The road to nowhere was always the most dangerous. It promised freedom, the illusion of no destination and no obligation. But Dinadan knew better. A knight without a cause was like a bird without wings: grounded, vulnerable, and destined for an untimely end. And yet, here he was, ambling down a nameless road, chasing nothing in particular.

Bracken’s hooves clopped steadily on the packed earth, the only sound in the still evening air. The sun hung low, a molten disk sinking into the horizon, casting long shadows over the sprawling fields. Dinadan tilted his head back and closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the cool breeze kiss his face. He hated quiet roads. Quiet roads made room for thoughts, and thoughts were a knight’s greatest enemy.

He liked the quiet. Quiet was simple. Quiet didn’t expect him to be anyone or anything other than what he was—a knight of low renown and even lower ambition, who’d much rather tell a tale than swing a sword. Quiet didn’t care that his armor clanked like a collection of pots and pans strung together by a madman.

Quiet didn’t ask questions.

But Albion was not a land that allowed quiet to linger. And Dinadan, despite his best efforts, was never far from the edge of its clamor.

It began with a shift in the air—subtle but undeniable. Bracken stopped abruptly, ears flicking forward. Dinadan opened his eyes and frowned, patting the mule’s neck. “What now, old boy? Don’t tell me you’ve seen a ghost.”

The horse didn’t move, nostrils flaring as if catching a scent carried on the breeze. Dinadan’s own senses prickled, a faint hum vibrating through his chest. He straightened in the saddle and squinted ahead.

At the crest of the hill, a figure stood motionless, cloaked in the muted hues of twilight. The wind teased the edges of his cloak, lifting them like the unfurling wings of a great bird. It wasn’t the figure’s stillness that struck Dinadan, nor the commanding way he stood, but the staff he carried. Tall and sleek, it bore intricate carvings that shimmered faintly, catching light where none should have been, as if the staff itself breathed with an otherworldly vitality. Intrigued and slightly wary, Dinadan nudged Bracken forward.

As he approached, the finer details of the man on the hill came into focus. Taliesin’s dark hair, streaked with gray, fell in loose waves to his shoulders, unruly but somehow deliberate. His face was lean and angular, marked with faint lines etched by years rather than age—a face that might have once been called youthful but was now shaped by the weight of knowledge. Eyes of piercing green caught the fading light, glinting like emerald shards, alive with both a subtle humor and a quiet sadness. His cloak, plain but finely woven, carried the wear of long journeys, and the faint smell of wood smoke clung to him, as if he had stepped straight from the heart of some ancient woodland. There was a deliberate economy to his movements, as though he wasted neither energy nor thought, and yet his presence felt vast, as though the very ground bent toward him. Dinadan’s fingers tightened on Bracken’s reins; this was no ordinary wanderer.

Bracken snorted and stomped, uneasy; Dinadan pulled the horse to a stop a few paces away. He tipped his head in greeting, his tone casual. “Evening, stranger. Fine spot you’ve picked for brooding. I assume you’re the mysterious type?”

The man smiled faintly. “You must be Sir Dinadan.”

Dinadan stiffened but recovered quickly. “You’ve the advantage of me, friend. Most people don’t know my name unless I owe them money.”

The man’s smile deepened. “Your reputation precedes you—not for coin, but for wit and wandering.”

Dinadan slid out of the saddle, the weight of the stranger’s gaze unsettling. He tilted his head. “And who might you be? Aside from someone who clearly spends too much time listening to tavern gossip.”

“I am Taliesin,” the man said, his voice carrying a melodic richness that filled the air. “Bard. Seer. Teller of truths.”

“A seer, is it?” Dinadan’s brow arched. “Well, Taliesin, I hope you’ve foreseen a good dinner because I’ve been following this road for hours, and all I’ve found are rocks and regret.”

Taliesin chuckled—a rich, melodic sound that vibrated through the earth itself. “Dinner, perhaps, but first, a tale.”

Dinadan groaned theatrically. “You prophets are all the same. It’s always tales before meals. Don’t suppose this one comes with a happy ending?”

Taliesin’s gaze sharpened. “That depends on the teller.”

Dinadan folded his arms. “Go on, then. Spin your tale. But if it involves a grand destiny or some nonsense about chosen knights, you’ll lose me before you finish the first stanza.”

Taliesin’s expression sobered. “This is no tale, Sir Dinadan. It is a prophecy. And it concerns you.”

Dinadan dismounted, leading Bracken by the reins as Taliesin gestured for him to follow. They descended the hill into a hollow where the air hung heavy, thick with the scent of wildflowers and something older, metallic and electric. At the center of the hollow stood a ring of ancient stones, their surfaces etched with markings that writhed in the dimming light.

“Now this,” Dinadan said, gesturing at the stones, “is the sort of place you bring someone when you want them to rethink their life choices.”

Taliesin ignored him, stepping into the circle with a grace that defied the years etched into his face. He planted his staff in the center, the wood ringing against the stone with a sound that hung in the air far longer than it should have.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“This is a sacred place,” Taliesin said, his voice reverent. “A place where the land itself speaks.”

Dinadan followed, albeit reluctantly, and gave the stones a cursory glance. “Looks like rocks to me. Big ones, mind you, but rocks nonetheless.”

“You see what you wish to see, Sir Dinadan,” Taliesin replied. He turned, his eyes locking onto Dinadan’s with an intensity that made the knight’s usual flippancy falter. “But there is more to the land than meets the eye. More to you.”

“To me?” Dinadan scoffed. “Oh, you’ve got the wrong knight. I’m nobody’s hero.”

