The morning greeted them grudgingly, the pale sun fighting a losing battle against the mist. Dinadan stood at the mouth of the Hollow Stone, leaning against the rocky frame with his arms crossed, his hand brushing the hilt of his sword like it was a nervous habit. The horizon, gray and heavy, offered no promises, only the dark stain of smoke rising in the distance.

"Smoke," Dinadan muttered, squinting into the haze. "The universal sign of bad news. Or burnt breakfast. Knowing our luck, it’s probably both."

Behind him, the camp sluggishly dragged itself to life. Aidric stirred on his makeshift bed of cloaks, his thin frame barely moving as he pushed himself upright. His face was still pale, his cheeks hollow from the fever that had wrung him dry, leaving only fragile remnants of the boy who, for some inexplicable reason, Albion had decided to hinge its future upon.

“What is it?” Aidric croaked, his voice as brittle as he looked.

Dinadan didn’t turn, still watching the column of smoke curl upward like some ominous finger beckoning them forward. “A bonfire, I’d wager. Or the remains of one. If I were an optimist, I’d say someone’s just celebrating early for Solstice. Unfortunately, optimism’s not my forte.”

Aidric swayed as he tried to sit up, clutching the cloak tighter around his bony shoulders. “Are we going?”

Dinadan cast him a sidelong glance, his lips twitching into a humorless grin. “Do we ever not go, lad? Trouble’s got a way of sniffing us out like a hungry hound, and I swear Albion’s put us on a leash to drag along behind it.”

“We go.” Merlin’s voice was as calm and commanding as ever, his staff glowing faintly as he stepped forward, the wood tapping against the stone floor like an afterthought. His tone held that infuriating finality that made arguing feel like a waste of breath. “The smoke is no coincidence, Dinadan. We must see what waits.”

Dinadan sighed, rolling his shoulders like a man resigning himself to the gallows. “Of course, we must. Because the universe has a twisted sense of humor, and we’re its favorite jest. Lead the way, oh great and cryptic one.”

The dawn dragged itself reluctantly over the horizon, pale and anemic, its light struggling against the mist clinging stubbornly to the moor. Smoke twisted through the air like an old curse, curling in dark tendrils that blotted out the faintest promise of a clear sky. Dinadan sat astride Bracken, the mule’s steady plod unshaken by the weight of its riders. Aidric leaned limply against Dinadan’s chest, his head lolling with the rhythm of their movements, his breaths shallow and irregular.

Dinadan adjusted his grip on the reins with one hand, the other bracing the boy against him. “Well, Bracken,” he muttered, his tone sardonic, “another fine day in Albion. Smoke on the wind, dread in the air, and a lad slumped on my chest like I’m some sort of nursemaid. Really makes you appreciate the quieter corners of the kingdom, doesn’t it?”

Bracken flicked an ear but gave no other sign of interest.

Up ahead, Merlin rode Thistle, his robes gathered awkwardly around his legs as the mule’s uneven gait jostled him in a manner that was almost undignified. The great wizard had no doubt endured countless trials and faced unimaginable horrors, but judging by the grim set of his jaw, riding a mule ranked high on his list of grievances.

“Careful, Merlin,” Dinadan called, his voice pitched just loud enough to carry. “If you’re not careful, Thistle might throw you into the mud. She’s got a cruel streak, that one.”

Merlin turned his head slightly, his eyes narrowing in response. “Thistle and I have come to an understanding,” he replied evenly. “Unlike her owner, she knows when to keep her commentary to herself.”

Dinadan smirked, shifting in the saddle as Aidric stirred faintly against him. “Careful, wizard. You’re starting to sound as prickly as that mule. You sure you’ve got the strength to trade barbs with me today?”

Merlin didn’t answer, his gaze already returning to the column of smoke rising on the horizon. The silence that followed wasn’t the kind Dinadan preferred. It wasn’t comfortable or companionable—it was heavy, like the air before a storm, full of things unsaid and warnings unheeded.

