Dinadan glanced over his shoulder as they trudged along the uneven path. Aidric kept pace, but not without effort. The bruises on the boy’s face had darkened in the growing sunlight, and his steps faltered now and then, though he tried to hide it. The chest remained firmly clutched to his ribs, its faint glow subdued in the daylight. Dinadan’s own body ached from the morning’s chaos, but watching the boy’s dogged struggle stirred something heavier than pain—a gnawing sense of responsibility.

“Hold up,” Dinadan said, stopping so suddenly that Aidric almost collided with him. The boy caught himself just in time, clutching the chest even tighter. “Change of plan. First stop, the healer. You’re looking worse than a stew left too long on the fire, and I’ve no intention of dragging a corpse to... wherever you’re going.”

“I’m fine,” Aidric muttered, his voice barely audible.

Dinadan raised an eyebrow. “You don’t look fine, lad. You look like you’ve been thrashed by a tavern brawl and lost. Badly.” He softened his tone, adding, “I know what being banged up looks like. Trust me—this is banged up.”

Aidric hesitated, his gaze darting to the ground, then gave a reluctant nod.

“Good choice,” Dinadan said, turning back to pat Bracken’s neck. “And you,” he said, addressing the mule, “don’t give me that look. We’re stopping whether you approve or not.”

Bracken flicked an ear and swished her tail, her opinion clear enough.

The healer’s hut squatted on the outskirts of the village, leaning slightly to one side as though it had grown tired of standing upright. The tangy scent of herbs mingled with the earthy smell of damp wood, wrapping around Dinadan the moment he ducked through the low doorway. Dried plants hung in bundles from the rafters, their brittle edges brushing his hair as he stepped inside.

The healer, a wiry woman with eyes sharp enough to cut through stone, looked up from a cluttered worktable. She studied Aidric for half a heartbeat before letting out a noise somewhere between a scoff and a sigh. “There,” she said, pointing to a low stool near the hearth.

Aidric obeyed without a word, still clutching the chest as though it might disappear if he let go. The healer’s eyes flicked to the box, narrowing slightly, but she didn’t ask. Instead, she crouched in front of the boy and poked at his bruises with rough, practiced fingers.

“Cracked rib,” she muttered. “Could’ve been worse. The bruises’ll turn every shade under the sun before they heal, though.” She straightened with a grunt and began rummaging through the shelves lining the walls.

Dinadan leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed “Not much of a hand for pleasantries, are you?”

The healer snorted. “Want me to coddle him? Pat his head and kiss his bruises?”

Dinadan grinned. “Wouldn’t say no.”

She ignored him, returning with a jar of pungent salve and a roll of cloth. “Hold still,” she instructed Aidric, her tone brooking no argument. She worked quickly, dabbing the salve on the worst of the bruises and binding his ribs with steady, calloused hands.

Aidric flinched but didn’t make a sound. The healer stepped back, nodding in approval. “You’ll live,” she said. “But don’t go running about like a fool, or you’ll undo my work.”

“I’ll make sure he doesn’t,” Dinadan said, pushing off the doorframe. ““You’ve a deft hand, Herbwife. What’s the cost for your work?”

“Two coins,” she said without looking up, already tidying her shelves.

Dinadan patted his pockets, grimacing. “Ah, about that... How do you feel about taking payment in the form of a riveting tale or two?”

The healer turned slowly, her glare enough to fell a tree.

“Or,” Dinadan added hastily, “perhaps I’ll owe you a favor. I’m very good at those.”

She waved a hand dismissively. “Get out. You’ve wasted enough of my time.”

“Much obliged,” Dinadan said, steering Aidric out the door. “Your generosity is unmatched.”

Outside, Dinadan rummaged through Bracken’s saddlebags, pulling out what little remained of his provisions. Aidric perched on a low stone wall, the chest resting on his lap. His fingers rested more lightly on its surface now.

Dinadan handed him a hunk of bread and a sliver of cheese. “Not much, but it’ll keep the worms from gnawing at your insides.” He tore into his own bread and added, “You’d be amazed at how long you can survive on dried apples and hard cheese. Well, survive poorly, but survive all the same.”

Aidric nibbled at the bread, his gaze distant. Dinadan decided against pressing him for answers—at least for now. The boy’s silence felt like armor, and Dinadan knew better than to hammer away at it just yet.

