The inn was a lopsided old thing, clinging to the edge of the road like it might topple into the ditch if the wind picked up. It had a chimney that bent halfway up, a roof patched with enough moss to qualify as a garden, and shutters that swung loose even when there wasn’t a breeze. Still, for travelers crossing the Aelwyd Plains, it was the only spot for miles that wasn’t open sky or damp earth, and that made it invaluable.

Inside, the common room was a patchwork of smells: damp wood, sour ale, and stew that promised more questions than answers. Travelers sprawled across mismatched benches and threadbare blankets; their uneasy rest as fractured as the road that had brought them. The fire crackled weakly, doing its best to warm the room but only succeeding in highlighting the damp stains on the walls.

Dinadan lay stretched on a rickety bench near the hearth, his dented armor clinking every time he twitched. One arm draped over his eyes in a mockery of sleep, the other rested on his sword. He didn’t doze, though. His ears caught every cough, snore, and murmured dream. Each sound fed the itch of restlessness that had dogged him for weeks. His body begged for rest, but his mind wouldn’t relent.

The talisman hanging beneath his tunic pulsed faintly against his chest, a shard from the Henge that hummed with a steady rhythm he hated. He pressed his palm to it through the fabric, willing it to still, but the hum only seemed to grow stronger, like a heartbeat he couldn’t escape.

“Must you clink like a windchime every time you breathe?” a voice grumbled from the shadows near the fire.

Dinadan lowered his arm to find the source: a stout man with shoulders as wide as the bench he occupied, his cloak patched with years of hard wear. The man’s scowl was carved deep into his face, as if life itself had chiseled it there.

Dinadan smirked. “It’s part of my charm.”

“Charm?” the man snorted. “You’ve got the charm of a loose cartwheel on a mountain road.”

Dinadan sat up, stretching lazily. “That’s a bit harsh. I’ll have you know this armor makes me very popular with mules and blacksmiths.”

A woman near the hearth groaned, pulling her hood tighter over her face. “Could you just stop talking? Some of us are trying to forget we exist.”

“Forget existence? In a place like this?” Dinadan leaned back, letting his armor clatter. “You’re aiming too high. Aim for mediocrity—that’s the inn’s specialty.”

A chorus of groans and muttered curses followed. Dinadan grinned, undeterred, and let the noise settle. Silence eventually reclaimed the room, except for the crackle of the fire and the faint whisper of wind through the shutters.

He rolled onto his side, fingers brushing the chain that held the shard. The warmth of the talisman felt like a cruel joke. He let out a bitter laugh under his breath.

The low crackle of the hearth was the only sound as the other travelers sank into restless slumber, sprawled in various states of uneasy sleep. Dinadan lay staring at the smoke-streaked ceiling. Beneath his tunic, the shard hummed steadily, a constant reminder of the summons he’d been avoiding. The Henge had chosen him—him, of all people—for what, he didn’t know. He only knew he wanted no part of it. He let out a bitter laugh and sat up on his bench, his chainmail jingling faintly. Nature’s call had a way of striking at the worst possible moments, and he wasn’t about to ignore it, not after the stew he’d choked down earlier.

He grabbed a cluster of reed lights from a nearby table, their golden glow flickering softly as he made his way toward the hallway that led to the courtyard. The wooden floor creaked under his boots, and he winced, glancing back at the sleeping figures. None stirred, though the stout man in the corner gave a loud snort before rolling over.

“Brilliant,” Dinadan muttered under his breath. “Tiptoe like a thief, and still, I sound like a blacksmith’s hammer.”

The hallway smelled faintly of damp wood and smoke, but as Dinadan approached the chamber post, a far more offensive odor overpowered everything else. He stopped short, his nose wrinkling.

“Ah, lovely,” he muttered, lifting the reed lights higher. Their glow revealed the bucket standing next to the chamber post—full to the brim with foul-smelling waste.

Dinadan groaned, his shoulders slumping. He hadn’t expected much, but this was beyond even his low expectations. There was no way he could use the thing without causing an even bigger mess.

He stared at the bucket for a long moment, his internal monologue running through all the reasons why this wasn’t his problem. The innkeeper could deal with it. One of the other travelers could deal with it. Surely, fate wouldn’t punish him for walking away from this particular burden.