Dinadan felt Aidric shiver against him and adjusted the boy’s cloak, tucking it more firmly around his thin shoulders. The fever had broken, but Aidric’s strength hadn’t returned, and each labored breath felt like a reminder of how fragile the line between life and loss truly was.

“Hang on, lad,” Dinadan murmured, his voice low and almost gentle. “We’ve got to see what fresh misery Albion’s cooked up for us today. Wouldn’t want to miss the show, eh?”

Aidric mumbled something incoherent, his head pressing weakly against Dinadan’s shoulder. Dinadan’s smirk faltered, his chest tightening.

Ahead, the land began to shift. The mist thickened, curling low over the ground, and the once-firm earth grew damp and uneven, pocked with muddy patches that threatened to slow their progress. Smoke coiled through the haze, its acrid scent growing stronger with every step, and the wind carried an unnatural silence that set Dinadan’s teeth on edge.

“It’s too quiet,” he said, his voice cutting through the muted crunch of hooves on damp ground. “Even the birds know better than to stick around. That’s never a good sign.”

“Wise creatures, birds,” Merlin replied without looking back. “They flee when they sense a storm. Men, on the other hand, tend to walk straight into it.”

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“Some of us get dragged,” Dinadan muttered, his grip tightening on the reins. “But go on, Merlin. Enlighten me. What’s waiting for us this time? Fire? Death? Another cryptic prophecy, perhaps? Or do we get all three in one convenient package?”

Merlin didn’t reply, though his silence carried the weight of an answer.

Bracken plodded on, his sure-footedness a steady rhythm in the shifting landscape, but even the mule seemed uneasy. Dinadan felt it in the way the beast’s ears twitched and the tension in its steps. Thistle was the same, her usual stubbornness replaced by a skittish energy that made her movements jerky and unpredictable.

The air grew thicker still as they crested the final rise, the hill sloping sharply downward into what should have been a village. Instead, they were met with devastation.

Dinadan pulled Bracken to a halt, his hand tightening on the reins as he stared down at the scene below. Aidric stirred weakly, his head lifting just enough to see, before he sagged back against Dinadan’s chest with a faint whimper.

The village was gone—or, more accurately, it had been undone. Charred beams jutted from the ground like broken bones, their edges still smoldering in places. Craters marred the earth, their jagged rims blackened and raw, as if the fire had clawed its way into the land itself. The acrid scent of smoke and ash filled the air, mingled with something darker—something sour and metallic that turned Dinadan’s stomach.

Dinadan stopped at the edge of the destruction, his hand tightening on his sword’s hilt. “Well,” he said after a long silence, and unable to think of a better response.

The trio stepped cautiously into the remnants of the village, their boots crunching over brittle fragments of stone and wood. The acrid smell of burnt flesh lingered, a cruel testament to the lives lost here. Dinadan moved with uncharacteristic silence, his usual quips swallowed by the oppressive atmosphere.

Aidric stumbled over a piece of charred wood, his weakened body betraying him again. Dinadan caught him before he hit the ground, steadying the boy with surprising gentleness. “Careful, lad. The ashes are tricky—they cling to your boots, but they’ll cling worse to your soul if you let them.”

Aidric’s steps faltered, his eyes wide and horrified. “Who could do this?”

“Vortigern,” Merlin said without hesitation. “This is his work. His soldiers carry fire like a second weapon, and they wield it with precision.”

Dinadan glanced at him sharply. “Precision? This looks like chaos.”

Merlin gestured toward a scorched symbol carved into one of the standing beams, the edges blackened but the shape still visible. It was a jagged spiral, interwoven with ancient runes. The mark seemed to pulse faintly, as though alive with lingering malice.

“It is deliberate,” Merlin said. “Vortigern’s mark. A claim on the land he destroys, a warning to those who might resist him.”

Dinadan knelt by the beam, running his fingers over the carved symbol. The wood was warm to the touch, almost unnaturally so, and he pulled his hand back with a grimace. “So he burns a village and leaves his calling card. Subtle.”

Merlin’s expression darkened. “It is more than a message. The mark binds the destruction to his will. The land itself mourns under his hand.”

