Dinadan awoke to a terrible stillness. The clearing was draped in a heavy, unnatural silence, broken only by the faint gurgle of the stream—mocking, as always. His muscles ached, though he couldn’t feel much past the cold, unyielding grip of the wispy tendrils that pinned him in place. The shadows, alive and pulsing, coiled around his arms, legs, and chest, making even the slightest twitch impossible. His voice, his most reliable weapon, was just as trapped; every attempt to speak was swallowed into the silence.

The morning light filtered weakly through the twisted branches above, dappling the clearing in ghostly patches. Bracken stood a few paces away, her body frozen mid-step. Her flared nostrils and wide, rolling eyes were the only indications that she wasn’t just a statue carved of fear. Dinadan wanted to shout to her, to say something reassuring—anything—but no sound came.

His gaze wandered to the pile of his armor near the stream, gleaming faintly in the dawn. Somewhere beneath it, tucked away in his pouch, was the key given to him long ago. He prayed it was still there. As for the shard, its warmth was gone, its pulsing light now extinguished.

“Brilliant,” he thought bitterly. “Encased in shadows, voiceless, and naked except for me in my under tunic. Truly the pinnacle of knighthood.”

The sound of rustling leaves broke the stillness, sharp and unexpected. Dinadan’s eyes flicked toward the source, his heart quickening. From the edge of the forest, a group of figures appeared, their movements deliberate and sure-footed.

At their head strode a man unmistakable as royalty: tall and broad, with dark tattoos winding across his arms and neck like living vines. His fur-lined cloak hung heavily over his shoulders, and his leather armor was adorned with symbols Dinadan couldn’t decipher. The man’s face was hard, weathered by wind and war, and his eyes swept the clearing with the casual disdain of a king surveying his domain. Behind him marched a group of guards, similarly clad, their axes and spears glinting in the pale light.

“A Pictish king,” Dinadan thought. “And here I am, a knight of Albion, bound and mute. That’s bound to leave a good impression.”

The king paused as his gaze passed over the clearing. Dinadan’s heart thudded painfully in his chest. Surely they could see him, couldn’t they? But the Picts made no sign of noticing the swirling fog of shadows that imprisoned him. Bracken let out a faint, choked snort, but it went ignored.

The guards exchanged murmured words in their native tongue, one gesturing toward the stream. Dinadan noted their sharp movements, the casual confidence in the way they handled their weapons. These men had seen battle, and plenty of it.

The king himself, after a long moment of scanning the clearing, motioned for his men to move on. They strode past the stream, their footsteps crunching against the frosted grass, and disappeared back into the trees.

Dinadan watched them go, frustration gnawing at him like a dull blade. The Pictish king and his guards moved with unhurried confidence, their strides purposeful as they vanished into the forest. If Dinadan could have spoken, if he could have moved, he might have shouted for aid—or at least hurled a biting insult to salvage some dignity. But the shadows around him held firm, unyielding as iron, their grip tightening with every attempt to resist, as though mocking his impotence.

Time dragged, the clearing descending into a suffocating quiet. The morning sunlight crept higher, filtering through the gnarled branches above and casting shifting patterns on the ground. A faint breeze stirred the leaves, carrying with it the earthy scent of moss and damp wood, but it offered no comfort. Birds flitted through the trees, their songs a bright counterpoint to Dinadan’s silent, trapped misery. He tried again to shift his arms, his legs, even a finger, but the tendrils held him fast, their icy touch leeching what little hope he had left.

The stillness shattered abruptly. A frantic crashing tore through the underbrush, snapping branches and scattering leaves. Dinadan’s gaze shot toward the sound as a boy, no older than fourteen, burst into the clearing. His face was flushed, streaked with dirt and sweat, and his wide eyes darted around as if searching for an escape route.

He clutched a small wooden chest to his human chest as though his life depended on it—which, judging by the shouts and curses coming from the trees behind him, it probably did.

For a moment, his gaze locked on Dinadan, frozen in his prison of shadows. His mouth opened in surprise, and in that split second of distraction, his foot caught on a protruding root.

Aidric went sprawling, the chest flying from his hands and landing with a dull thud in the grass. He scrambled for it, but the brigands chasing him were already upon him.

The three men were rough-looking types, clad in mismatched leathers and armed with short blades. Their leader, a wiry man with a scar cutting across his cheek, grabbed Aidric by the scruff of his neck and hauled him upright.

“Thought you could run, did you?” the scarred man sneered. “You’ve got spirit, I’ll give you that.”

“Let me go!” Aidric shouted, twisting in the man’s grip.

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The brigand laughed and shoved him toward one of his companions, who caught him with a sharp jab to the ribs. Aidric doubled over, clutching his side, but his glare burned with defiance.

Dinadan’s entire body strained against the binding tendrils. Every muscle screamed to move, to act, to do something. His fingers twitched uselessly, and the cold grip of the shadows tightened further. The scene played out before him like a nightmare, each blow against the boy landing like a hammer on his own pride.

The brigands hauled Aidric to his feet, their hands rough and unyielding as they rifled through his pockets. Aidric twisted and squirmed, but his defiance only earned him a sharp shove. The chest lay discarded on the ground nearby, its polished surface gleaming faintly in the morning light.

