The village square bustled with life, every corner alive with activity. Stalls spilled over with bright fabrics, ripe fruits, and handmade trinkets, the merchants hawking their wares over the hum of laughter and conversation. Dinadan wandered through the throng, his sandy blonde hair catching the afternoon sun, his gaze drifting without aim. Normally, he’d have a jest ready for the vendor selling misshapen apples or the boy chasing a rogue chicken, but today his thoughts lingered elsewhere.

Beneath his tunic, his hand brushed the key that hung from a leather cord around his neck. The cold, metallic surface pressed against his skin, but it wasn’t just the key that filled his thoughts. A shard of stone tucked into his pouch, taken from the Henge years ago, seemed heavier than usual. It felt alive, as if pulsing in rhythm with the thrum of the marketplace.

Dinadan sighed under his breath. “Why me? Of all the knights in Albion, why saddle me with this nonsense?”

His voice was lost in the market’s clamor. He stopped at a stall selling bread and cheese, letting his fingers hover over a hunk of cheese when a cry split the air.

“Sir Knight!”

Dinadan froze mid-reach. The voice was loud, urgent, and held a kind of reverence to which he wasn’t accustomed. Slowly, he turned.

A woman, her face lined with years of worry, hurried toward him. Her shawl was threadbare, her hands clutched to her chest as though trying to steady her breathing.

“Are you speaking to me?” Dinadan asked. His tone was skeptical but not unkind.

“Yes,” she said breathlessly. “Please… they said a knight had come to the village. A knight blessed by the stones.”

Dinadan stiffened, his hand brushing the key under his tunic. He forced a grin, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Ah, you are misinformed. I’m just passing through. No blessings here.”

She stepped closer, lowering her voice. “My son was taken. The lord’s men came when we couldn’t pay our taxes. They said he’d work off the debt, but…” She hesitated, her voice cracking. “No one ever comes back from that castle.”

Dinadan felt the weight of her words settle in his chest, though he tried to shrug it off. “Have you tried asking one of the local knights for help?”

“They won’t listen,” she said, desperation creeping into her voice. “But you… you carry the mark of the stones. If anyone can help, it’s you.”

Dinadan let out a long sigh, his gaze flicking to the road out of the village. He could leave. It wouldn’t be hard—slip into the woods, disappear before the weight of her plea became his burden. But something deep inside twisted at the thought, and the key grew warmer against his skin.

“Fine,” he said at last, running a hand through his hair. “I’ll see what I can do.”

The castle perched on the hill above the village, its walls streaked with moss and shadowed by the setting sun. Dinadan approached the gates with the woman trailing a few steps behind, her anxious energy palpable.

Two guards leaned lazily against the stone archway; their spears crossed before the entrance.

“State your business,” one barked, his tone flat.

Dinadan offered a theatrical bow, a wry smile curling his lips. “Evening, gentlemen. I’m here to collect something you borrowed from this fine lady. Namely, her son.”

The guards exchanged glances, then burst into laughter.

“Move along, jester,” the second one said, his tone dismissive.

Dinadan straightened, brushing imaginary dust from his armor. “Jester? Hardly. This is a quality secondhand knight’s armor, thank you very much. And as for moving along…”

In one fluid motion, he drew his sword. The blade caught the dying light, its edge gleaming. His grin faded, his tone sharpening.

“I wasn’t asking.”

The guards stiffened, their laughter evaporating. One leveled his spear while the other hesitated, his gaze flicking anxiously toward the castle.

“Let the boy go,” Dinadan said, his voice low. “Or I’ll make you regret keeping him.”

A tense silence hung in the air. Finally, one guard muttered a curse under his breath and stepped aside. “Fine. But you’ll regret this.”

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Dinadan’s smirk returned. “Oh, I regret a great many things. This won’t be one of them.”

By nightfall, the boy was safe, reunited with his mother in the village square. Dinadan lingered at the edge of the crowd, his usual bravado replaced by a quiet satisfaction as he watched the villagers fuss over the boy.

“You’ve done more for us than anyone ever has,” the woman said, approaching him.

Dinadan shrugged, his hand brushing against the key hanging under his tunic. “Don’t thank me. Thank… I don’t know. Luck? Or fate?”

She smiled. “Maybe. But I’ll still thank you.”

Dinadan nodded once and turned toward the edge of the village, where his mule waited. He swung into the saddle, the chatter of the crowd fading as he rode toward the stillness of the forest.

He wasn’t sure if it was their thanks or the lingering sting of their reverence—a knight blessed by the Henge—that made him itch to leave.

“Blessed,” he muttered, letting the word roll bitterly off his tongue. “Cursed feels more accurate.”

His hand strayed to the key resting on its leather cord under his tunic, the cool metal pressing against his chest. A shard of stone nestled in his pouch clicked against the pommel of his sword as the mule jostled forward. He reached for the pouch to silence the noise, but the moment his fingers brushed the shard, the world shifted.

