Dinadan leaned back against the weathered trunk of an ancient oak, his shoulders sagging as though the weight of the world—or at least a dozen unsolicited prophecies—rested upon them. The fire between him and Aidric crackled, warm against the evening’s chill, its light carving dancing shadows onto the mossy stones surrounding their camp. Bracken grazed nearby, the mule’s calm demeanor a stark contrast to Dinadan’s restless mood.

  “By the Shining Ones, Aidric,” Dinadan began, stirring the pot of stew with exaggerated frustration, “if I’m fated to have one more vision, one more cryptic dream, I might fling myself into the Judgment Pit and be done with it. Ever since that wretched bard crossed my path, I’ve had nothing but riddles haunting my sleep and whispers lurking in every shadow.”

  Aidric, seated cross-legged near the fire, arched a brow, his bowl of stew steaming in his hands. “Y Tir doesn’t whisper to just anyone, my lord. Perhaps you ought to feel honored.”

  “Honored?” Dinadan scoffed, stabbing his spoon into the pot as though it had offended him. “Honored every time I close my eyes, some vision of Albion’s doom or glory decides to interrupt my rest? Honored I can’t relieve myself behind a tree without some divine hint of destiny lurking just out of sight? No, Aidric, if this is what the Old Powers call an honor, they can keep it.”

  Aidric’s grin widened as he sipped his stew. “Perhaps it will all stop once you’ve met Merlin,” he offered. “If the visions brought you to him, maybe delivering me to the Henge of Elders will quiet them.”

  Dinadan froze mid-grumble, his expression thoughtful before it soured again. “You think so?” he said, narrowing his eyes. “What if that’s the trick? What if I meet this Merlin, bow low like a fool, and instead of gratitude, he heaps more riddles on my head? ‘Oh, Sir Dinadan,’” he intoned, “‘you’ve done so well, but Y Tir needs one more thing of you. A fool’s work is never done.’”

  Aidric chuckled. “Indeed the great Merlin wouldn’t waste his breath on riddles if he knew how much they irk you.”

  “Wouldn’t he?” Dinadan shot back. “The whole lot of them—Merlin, Taliesin, those stone-carved visions—they all delight in finding new ways to unsettle me. I’m starting to think the Shining Ones themselves are watching to see how much nonsense I’ll endure before I lose my mind.”

  He leaned forward, balancing his bowl in one hand while gesturing with the other. “But fine,” he declared. “Let’s say we make it to the Henge of Elders, and I hand you over like some lost lamb. Maybe Merlin waves his staff, speaks words that make the air crackle with power, banishing these visions that plague my dreams." His eyes met Aidric's, sharp as a raven's. "Do you know what I'd do then, lad?"

  Aidric tilted his head, amused. “Run back to whatever quiet road will have you?”

  “That's correct,” Dinadan said, stabbing his spoon toward the squire for emphasis. “I’ll find the loneliest path in Albion, far from stones and seers and sacred places, and I’ll wander it until I forget what destiny tastes like. But mark my words—if one single whisper finds me there, I’ll curse the Depths themselves for not taking me sooner.”

  Aidric chuckled as he finished his stew. “You’ve a way with drama, my lord. But I suspect the loneliest road couldn’t keep you from getting tangled in destiny.”

  Dinadan groaned, raising his bowl in a mock toast. “To roads taken, avoided, and yet to come,” he said, his tone dry. “And to fate losing my scent once we’ve delivered you to Merlin.”

  Aidric raised his bowl with a grin. “To fate finding the next fool.”

  Their laughter softened into the crackling warmth of the fire, the quiet night stretching out around them. But as Dinadan stared into the embers, the lingering weight of the land’s whispers pressed against the edges of his thoughts, unyielding and far too familiar.

  The morning sun filtered through the sparse canopy above, dappled light spilling across the forest floor as Dinadan and Aidric resumed their journey. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of pine and damp earth, but neither man spoke much, the quiet broken only by Bracken’s steady plodding and the occasional rustle of unseen creatures in the underbrush.

  Dinadan stretched in the saddle, wincing as his armor pressed against stiff shoulders. “Well, Aidric,” he said, breaking the silence, “I must commend your foresight in choosing such a scenic route. Nothing lifts a man’s spirits quite like wandering blind through Albion’s least inviting corners.”

  Aidric smirked as he walked ahead, leading the way along the narrow path. “Better the unknown than turning back, my lord. The stones at the Crossroads made it clear—this is the road we’re meant to take.”