“And yet the land has chosen you.” Taliesin’s staff struck the ground again, and this time the hum in Dinadan’s chest flared into something strong, something that made his breath hitch and his fingers tighten on Bracken’s reins.

“I’m not chosen for anything except making fools of myself,” Dinadan said, his voice sharper now. “If you’re looking for someone to save the world, pick someone else.”

Taliesin smiled. “Ah, but the land requires a fool.”

Dinadan blinked, caught off guard. “Well, congratulations. You’ve found one.”

Taliesin gestured toward the stones, their surfaces now glowing brightly in the encroaching twilight. “Then listen, fool, and hear what the land whispers.”

Taliesin began to hum—a low, haunting melody that sent shivers crawling down Dinadan’s spine. The hum grew into a song, words weaving through the air like threads of light.

From shadowed birth, a star shall rise,

A son of kings with lion’s eyes.

The sword of light shall call his name,

And Albion shall never be the same.

The stones vibrated in harmony, their glow intensifying with every word. Dinadan took an involuntary step back, his heart hammering against his ribs.

“What is this?” he demanded, his voice raw with disbelief. “What are you doing?”

“Not I,” Taliesin said, his gaze distant. “The land speaks. I am but its instrument.”

The song continued, its words wrapping around Dinadan like chains.

Yet darkness gathers, greed and might,

The land shall cry, its heart ignite.

A fool shall stand unarmed, alone,

A bridge between the stone and throne.

Dinadan shook his head, his fingers curling into fists. “No. No, this isn’t about me.”

Taliesin’s eyes locked onto his, pinning him in place. “You feel it, don’t you? The land’s call. Its pain.”

Dinadan’s chest ached with something he couldn’t name, a pull that felt like it could tear him apart. “You’re wrong. I’m not—I can’t—”

“The land does not choose lightly,” Taliesin said, his voice soft but unyielding. “You may not believe in destiny, Dinadan. But destiny believes in you and the land speaks your name.”

Something in the way he said it sent a chill crawling down Dinadan’s spine. He opened his mouth to retort, but the air around them shifted. The faint hum in his chest grew stronger, resonating through the ground and into his very bones. Bracken whinnied, his unease turning to outright fear, and Dinadan gripped the reins tighter to steady him.

“What’s happening?” Dinadan demanded, his voice sharp.

“The land remembers,” Taliesin said, his tone low. He lifted his staff, and the markings carved into the wood glowed. The ground beneath their feet vibrated, and the air filled with a sound that was not a sound—a deep, thrumming presence that pressed against Dinadan’s ears and chest.

Around them, the shadows lengthened unnaturally, swirling together to form shapes. Dinadan’s breath hitched as figures emerged from the darkness—men and women clad in ancient armor, their faces obscured but their eyes burning with a cold, unyielding light.

“What in the name of—”

“The past,” Taliesin said, stepping into the center of the swirling figures. “The future. And the truth.”

Ghostly gazes turned to Dinadan, and he felt an unbearable weight settle on his shoulders. One of them stepped forward, and though its face remained hidden, its voice rang clear and hollow.

“You are the fool,” it said.

Dinadan bristled. “I’ve been called worse, but I draw the line at ghosts throwing insults.”

“The fool who sees,” the figure continued, unmoved by his sarcasm. “The fool who understands the weight of wisdom. The land calls you, Sir Dinadan. It has need of your folly.”

Dinadan stumbled back. The ground beneath him lurched. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m no hero. No savior. Find someone else.”

The figure raised a spectral hand, pointing directly at him. “You will carry the burden, whether or not you choose to.”

The thrumming intensified, and Dinadan’s vision blurred as the figures dissolved back into the shadows. Taliesin stepped forward. His expression was grim.

“This is your path, Sir Dinadan. The land has chosen you as its bridge.”

Dinadan shoved a hand through his hair, his heart pounding. “Bridge? To what?”

“To the king who will rise,” Taliesin said. “The once and future king. He will be known as Arthur, the once and future king.”

"But he cannot rise without help. Without you."

“Me?” Dinadan shook his head. “You’ve got the wrong man. I can barely keep myself out of trouble, let alone help some would-be king save Albion.”

“And yet,” Taliesin said, reaching into his cloak, “you will. The land knows you, even if you do not know yourself.”

He held out a small key—ancient and weathered, its surface etched with intricate patterns that danced in the light. Dinadan stared at it, reluctant to take it.

“What’s this supposed to do?”

“It will guide you when the time comes,” Taliesin said. “Though whether you heed its call is your choice.”

Dinadan hesitated before snatching the talisman and shoving it into his pocket. “If it starts glowing or humming, I’m throwing it in the nearest river.”

Taliesin grinned. “I expect nothing less.”

He turned and began walking away, his staff tapping a staccato against the ground. Dinadan called after him. “What if I ignore all this nonsense? What if I keep wandering?”

Taliesin didn’t stop. “Then the land will find another way. But it will not forget you, Sir Dinadan. It never does.”

As Taliesin vanished into the growing twilight, Dinadan mounted Bracken and rode on, the talisman a heavy weight in his pocket. He told himself he’d forget it all—Taliesin, the prophecy, the ghostly figures—but the hum in his chest refused to fade.

When he reached the next hill, he glanced back. The horizon was empty except for the faint glow of the setting sun.

But in the shadows of the distant trees, a figure watched. Cloaked in darkness, their face obscured, they knelt where Taliesin had stood, running a gloved hand over the earth.

“Soon,” the figure murmured, their voice like the rustle of dead leaves. “The fool will stumble into his place. And when he does, we will be waiting.”

The figure melted into the shadows, leaving the road to nowhere empty once more.