his bones, but sleep wouldn’t come—not yet. Instead, he counted the faint rhythm of Aidric’s breathing, forcing himself to believe that the sound would last through the night.