“Fine,” he muttered, grabbing the bucket by its handle. “If I’m destined for greatness, I might as well start with muck.”

The bucket sloshed dangerously as he lifted it, the smell nearly making him gag. He held it out at arm’s length, as if trying to put as much distance between himself and its foul contents as possible.

“Right,” he said to himself, stepping toward the courtyard. “Knighthood at its finest.”

The courtyard glistened with rain, its slick cobblestones gleaming faintly in the light of the reed lamp. Dinadan moved carefully, his boots finding purchase on the uneven stones. Fate, naturally, had other plans.

His boot caught on a jagged stone, and he stumbled forward. The bucket tipped, its contents flying in an arc that splattered across the cobblestones with a wet, echoing slap and spread into a grotesque mosaic of filth.

Dinadan froze, his breath catching in his throat. The smell hit him at once, sharp and overwhelming. It was the kind of stench that clung to the air, to his clothes, to his very soul.

From inside the inn came the sound of movement—shouts, groans, and the unmistakable scrape of chairs being shoved aside.

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“Is that—by the stones, what is that smell?”

The door burst open, and a small crowd of bleary-eyed travelers stumbled into the courtyard. Their faces twisted in disgust as they took in the scene: the spilled bucket, the growing puddle of waste, and Dinadan standing in the middle of it all, holding his reed lights like a banner of surrender.

Before anyone could speak, Dinadan raised a hand. “Let me save you the trouble: yes, it’s as bad as it looks. No, I won’t be explaining.”

Before the argument could escalate further, a voice rang out, calm but commanding. “Enough.”

The courtyard fell silent. Dinadan turned slowly, the reed lights casting their glow on a figure emerging from the shadows.

Merlin.

The wizard’s robes billowed faintly as he stepped forward, his sharp eyes sweeping over the scene. His hair and beard, streaked with white, caught the light of the reed lamps, lending him an almost otherworldly presence.

“Still causing chaos wherever you go, I see,” Merlin said, his voice carrying the lilting cadence of a Celtic elder.

Dinadan shifted his weight, his grin returning. “Chaos finds me, old man. I just oblige it.”

Merlin’s gaze lingered on the spilled bucket. “And is this what you call obliging?”

Dinadan scratched the back of his neck. “Well, I thought I’d start with a noble deed. Turns out, I’m better at making messes than cleaning them.”

Merlin’s expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “You’ve always had a talent for avoiding your true path, Dinadan. But even for you, this is impressive.”

Merlin stepped closer, his voice softening but losing none of its weight. “The Henge calls to you, lad. The land pulls at you, and yet here you are, spilling slop in the middle of the night. Do you think the stones will wait for you forever?”

Dinadan frowned, his grip tightening on the reed lights. “Maybe I don’t want what they’re offering. Ever think of that?”

Merlin’s gaze sharpened. “The land doesn’t offer. It demands. And you, Dinadan, were chosen because it knows you can bear its burdens.”

Dinadan let out a bitter laugh. “Me? A burden-bearer? That’s a laugh. I can barely carry myself.”

Merlin’s voice softened further. “It is not your strength that makes you worthy, lad. It is your heart.”

Before Dinadan could reply, Merlin turned and disappeared into the mist. Left alone, the knight stared down at the mess around him, his scowl deepening.

“Fine,” he muttered. “But if this ends badly, I’m blaming you, Merlin.”

The courtyard still reeked of spilled waste, the stench clinging to the damp air like an unwelcome guest. Dinadan set the bucket upright with a grimace, glaring at the growing puddle as though it had personally offended him.

The crowd of travelers had retreated, muttering curses and complaints as they shuffled back to the common room. Only the stout man lingered by the door, arms crossed and a sneer curling his lips. “Well?” the man asked, his tone mocking. “Aren’t you going to fix this mess, Sir Clank-a-lot?”

Dinadan gestured to the bucket, his smirk faint but defiant. “I’ve already got the bucket. What more do you want? A song while I work?”

The man snorted. “If you sing as bad as you clean, we’re all doomed.”

Dinadan ignored him, setting the reed lights on a nearby ledge. He unfastened his cloak, a battered and stained thing that had seen far too many nights on the road, and dropped it onto the foul puddle. With a resigned sigh, he began mopping up the mess as best he could.