As they ventured deeper into the ashes, Dinadan’s sharp eyes caught movement among the ruins. He stopped, raising a hand to halt the others. “We’re not alone.”

A figure darted behind a crumbled wall, barely visible through the smoke and haze. He held up a hand to halt the others, his voice low. “We’re not alone.”

The figure emerged cautiously—a woman, her clothes singed and tattered, her face streaked with soot. She carried a crude spear fashioned from a broken pitchfork, her knuckles white as she gripped it.

“Stay back!” she hissed, her voice raw with fear and smoke. “I won’t let you take me!”

Dinadan raised his hands in a gesture of peace, his voice soft. “Easy now. We’re not here to hurt you.”

“You’re with them!” she spat. “You’re with the ones who burned it all!”

Merlin stepped forward, his presence commanding. “We are not of Vortigern’s men. We seek to understand what happened here, to bear witness and carry word of it beyond these ashes.”

The woman’s eyes darted between them, suspicion and desperation warring on her face. Finally, she lowered the spear, her shoulders sagging. “You’re too late. They’ve already done their worst.”

Her name was Emryne, and she was the village’s sole survivor. She led them through the ruins, her voice hollow as she recounted the night of the attack.

“They came in the dark,” she said. “Soldiers, but not men. Their eyes burned like embers, and their armor... it was black as pitch. They moved like shadows, and they didn’t speak. Just torches and fire.”

Aidric shuddered, his voice barely above a whisper. “Vortigern’s men.”

“They didn’t take anything,” Emryne continued. “They didn’t raid or plunder. They just... destroyed. And when they were done, they left me alive. Said I should tell anyone who came what they’d done. Said it was a message.”

Merlin knelt beside another scorched symbol, his fingers brushing its edges. His expression was distant, his voice heavy. “He sows fear like a farmer sows seeds. And it will grow, choking the land until there is nothing left.”

Dinadan scowled. “Claiming ash is hardly a boast.”

Merlin’s gaze flicked up to him, sharp and knowing. “To the fearful, it is everything.”

At the edge of the village, Emryne led them to a shallow grave. The earth was freshly turned, marked only by a few scattered stones.

“This is all I could do,” she said, her voice breaking. “My family... my neighbors... I couldn’t leave them to the crows.”

Dinadan knelt beside her, his usual flippancy gone. “You did right by them,” he said quietly. “You gave them what dignity you could.”

Aidric, pale but determined, stepped forward. “We’ll help.”

Together, they worked to deepen the grave, their hands blackened with soot and soil. Merlin murmured soft words in an ancient tongue, and Emryne wept as they labored. When the task was done, the group stood in silence, the weight of their work settling over them like the ash-filled air.

Dinadan broke the quiet, his voice low and rough.

At the edge of the village, Emryne led them to a shallow grave. The earth was freshly turned, marked only by a few scattered stones.

“This is all I could do,” she said, her voice breaking. “My family... my neighbors... I couldn’t leave them to the crows.”

Dinadan knelt beside her, his usual flippancy gone. “You did right by them,” he said quietly. “You gave them what dignity you could.”

Aidric, pale but determined, stepped forward. “We’ll help.”

Together, they worked to deepen the grave, their hands blackened with soot and soil. Merlin murmured soft words in an ancient tongue, and Emryne wept as they labored. When the task was done, the group stood in silence, the weight of their work settling over them like the ash-filled air.

Dinadan broke the quiet, his voice low and rough. "Rest well, whoever you were. The world’s a poorer place without you in it.”

As they prepared to leave, Emryne turned to them, her face streaked with tears. “What will you do now?”

Dinadan hesitated, glancing at Aidric and Merlin. “Keep moving. Keep fighting. And if that blood-marked Vortigern crosses my path, he’ll learn what happens when you anger a knight of questionable morals.”

“You can’t stop him,” Emryne said, her voice trembling.

Dinadan smiled grimly. “Maybe not. But I can try.”

They left the village behind, the smoke thinning as the wind carried it away. Dinadan didn’t look back, but his grip on his sword was tighter, his stride more determined.

For once, the fool wasn’t running from trouble. He was walking toward it.