Far to the north, where mist clung to the hills like a second skin and the air carried the faint tang of salt from the distant sea, Merlin leaned over his scrying basin. The water rippled faintly, reflecting not the murky interior of his tower but a sun-dappled forest far from his sanctuary. Through the sharp eyes of Wyott, his ever-watchful wyvern, Merlin saw the pair below: a boy burdened with a chest glowing with ancient power, and a knight whose path twisted in ways even he could not fully predict.
“They’re still breathing,” Merlin murmured, his tone more amused than relieved. “A small victory.”
Wyott’s wings shifted in the reflection as the wyvern banked, gliding low enough to disturb the treetops. Its gaze fixed not on the knight and boy, but on the approaching figures riding hard down the forest road. Saxons. Two riders at the forefront wore cloaks of heavy wool and carried themselves with practiced ease, their pale hair plaited and gleaming in the sunlight. Hengist and Horsa. The names surfaced in Merlin’s thoughts like poison rising in a well.
“They never stray far from Vortigern’s shadow,” he muttered, his fingers tapping the edge of the basin. “What are you up to now, Usurper?”
The Saxons’ voices carried faintly on the wind as Wyott drifted closer. Hengist barked orders to his riders, gesturing ahead to the winding path.
“Scouts spotted it circling here,” Hengist said, his voice sharp with authority. “Wyverns don’t linger without reason.”
Horsa frowned, his thick brows drawing together. “And we trust this information?”
“Trust has nothing to do with it,” Hengist snapped. “Whatever it’s watching, we’ll claim it before another faction gets word. Move quickly.”
Merlin straightened, his expression hardening. “Ah, and now the pot stirs.”
Wyott let out a low, rumbling growl in response. Merlin leaned closer to the basin, his sharp eyes narrowing as the Saxons drew their weapons and quickened their pace.
“Onward then, brave fool,” Merlin murmured, his gaze shifting back to Dinadan and Aidric. “Let’s see how you manage your next dance with destiny.”
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The morning sun climbed higher, painting the hills and trees in soft gold, but the shadow circling above refused to leave them. Dinadan glanced skyward for the hundredth time, squinting at the dark shape cutting lazy arcs against the blue expanse.
“That blasted thing is still up there,” he muttered, tugging Bracken’s reins. “Either it’s lost, or it’s got a peculiar taste for mules. What do you think, Bracken?”
The mule flicked her ears in response, entirely unimpressed by her knightly companion’s attempts at humor.
Aidric’s gaze darted upward, his face pale. “It’s following us.”
“Following us?” Dinadan repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Lad, it’s a wyvern, not some lovesick troubadour. They don’t follow unless they’ve got a reason—or unless they’re hungry, which isn’t much better.”
Aidric’s grip on Thistle’s reins tightened. “It’s watching us.”
Dinadan huffed and shook his head, though his own unease grew with every flap of the creature’s leathery wings. “If it comes down, we’ll handle it. Wyverns may be fierce, but they’re not invincible. Besides, it hasn’t so much as dipped a wing toward us yet. Likely just circling to keep the crows company.”
The words rang hollow, even to him. The wyvern’s behavior wasn’t normal—no sudden dives for prey, no roars to mark its presence. Just that endless, deliberate circling.
A sharp whistle broke the stillness, followed by the unmistakable hiss of an arrow slicing through the air. Dinadan’s instincts took over, yanking Aidric behind a tree as the arrow thudded into the dirt where they had been standing.
“Down!” Dinadan growled, peeking out from behind the trunk.
A small company of riders galloped into view on the path ahead, their armor glinting dully in the shifting light. At their head were two men whose presence was impossible to ignore. Hengist, with his sharp eyes and commanding scowl, shouted orders in a language Dinadan didn’t understand. Beside him, Horsa rode with a quieter intensity, his thick arms gripping the reins tightly as he scanned the trees.
The Saxons had already loosed another volley of arrows, their bows angled upward toward Wyott, who circled just low enough to remain a tempting target.
“Keep firing!” Hengist bellowed. “Bring it down before it brings the skies down on us!”
“Brilliant,” Dinadan muttered under his breath. “We’re caught between trigger-happy Saxons and a wyvern who might actually be our only ally. Just another day in Albion.”
Dinadan pulled Aidric further into the underbrush, gesturing for him to keep low. “Move quietly,” he hissed, his voice barely audible over the thud of hooves and the twang of bowstrings.
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The forest thickened as they moved, branches clawing at their clothes and brambles snagging at their boots. Bracken followed reluctantly, snorting her disapproval, while Thistle stumbled over a root, nearly unseating the chest. Aidric let out a muffled gasp, catching the chest before it hit the ground.
“Watch your step,” Dinadan muttered, his tone sharper than he intended. “If we lose that box, we might as well throw ourselves to the Saxons and be done with it.”
Aidric’s face flushed, but he said nothing, his grip on the chest tightening.
Finally, the sounds of the riders grew faint, and Dinadan stopped, leaning against a tree to catch his breath. “Well,” he said, forcing a grin despite the tightness in his chest, “that was invigorating. Just the sort of thing to get the blood pumping.”
Aidric sank to the ground, his back pressed against a rock. He looked drained, his bruised face pale and drawn.
Dinadan crouched in front of him, his humor fading. “Lad, are you alright?”
Aidric nodded weakly.
“Good,” Dinadan said, his voice softening. “Because this isn’t over yet. Those riders will double back when they realize they haven’t hit anything with feathers or scales. We need to keep moving.”