Dinadan’s eyes locked onto it, a strange sensation blooming in his chest as though something deep within him resonated with the chest’s presence. Though the lid remained firmly closed, he felt its pull, a steady, rhythmic energy that thrummed in time with the shard beneath his tunic. Whatever secrets the chest held, it wasn’t just an ordinary box—it was something alive, something connected to him in ways he didn’t yet understand.

“The shard,” Dinadan thought. “It’s responding to the chest.”

But it was useless if he couldn’t move. The boy would be beaten, the chest would be lost, and Dinadan—Sir Dinadan, the great fool in dented armor, would remain helpless, a silent witness to his own failure.

His head fell forward, the weight of despair crushing him. What use am I? he thought. The land calls, but it chooses a fool. Vortigern was right. I’m not a knight. Just a broken man stuck in the mud.

The shard beneath his tunic flared weakly, as if protesting his thoughts. Its faint warmth tugged at him, urging him to focus.

Dinadan closed his eyes, forcing his breath to steady. If he couldn’t fight, he could at least think. The world doesn’t need another perfect knight, he thought, repeating the mantra that had carried him through so many trials. It needs someone who knows how to survive. Someone who knows how to laugh in the face of fear.

For the first time, he thought about why the shard had chosen him. Not Cador, not Bedivere, not any of the shining, flawless knights of the realm. Him. The fool.

And for the first time, he understood.

“Not a fool,” he thought. “A reminder.”

The shard ignited.

Heat exploded from his chest, a searing warmth that raced through his limbs. The tendrils recoiled with a hiss, writhing like snakes in the light. Dinadan gasped as a prickly feeling spread through his body, and the shadows surrounding him burst apart, scattering into the morning air.

He stumbled to his feet, swaying for a moment before steadying himself. His gaze snapped to the brigands, who were too preoccupied with Aidric to notice him—yet.

Dinadan grabbed his sword from the pile near the stream, the blade feeling heavier than usual in his bare hand. His tunic clung to him, damp and wrinkled, but it would have to do.

The brigands turned as he approached, their sneers melting into confusion. “Who are you supposed to be?” the scarred leader barked.

Dinadan grinned, raising the sword. “A knight in soggy linens. Care to see how well I swing steel?”

The first brigand lunged at him, but Dinadan sidestepped easily, catching the man’s arm with the flat of his blade. The brigand yelped and stumbled, leaving him wide open for a swift kick to the stomach.

The second came in swinging wildly, but Dinadan ducked low and drove the pommel of his sword into the man’s jaw. He crumpled with a groan, his blade clattering to the ground.

The leader hesitated, his eyes darting between Dinadan and the boy still clutching his ribs. “This isn’t over,” he snarled, backing away. He disappeared into the trees, leaving his men on the ground.

Dinadan stood over the crumpled brigands, sword in hand, his chest heaving. The morning sunlight spilled through the trees, painting the clearing in sharp contrast—the still forms of the defeated men, the shattered remnants of their chase, and the boy clutching the glowing chest like it held his very life.

Aidric stared at him, his wide eyes a mixture of awe and suspicion. The chest pulsed faintly in his arms, its rhythmic light casting shadows on his bruised face.

Dinadan lowered his sword and crouched to meet the boy’s gaze. “Alright, lad,” he said, his tone softer now. “You’re in one piece, mostly. But you’re not getting far without help.”

Aidric hugged the chest tighter, his body stiff. “I don’t need help.”

Dinadan raised an eyebrow. “Really? Because from where I’m standing, you look like you could use a healer and a proper meal. And maybe someone to carry that glowing mystery box you’re lugging around.”

Aidric said nothing, but his eyes flicked briefly to the chest and back to Dinadan.

Dinadan sighed, sheathing his sword. “Look, I’m not asking for your life’s story. Yet. Let’s start with getting you patched up, eh? There’s a village not far from here. I’ll even buy you breakfast. Well,” he amended, patting his damp, rumpled tunic, “we’ll see how far my charm goes in place of coin.”

Aidric hesitated, then gave a reluctant nod.

“Good lad,” Dinadan said, straightening and offering a hand. “Stick close. I’ve got a mule that bites, and I’m not above leaving you to fend for yourself if you try anything stupid.”

Aidric stared at the hand for a long moment before ignoring it and pushing himself to his feet. Dinadan chuckled. “Fair enough. You’ve got spirit, I’ll give you that.”

Bracken snorted in the background, her ears twitching as Dinadan walked toward her. He patted her neck, then began strapping his armor to her saddle. The pile of steel clanked noisily, but Dinadan paid no attention to it. “Let’s hope the villagers are more inclined to kindness than those fine gentlemen,” he muttered, gesturing to the unconscious brigands with a nod.

Aidric lingered near the edge of the clearing, his grip on the chest firm. The faint glow of the shard pulsing beneath Dinadan’s tunic caught his eye, but he said nothing. Instead, he followed a few steps behind as Dinadan led Bracken toward the forest path.

“Right, then,” Dinadan said as they set off. “I’ll save my questions for later. But you might want to think about a few answers on the way. Like why that chest looks like it’s about to burst into song.”

Aidric’s lips twitched faintly, though whether it was the start of a smile or an irritated grimace, Dinadan couldn’t tell.

The path ahead stretched long and winding, the trees arching overhead in a tangle of light and shadow. Dinadan walked beside the boy, the steady clop of Bracken’s hooves the only sound for now. Whatever trouble this lad was carrying, it was clear the road to the Henge had just become more complicated.

And, Dinadan thought with a faint grin, a good deal more interesting.