The night was unnervingly still. The fire crackled softly, its glow barely holding back the darkness of the forest. Aidric lay wrapped in his cloak, his face turned toward the embers, his breath even with the rhythm of sleep. Dinadan sat nearby, his knees drawn up, his arms resting across them, his gaze fixed on the fire.

Dinadan shifted, his thoughts circling back to the day’s discovery. The helm had been heavier in his hands than he expected, as though the weight of its history clung to it. He hadn’t told Aidric everything—about the day he last saw his father alive, about the screams that followed his mother’s tears when the news reached their village.

But the memories stirred now, unwelcome and vivid, pressing against the edges of his mind.

Beside him, Aidric mumbled in his sleep, rolling onto his side. Dinadan glanced at him, his expression softening for a moment.

He’s just a boy, Dinadan thought. Still full of wonder, still believing in heroes.

He thought of the helm again, its shadowed surface glinting faintly in the firelight. A chill crept up his spine, and he leaned forward, stirring the embers with a stick.

“You should’ve stayed buried,” he muttered under his breath.

The fire flared for a moment, sparks rising into the air. Dinadan stared into the flames, his eyelids growing heavy despite the tension in his chest. The warmth lulled him, his body finally succumbing to the exhaustion of the road.

His head dipped forward, his grip on the stick loosening. The clearing dissolved into blackness.

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The dream began like all the others, with a creeping sense of dread that coiled around Dinadan’s chest like an iron vice. He stood on a battlefield, the world around him drenched in twilight. Smoke rolled across the plain, curling between the broken remains of siege towers and the shattered remnants of shields. The scent of charred wood and blood clogged his nostrils, sharp and sickening.

Somewhere in the distance, the ruins of Londinium rose, a jagged silhouette against the bruised sky. Flames flickered in the broken spires, licking hungrily at what was left of the city’s grandeur.

Dinadan’s boots sank into the mud with every step, sticky and unyielding, as though the earth itself sought to hold him back. He could hear the clash of swords, the cries of the wounded, and the guttural roars of the Visigoth invaders—but it all felt muted, like a song played from underwater.

And then he saw him.

Sir Alain

His father stood at the crest of a hill, his figure illuminated by the firelight. His armor, though battered, gleamed with defiance, and the sword in his hand was steady as stone. Around him, Albion’s soldiers formed a ragged shield wall, their faces pale but resolute. They held their ground as the Visigoths advanced, a tide of darkness sweeping across the battlefield.

Dinadan called out, but his voice didn’t carry. His father didn’t hear him.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

The Visigoths crashed into the line like a battering ram, and the wall of shields buckled under the force. Sir Alain was at the center of it all, his blade cutting through the enemy ranks with a precision born of experience and desperation. But for every enemy he struck down, two more took their place.

Dinadan tried to run to him, but the mud clung to his legs, pulling him down. The harder he struggled, the deeper he sank.

“Father!” he shouted, his voice finally breaking free.

Sir Alain turned, his eyes locking onto Dinadan’s for the briefest of moments. In his gaze, Dinadan saw pride, sorrow, and something else—acceptance.

And then the blow came.

A Visigoth captain loomed behind Sir Alain, his blade sweeping down in a deadly arc. The edge bit deep into his father’s side, and the world seemed to freeze. Sir Alain staggered, blood blooming across his armor like a crimson flower.

“Stand tall,” his father rasped, his voice faint but unwavering. “Dinadan... stand tall.”

The battlefield dissolved into chaos, the colors bleeding together as the dream shifted. Dinadan was falling now, plummeting into darkness. The cries of the dying and the clash of steel followed him into the void, a cacophony that echoed endlessly.

And then, silence.

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Dinadan woke with a sharp gasp, his chest heaving as though he’d been running for miles. The clearing was still, the fire reduced to a faint glow of embers. Aidric snored softly nearby, oblivious to the storm that raged in Dinadan’s mind.

He pressed his palms to his face, his skin clammy with sweat. The images from the dream lingered, sharp and vivid—the flames, the mud, his father’s blood. They felt too real to dismiss, too heavy to ignore.

His gaze drifted to the Visigoth helm lying beside Aidric’s pack, its raven emblem catching the faint light of the fire. A wave of nausea rolled through him.

Dinadan stood abruptly, brushing dirt from his tunic as he moved to the edge of the clearing. The cold night air hit him like a slap, but it did little to calm the pounding in his chest. He leaned against a tree, his hands curling into fists as the weight of the dream pressed down on him.

He thought of his father—Sir Alain, the hero of Londinium, the man who had given everything for Albion. Dinadan had spent years running from that legacy, burying his guilt and resentment beneath a mask of humor and detachment. But the dream had stripped away his defenses, forcing him to confront the truth he’d tried so hard to avoid.

His father had died believing in something greater than himself. Dinadan had always scoffed at the idea, calling it foolish, idealistic, even reckless. But now... now he wasn’t so sure.

“Stand tall.”

The words echoed in his mind, as sharp and unrelenting as the edge of a blade. He sank to the ground, his back pressed against the tree, his knees drawn to his chest. For the first time in years, Dinadan allowed himself to feel the weight of his father’s sacrifice. The grief. The pride. The crushing sense of responsibility.

And in that quiet, painful moment, something shifted.

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When morning came, Aidric woke to find Dinadan already packing up their camp. The knight’s usual air of easy humor was subdued, replaced by a quiet intensity that Aidric couldn’t quite place.

“You’re up early,” Aidric said, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

Dinadan nodded, tightening the straps on his pack. “The road’s not getting any shorter,” he replied, his tone brisk.

Aidric hesitated, his gaze flicking to the Visigoth helm. “You seemed... troubled last night. Did something happen?”

Dinadan paused, his hand lingering on the hilt of his sword. He glanced at Aidric, his expression unreadable.

“Do you know why my father fought the Visigoths?” he asked suddenly.

Aidric frowned. “To protect Albion?”

“To protect us,” Dinadan said, his voice quiet but firm. “He believed in a future worth fighting for, even if he wouldn’t live to see it. And I...” He trailed off, shaking his head.

Aidric waited, sensing the weight of the moment.

“I’ve spent my life trying to avoid his shadow,” Dinadan continued, his gaze distant. “But maybe it’s time I stopped running. Maybe it’s time I stood tall.”

Aidric smiled faintly. “He’d be proud of you, you know.”

Dinadan snorted, a hint of his usual humor returning. “Let’s not get carried away. I’ve a long way to go before anyone calls me a hero.”