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Far above the forest, Wyott circled with an agitated flick of its tail. Its sharp gaze followed the Saxons as they regrouped on the path below, muttering curses about the elusive wyvern and its prey.
Merlin leaned closer to his scrying basin, his lips curling into a faint smile. “They’re rattled. Good. The more distracted they are, the better.”
The wyvern banked, its focus shifting to Dinadan and Aidric, now hidden in the trees. Merlin’s eyes softened as he studied the boy clutching the chest. “So young to carry so much,” he murmured. “But then, the land doesn’t choose lightly.”
His gaze shifted to Dinadan, who was motioning for Aidric to stand, his tone equal parts urgency and reassurance. Merlin chuckled softly. “And you, fool knight—bridging the gap with wit and stubbornness. Perhaps you’re more suited to this than you believe.”
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As they pressed deeper into the woods, Dinadan noticed the tension in Aidric’s face slowly easing. His grip on the chest loosened, and though his steps faltered, he didn’t complain.
They stopped briefly at a small clearing where the mules grazed and Dinadan divided their meager provisions. Aidric accepted his share with a quiet “thank you,” earning a raised eyebrow from Dinadan.
“Well,” Dinadan said, tearing into his bread, “look who’s finally warming up. Keep that up, and I might start believing you like my company.”
Aidric glanced at him, his lips twitching faintly. “You’re not as unbearable as I thought.”
Dinadan laughed. “High praise indeed. I’ll take it.”
As they resumed their journey, the tension between them eased further. Aidric even offered a few words about his father’s warnings—small but significant steps toward trust. But as the path wound ever closer to the Henge, the shadow of Wyott overhead reminded them both that the road ahead would only grow darker.
The sun dipped below the treetops, and the golden light gave way to the deep blue of encroaching night. Dinadan wiped his brow with the back of his hand, squinting at a small clearing ahead. It wasn’t much—a patch of ground clear enough to avoid brambles and flat enough to sleep on—but it would do.
“This’ll be home for tonight,” Dinadan said, guiding Bracken to a stop. He tossed his bedroll from her back and began unstrapping the saddlebags. “Not much, but it’s better than trying to pitch camp in a marsh.”
Aidric, clutching the chest, nodded silently and lowered himself to the ground near the base of a sprawling oak. Dinadan caught the boy glancing over his shoulder at the darkening forest, his bruised face wary and pale.
While Dinadan busied himself with gathering kindling, Aidric sat cross-legged near the oak, absently pulling at the grass. Something in the dirt caught his eye—a faint glint of metal, half-hidden beneath a tangle of roots.
Curiosity flared. He set the chest aside carefully and leaned forward, brushing at the soil with his fingers. The glint became clearer, the curve of a metal edge tarnished with age but still unmistakably worked by human hands. Aidric’s fingers dug into the cool dirt, prying away the loose earth as the shape grew larger.
Dinadan returned with an armful of twigs and branches just as Aidric sat back on his heels, his hands coated in dirt. “What’s this, then?” Dinadan asked, dropping the wood with a clatter and crouching beside the boy.
Aidric pointed to the object in the ground. “It’s... some kind of armor, I think.”
Dinadan leaned closer, brushing the last of the dirt away with practiced hands. His brow furrowed as the curved edge of the artifact came into focus. “Not just armor,” he muttered. “That’s a helm.”
“A helm?” Aidric asked, his voice was low.
Dinadan nodded, tracing the edge of the object with a finger. The faint etchings along the rim were worn but still visible—a repeating pattern of interlocking lines and shapes. The design was intricate and unmistakable.
“Visigoth,” Dinadan said softly, his voice tinged with unease.
Aidric blinked. “Visigoth? What’s a Visigoth helm doing out here?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it?” Dinadan replied, sitting back on his heels. “The Visigoths weren’t exactly fond of Albion, and their warbands didn’t roam this far west. Whatever this is, it’s old. And it’s out of place.”
The glint of the helm in the firelight sent an unsettling chill up Dinadan’s spine. His instincts, honed by years on the road, whispered that this was no mere relic.
“Don’t dig it out,” Dinadan said firmly, rising to his feet. “Whatever it’s doing here, it’s not our problem—not tonight. Leave it buried.”
Aidric hesitated, his fingers twitching toward the helm’s edge.
“Lad, I mean it,” Dinadan said, his voice hardening. “We’ve already got enough trouble on our hands without inviting more.”
Dinadan set to work building the fire, though his thoughts kept straying to the helm buried in the roots. Aidric sat nearby, his knees pulled to his chest, the box resting safely beside him. The boy hadn’t spoken much since they’d left the village, but Dinadan had learned to let the silence hang until Aidric chose to fill it.
“You think it’s cursed?” Aidric asked finally, his voice low.
Dinadan poked at the fire, the flames crackling and spitting as they grew. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But things like that don’t just end up in the ground by accident. If it was left here, there was a reason.”
Aidric nodded but said nothing more. The shadows of the forest stretched long and jagged, the firelight dancing against the dark trunks. Above, Wyott’s cry echoed faintly, a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through the earth itself.
Dinadan leaned back against a log, his gaze fixed on the stars just visible through the canopy. “Get some rest,” he said softly. “We’ve still got miles to cover, and the Henge won’t wait for us.”
Aidric nodded, though his gaze lingered on the tree roots and the faint gleam of the helm. It wasn’t until much later, long after Dinadan’s breathing had evened into the steady rhythm of sleep, that Aidric finally closed his eyes.
The buried helm remained half-hidden, its polished surface catching faint glimmers of moonlight. Above, Wyott circled once more before vanishing into the darkness.