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The sharp scent of heather and wind returned, stronger and colder, and Dinadan found himself back in the past, trudging across the open plains beside his father. He was fourteen again, his legs struggling to keep up with Sir Alain’s purposeful strides.

“Must we walk so fast?” Dinadan grumbled, his irritation masking the nervous knot in his stomach. “The stones aren’t going anywhere.”

His father didn’t break pace or glance back. “A knight doesn’t dawdle,” Sir Alain said, his voice as unyielding as the sword strapped to his back.

Dinadan scowled, kicking at a loose stone in the path. “A knight this, a knight that. Is there anything in life that doesn’t revolve around swinging swords and grunting about duty?”

Sir Alain stopped so abruptly that Dinadan nearly collided with him. The older man turned, his piercing gray eyes locking onto his sons with the weight of unspoken expectations.

“They are not ‘just’ rocks,” Alain said, his tone sharp but measured. “They are the bones of the land. The keepers of its will. Today, you will face them. And they will see you.”

“See me?” Dinadan asked, shifting uncomfortably under his father’s gaze. “What does that even mean?”

“You’ll understand soon enough,” Alain said, turning back toward the distant circle of stones. “Keep walking.”

The Henge loomed larger as they approached, the weathered stones jutting out of the earth like the ribs of a giant beast. Dinadan slowed as they reached the edge of the circle, his gaze drawn to the intricate carvings etched into the stones. The symbols shimmered, as though reacting to the cloudy light.

Sir Alain placed a firm hand on his son’s shoulder. “This is where you prove yourself.”

Dinadan masked his unease with bravado. “Prove myself? To a bunch of rocks?”

“To the land,” Alain corrected. “To your lineage. To yourself.”

Dinadan opened his mouth to reply, but the look on his father’s face silenced him. Resigned, he sighed and stepped into the circle.

The air inside the Henge felt heavy, charged with an energy Dinadan couldn’t name. He stood nervously in the center, glancing over his shoulder at his father, who remained at the edge of the circle, silent and watchful.

Then it began.

A low hum rose from the stones, faint at first but growing louder, deeper. Dinadan froze as the sound vibrated through his chest, resonating in his bones. The world around him blurred, the edges of the Henge dissolved into shadows and light.

The stones shifted, no longer lifeless rock but towering figures wrapped in shadow. Their eyes—if they had eyes—bored into him, stripping away the armor of his thoughts and exposing something raw and uncertain beneath.

The first vision came swiftly, searing into his mind.

He saw himself as a man—older, his hair streaked with gray, clad in battered armor. He stood on a battlefield strewn with bodies, knights, and common folk alike, their faces twisted in pain and fear. His sword was slick with blood, his hands trembling as he laughed. The sound was hollow, bitter.

“Do you see?” a voice rumbled, deep and resonant, though it came from nowhere.

Dinadan turned, his heart pounding. “See what?” he demanded, his voice cracking.

The vision shifted. Now he was kneeling in the Henge, his armor dented and streaked with dirt. His hands clutched something heavy, a jagged crown, its edges dripping blood. It pulsed in his grip, warm and terrible.

“Unworthy,” the voice intoned, the word echoing through him like a bell tolling doom.

“No!” Dinadan shouted, hurling the crown away. It struck the ground with a sharp clang, shattering into shards.

The laughter that followed was cold and mocking, and the vision dissolved into darkness.

Dinadan gasped as the vision faded into the mists. He stumbled, falling to his knees in the circle, his breath coming hard and fast. The stones were still and silent once more, but the weight of what he’d seen pressed down on him like a boulder.

Sir Alain approached slowly; his expression unreadable. “Well?”

Dinadan looked up, his face pale. “Well, what?”

“What did the stones show you?”

For a moment, Dinadan considered telling the truth—the blood, the crown, the laughter that still echoed in his ears. But then he saw the expectation in his father’s eyes, the unwavering belief that his son would rise to meet whatever challenge the stones had set before him.

“Nothing,” Dinadan lied, pushing himself to his feet. “Just some lights and shadows. Extremely dramatic.”

Sir Alain’s frown deepened, but he didn’t press. He simply turned and led the way out of the circle of stones, his steps as steady as ever. Dinadan followed, the silence between them heavy with unspoken truths.

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Dinadan snapped back to reality, the forest dark and still around him. He was on his knees beside his mule, the shard of stone clutched in one hand and the key in the other. Both were warm, pulsing steadily, sharing the same rhythm.

His chest ached with the long ago memory of the Henge. His father’s words echoed in his mind. The land knows you now.

“No. No,” Dinadan muttered, shoving the key and shard back into his pouch. “I’m not ready.”

He mounted his mule, forcing himself to ignore the pull that lingered in his chest. The Henge was calling, but Dinadan wasn’t ready to answer.

Not yet.