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Aidric glanced over his shoulder, checking to see if Dinadan was still sleeping. The knight lay sprawled against a log, his cloak draped over him, his breathing steady and deep. Satisfied, Aidric turned back to the helm and carefully brushed away the last of the dirt.

The faint etchings on the rim became more distinct as the morning light grew stronger. Aidric’s heart raced as he uncovered more of the artifact, the intricate patterns telling a story of craftsmanship and conflict.

“You’re worse than a child with a forbidden sweet,” Dinadan’s voice cut through the quiet, low and drowsy but unmistakably sharp.

Aidric froze, caught in the act. “I—uh, I was just—”

“Digging it out,” Dinadan finished, sitting up and stretching. “After I specifically told you not to.”

Aidric ducked his head, grinning sheepishly. “It’s not every day you find a Visigoth helm in the middle of nowhere. Can you really blame me?”

Dinadan pushed himself to his feet with a sigh, brushing leaves from his cloak. “I can and I do. Things buried in the ground are usually there for a reason, lad. But since you’ve gone and ignored me, let’s see it properly.”

With a practiced motion, Dinadan knelt beside Aidric and helped clear the last bits of dirt from the helm. When it was finally free, he lifted it carefully, turning it over in his hands.

The helm was heavier than it looked, its metal dulled with age but unmistakably formidable. The curved nose guard extended downward like a raven’s beak, and faint carvings of interlocking ravens wove around the rim.

“Definitely Visigoth,” Dinadan murmured.

Aidric blinked. “Visigoth?”

Dinadan nodded, brushing his thumb over the faint raven carving etched into the nose guard. “Aye. Raven motif. Typical Visigoth work—grim, efficient, and ugly as sin.”

Aidric stared at it, wide-eyed. “A real Visigoth helm...” He grinned suddenly and snatched it from Dinadan’s hands. “Let me see how it fits.”

Dinadan groaned. “Don’t put it—”

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Too late. Aidric jammed the helm onto his head, the nose guard covering half his face. “How do I look?” he asked, his voice muffled and oddly triumphant.

“Like a lost puppy pretending to be a wolf,” Dinadan said flatly, though the corner of his mouth twitched.

Aidric planted his hands on his hips and puffed out his chest. “You dare mock Magnus the Mighty? Scourge of Albion?” He grabbed an imaginary sword and swung it dramatically, striking a clumsy pose. “Tremble before me, peasant!”

Dinadan snorted, finally letting a grin crack through. “Magnus the Mighty? You’re not even Magnus the Moderately Menacing.”

“Ha! You’re just jealous,” Aidric retorted, marching around the clearing. He deepened his voice to a theatrical growl. “Bow before the great Visigoth warrior!”

Dinadan sat back on his heels, watching Aidric’s antics with mild amusement. “I think the real Visigoths are rolling in their graves right now. Probably from laughter.”

Aidric spun on him, pointing dramatically. “You’re just bitter because your ancestors lost to me on the field of glory.”

Dinadan rolled his eyes. “Lost? My father fought the Visigoths at Londinium. Held the gates long enough to evacuate the city. I think that counts as winning.”

Aidric stopped, his grin faltering as he lifted the helm from his head. “Your father... he fought them?”

Dinadan nodded, his gaze distant. “Sir Alain of Londinium. The Defender of Albion, they called him. He stood at the gates while the city burned behind him. Held the line long enough to get the people out. They sing songs about him, you know.”

“And you don’t like them?”

Dinadan laughed bitterly. “It’s not the songs I mind. It’s what they leave out. They never sing about what comes after—the empty halls, the letters never sent. My mother raising me alone, wondering every day if his sacrifice was worth it.”

Aidric looked down at the helm, his fingers tracing the edge. “Do you think it was worth it?”

Dinadan didn’t answer right away. He stared at the helm for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “Some days, I think it was,” he said finally. “Other days, I think he was just a fool who believed too much in the idea of Albion.”

“But without him, those people wouldn’t have survived.”

Dinadan gave a half-smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “And without him, I might’ve had a father. Funny how heroism works, isn’t it?”

Aidric hesitated, then said softly, “Maybe he believed Albion was worth the cost. Maybe he believed you were worth it, too.”

Dinadan blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity in the boy’s voice. He let out a long breath, running a hand through his hair. “Maybe. But the thing about belief, Aidric—it’s heavy. And not everyone’s strong enough to carry it.”

Aidric nodded, his gaze drifting back to the helm. “So what do we do with it?”

Dinadan stood, brushing dirt from his knees. “We leave it here. The dead have enough trouble without us stirring them up.”

Aidric hesitated, then set the helm down carefully beside the tree roots. “It feels wrong to leave it, like we’re abandoning something important.”

“Lad,” Dinadan said, his tone softer now. “Sometimes the best thing you can do for the past is let it rest.”

The two of them stood in silence for a moment, the morning sun climbing higher into the sky. Finally, Dinadan clapped Aidric on the shoulder. “Come on. The Henge won’t wait for us, and I’d rather not spend another night in these woods.”

Aidric nodded reluctantly, casting one last glance at the helm before following Dinadan toward the forest path.

As they disappeared into the trees, the helm remained behind, its raven motif glinting faintly in the growing light.