Instead, Dinadan’s attention drifted to Bracken, who grazed nearby, her ears twitching with contentment. The sight of her, calm and steady, felt like a balm to his own restless thoughts.

“You need a mount,” Dinadan said abruptly, breaking the quiet.

Aidric blinked at him, confused. “What?”

“A mule,” Dinadan clarified. “You can’t lug that chest on foot all the way to wherever you’re headed. Trust me, lad, I’ve been on the road long enough to know. A mule’s your best bet—strong, smart, and far less inclined to throw you into a ditch than a horse.”

Aidric hesitated. “I don’t need—”

“

“You do,” Dinadan cut in, his tone firm but kind. “Trust me, lad. I’ve been on the road long enough to know.”

The village stables leaned at an angle that made Dinadan wonder how they hadn’t collapsed. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of hay and manure.

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Dinadan approached the merchant tending the pen, a shrewd-looking man with a thick beard and a sharp eye.

“This one,” Dinadan said, pointing to a gray mule with a calm demeanor. “What’s its price?”

The merchant scratched his chin. “That one’s a fine beast. Strong legs, good temperament. Fifteen silver.”

Dinadan scoffed, shaking his head. “Fifteen? For a mule? Are we buying it or commissioning a painting of it?”

The merchant bristled. “It’s worth every coin! You’ll not find a better one in the shire.”

Dinadan leaned on the fence, his smile disarming. “Ten silver, and I won’t tell everyone in the market about the time I saw you sell a rooster that crowed at the moon instead of the dawn.”

The merchant’s eyes narrowed, but after a tense moment, he sighed. “Fine. Ten silver. But only because that rooster was cursed, not faulty.”

Dinadan laughed, tossing the coins into the merchant’s hand. He led the scruffy mule out into the sunlight. Its long ears twitched, and its tail swished lazily. There was a spark of stubbornness in its dark eyes.

Aidric frowned, his gaze flicking between the mule and Dinadan. “That’s it?”

Dinadan patted the mule’s neck. “Oh, don’t be fooled by his looks. Mules are smarter than they let on, tougher than a knight’s hide, and far less likely to throw you when the going gets rough.”

The mule brayed loudly, as if in agreement, and flicked its ears toward Aidric.

“See?” Dinadan said, grinning. “He likes you already. What’ll you name him?”

Aidric hesitated, then said, “Thistle.”

Dinadan nodded. “Good choice. Stubborn, prickly, and unlikely to budge without good reason. I’d say it suits him.”

For the first time since they’d met, Aidric smiled—a faint, fleeting thing, but real enough to catch Dinadan off guard.

By the time they left the village, the sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the path ahead. Aidric walked beside Thistle, the chest resting on the mule’s squared back now. Dinadan adjusted the straps on Bracken’s saddle one last time, then set off at a steady pace, the rhythm of hooves and boots filling the quiet

“Well, lad,” Dinadan said, breaking the silence, “you’ve got yourself a mule, a patched-up set of ribs, and a full stomach. I’d say you’re better off than most travelers.”

Aidric didn’t answer, but he looked more relaxed, his shoulders no longer hunched as if braced for a blow.

Dinadan smirked, “This is shaping up to be the quietest journey I’ve ever been on. You’re not much for conversation, are you?”

Aidric shrugged without looking up. Dinadan smirked. “Right, I suppose the ‘nearly beaten to death by brigands’ thing might have dampened your enthusiasm. But don’t let me monopolize the chatter. Go on, tell me all about yourself. Where you’re from, what you like to do in your spare time, why you’re carrying a box that glows like it’s holding a piece of the sun...”

Aidric’s reached up and put his hand on the chest. “It doesn’t glow.”

“Lad, I saw it,” Dinadan said, arching an eyebrow. “It was faint, I’ll grant you, but it wasn’t a trick of the light. That thing’s got... something going on in there.”

Aidric glanced at him, his jaw set stubbornly. “It’s none of your business.”

Dinadan sighed dramatically. “Ah, the old ‘none of your business’ line. Fair enough. I’m just the fool who saved you from brigands, put you in a healer’s care, and bought you a fine mule. No reason at all I’d need to know what trouble you’re dragging me into.”

Aidric looked away, his lips pressed into a thin line. They walked in silence for a while longer, the path narrowing as it began a gradual incline. The trees rustled in the breeze, their shadows flickering across the ground. Birds flitted between branches, their songs filling the gaps in conversation.

“You’re heading to the Henge,” Dinadan said finally, his tone less teasing now.