“Knighthood at its finest,” he muttered, dragging the sodden fabric across the cobblestones. “All hail Dinadan, cleaner of muck and savior of courtyards.”

The task took longer than he would have liked. By the time the worst of the mess had been cleared and the smell had faded to something slightly less gag-inducing, Dinadan’s arms ached, and his cloak was beyond salvation. He bundled it up and shoved it into a corner near the refuse pit, brushing his hands on his breeches with a grimace.

“Well,” he said to himself, straightening, “that’s one problem solved. Now, for the rest of my cursed existence.”

Dinadan trudged toward the stable, the stink of spilled waste still clinging to him despite his attempts to scrape it off with a rag from the refuse pile. The stable doors creaked open, and the familiar smell of hay and horse musk greeted him like an old, indifferent friend.

“Bracken?” he called softly, lifting the reed lamp. The shadows stirred, and from one of the stalls came a familiar snort. Her long, velvety ears appeared first, twitching with practiced disdain, followed by her dark muzzle.

She fixed Dinadan with a baleful glare that seemed to say, What mess have you dragged me into this time?

“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” Dinadan muttered, stepping closer. He patted her neck, his fingers trailing over her rough coat. “Don’t give me that look. You’re still the best company I’ve got, mule.”

Bracken huffed, tossing her head as if dismissing him entirely.

Dinadan reached out to pat her neck, his fingers brushing through the coarse hair. “You wouldn’t believe the night I’ve had,” he said. “I’m starting to think the lands are using me for their own entertainment. I mean, really, a full chamber pot? Couldn’t someone else have dealt with it?”

Bracken nipped lightly at his sleeve, and Dinadan chuckled, brushing her muzzle away. “Alright, alright. I get it. No moping allowed.”

He glanced around the stable, his eyes lingering on the piles of hay stacked against the walls. It wasn’t much, but it was better than the common room and far better than dealing with the glares of his fellow travelers.

Dinadan grabbed an empty burlap sack from a hook near the door and tossed it into the corner of Bracken’s stall. He arranged a small nest of hay, his movements slower now, fatigue weighing on his limbs.

“Not exactly a feather bed,” he muttered, sinking onto the makeshift pallet, “but it’ll do.”

Bracken nudged him with her nose, her large, dark eyes watching him as he stretched out.

“I know,” Dinadan said, his voice softer now. “I should’ve just stayed out of trouble. But where’s the fun in that?”

He adjusted his position, his chainmail jingling softly as he pulled his arm beneath his head. The stable was quiet except for the faint rustle of hay and the occasional stomp of Bracken’s hooves. Outside, the wind whispered through the cracks in the walls, carrying with it the faint hum of the talisman beneath his tunic.

Dinadan sighed, closing his eyes.

“Just a few hours,” he muttered, the words slipping into the stillness. “Then we’ll figure it out.”

The dawn broke with a pale, watery light, casting long shadows across the courtyard. Dinadan stood by Bracken’s stall, tightening the straps on her saddle. His pack, lighter than he would have liked, hung across her back, and his sword rested awkwardly against her flank.

“You’re going to earn your keep today,” he said, patting her side. “The Henge isn’t far, but it’s far enough.”

Bracken flicked her ears, her expression unimpressed.

Dinadan climbed into the saddle with a groan, his chainmail rattling as he adjusted his position. He glanced back at the inn, its lopsided silhouette outlined against the morning sky.

“Well, goodbye to you,” he said, tipping an imaginary hat. “And may the next knight you meet be less clumsy.”

As Bracken’s hooves clopped against the stone, Dinadan glanced back at the inn. Merlin stood in the doorway, his sharp gaze fixed on Dinadan as if trying to pierce through the haze of excuses and reluctance.

The wizard raised his hand in a silent farewell, his expression unreadable. Dinadan hesitated, gripping the reins tighter. Something in Merlin’s presence felt heavier than it should, as though the weight of the land’s expectations had manifested in the wizard’s watchful eyes.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Dinadan muttered under his breath. “I’m going, aren’t I?”

Bracken snorted again, her ears flicking back, and Dinadan shook his head. He tipped an imaginary hat toward Merlin and turned away.

The road stretched onward, each step bringing him closer to the destiny he had no choice but to face. Behind him, the inn and Merlin faded into the mist, while before him, the stones of the Henge waited in silence, unyielding and eternal.