Aidric stiffened but didn’t answer.

“You don’t have to say it,” Dinadan went on. “I know the look of someone with a purpose they can’t shake, even if it’s bigger than they are. Whatever’s in that box, you’ve got a duty to deliver it, don’t you?”

Aidric stopped walking; his shoulders hunched again. He glanced down at the chest, then back up at Dinadan. “It’s not just a box,” he said quietly.

Dinadan tilted his head, intrigued by the sudden shift. “Go on.”

Aidric hesitated, then began walking again, his words slow and cautious.

“My father... he told me about it before he died. He said it was our family’s burden, passed down for generations. It’s... part of the land, somehow. Something ancient, older than the kings, older than anything.”

Dinadan frowned, his steps faltering. “Older than the kings? What does that even mean?”

Aidric shook his head. “I don’t know all of it. He didn’t have time to explain. He just said it has to be at the Henge before the meeting of the elders. That it’s... important.”

Dinadan fell silent, his mind working through the boy’s words. He’d heard tales of artifacts tied to Albion’s magic—things said to hold pieces of the land’s very essence. Relics like that weren’t just rare; they were dangerous, especially in the wrong hands.

“And the glowing?” Dinadan asked after a moment. “Does it always do that?”

Aidric hesitated. “No. It started when... when I ran into you.”

Dinadan stopped walking, turning to face the boy.

“When you ran into me?” Aidric nodded, his grip on the chest tightening. “It’s connected to something you have. I felt it. And it hasn’t stopped since.”

Dinadan reached into his tunic and pulled out the shard, its faint warmth pulsing against his palm. Aidric stared at it, his eyes wide.

“You’re saying this little piece of rock is linked to whatever’s in there?” Dinadan asked, holding up the shard.

“I don’t know,” Aidric admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “But it feels... the same.”

Dinadan studied the shard, its pulsing light echoing faintly in his chest. Taliesin’s words came back to him: The land speaks your name. This boy, this chest, this shard—none of it was coincidence.

“Well, that’s troubling,” Dinadan muttered, tucking the shard back into his tunic. They continued walking, the path growing steeper as the hills rolled higher around them. The air grew cooler, the breeze carrying hints of heather and wildflowers.

Aidric didn’t answer, but Dinadan caught the faintest twitch of his lips.

“You’ve got guts, lad. I’ll give you that,” Dinadan said, smiling. “But guts don’t count for much if you’re walking blind into trouble. And trust me, the Henge isn’t exactly the friendliest place right now. If the elders are gathering, you can bet every faction with a grievance will be sniffing around. That box of yours? It’ll paint a target on your back big enough to see from Camelot.”

Aidric’s steps slowed, his knuckles white on the chest’s edges. “I didn’t ask you to come with me,” he said defensively.

“No,” Dinadan said, his tone softening. “But you need someone to watch your back. Whether you want to admit it or not.”

They walked in silence again, Aidric’s stiff posture gradually relaxing as the miles passed. Finally, he said, “I didn’t thank you. For helping me.”

Dinadan grinned. “You didn’t need to. But I’ll take it anyway. You’re welcome, lad.”

By the time the sun dipped low on the horizon, painting the hills in hues of gold and amber, Dinadan had made up his mind. Aidric’s story, though fragmented and incomplete, was enough to convince him that leaving the boy to fend for himself wasn’t an option.

They stopped for the evening near a small grove, the mules grazing quietly while Dinadan laid out their sparse provisions. Aidric sat nearby, the chest still in his lap, but his grip on it was looser now.

Dinadan watched him for a moment before speaking. “Alright, lad. Here’s the deal. I’ll see you to the Henge. You don’t have to explain everything right now, but if trouble comes knocking—and it will—I need to know enough to keep us both alive. Agreed?”

Aidric hesitated, then nodded.

“Good,” Dinadan said, leaning back against a tree. “And if you’re wondering why I’m sticking my neck out for you, it’s because I’m an idiot. Or maybe just curious. Either way, you’re stuck with me.”

The boy stayed silent, his hand resting more lightly on Thistle’s reins as his shoulders eased, no longer curled against some invisible weight. Dinadan watched him out of the corner of his eye, the boy’s quiet resilience igniting a restless spark in him. The hills ahead grew sharper against the evening sky, and with each step, Dinadan felt a strange, growing pull—as if the path itself was urging him forward, demanding more from him than he’d ever thought he could give.