  Dinadan sighed, leaning forward to pat Bracken’s neck. “And what a road it’s proving to be. Any chance this one might end with an open field and a warm meal?”

  Aidric didn’t reply. Instead, he came to an abrupt halt as the path veered into a dense wall of greenery. Dinadan reined Bracken to a stop, squinting past Aidric’s shoulder.

  Ahead of them loomed a massive thicket, its gnarled vines weaving together into an impenetrable wall. Dark green brambles bristling with cruel, glinting thorns stretched as far as the eye could see, their twisting forms casting jagged shadows dancing in the sunlight. The faintest hum of energy radiated from the barrier, a presence prickling at the edges of Dinadan’s awareness.

  “What is this now?” Dinadan asked, dismounting with a groan. He stepped beside Aidric, staring up at the thicket with growing apprehension. “A hedge? A briar patch? Or Albion’s latest attempt to make me regret getting out of bed?”

  Aidric frowned, taking a cautious step closer. “It looks like… a labyrinth,” he murmured, brushing his fingers against one of the vines. The bramble recoiled at his touch, its thorns gleaming like unsheathed daggers in the shifting light.

  Dinadan’s brows shot up. “A labyrinth? Of briars? Marvelous.” He ran a hand through his hair, glancing back the way they had come. "Here I thought fate might grant us the courtesy of an original death, but no - the stones follow their old patterns, spinning their ancient web while we dance like moths around their secrets."

  Aidric turned to him, his expression somber. “I don’t think there’s another way, my lord. The trees are too dense on either side, and we’d lose the trail trying to find a path around it.”

  Dinadan huffed, prodding one of the brambles with the tip of his sword. “Of course there isn’t. Why would there be? Fate has a fondness for sending me straight through misery rather than around it.”

  He stepped back, eyeing the labyrinth as if it might move to swallow them whole. “Let me guess: the moment we step inside, the paths will twist, the brambles will close behind us, and some voice will start whispering about trials and tribulations, right? That’s how these things go, isn’t it?”

  Aidric gave him a small, wry smile. “If there is, I’m sure you’ll have some clever retort for it, my lord.”

  Dinadan snorted, sheathing his sword and adjusting Bracken’s reins. “Oh, I’ve a whole arsenal of retorts ready for whatever nonsense waits in there. Come on. Let’s see what fresh horrors the Old Powers have decided to hurl at us.”

  Aidric nodded, his face composed but his fingers tightening on the strap of his pack. Together, they stepped forward, the narrow path ahead swallowed by the looming walls of briars. The sunlight dimmed, and the hum of energy around them grew stronger, pressing against their senses like the weight of an unseen gaze.

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  “No turning back now,” Dinadan muttered under his breath, gripping Bracken’s reins as they pressed deeper into the labyrinth. “Why does it always feel like I’m walking straight into some bard’s tragedy?”

  Aidric glanced at him over his shoulder, his voice steady despite the growing tension. “Because you are, my lord. Let’s hope we live to see the end of it.”

  Dinadan let out a sharp laugh, though it held little mirth. “And let’s hope it’s a comedy.”

  The thorns loomed like jagged sentinels as Dinadan, Aidric, and their mules—Bracken and Thistle—ventured deeper into the labyrinth. The oppressive quiet of the briars made every rustle of leaves and every snap of a twig sound loud. Sunlight grew scarce, filtering weakly through the interwoven canopy above, fractured and scattered like shards of glass.

  Dinadan trudged behind Bracken, swiping at stray vines with the flat of his sword. He grumbled to himself, his voice louder than the faint hum emanating from the twisting brambles. “By the Shining Ones, Aidric, if this road gets any more cursed, I’ll throw myself into the Depths and have done with it. At least there’s no thorns there—just fire, torment, and the knowledge it’s still better than this.”

  Aidric, walking a few steps ahead and guiding Thistle by her reins, glanced back, his face calm but tinged with determination. The chest strapped to his back hummed, a sound on the edge of hearing making the hairs on Dinadan’s neck stand on end.

  “You always complain when the road gets interesting, my lord,” Aidric replied with a faint smile. “Isn’t this the adventure you knights always talk about in your tales?”

  Dinadan snorted, brushing a thorny vine off his shoulder. “Adventure? This isn’t an adventure. Adventures have inns with hot meals, a cheering crowd, and maybe a comely bard to sing your praises. This is misery wrapped in thorns, with an extra dose of doom humming in that infernal box of yours.”

  Thistle brayed as if in agreement, shaking her head and tugging her reins. Aidric rubbed her neck to calm her, his eyes flicking back to the path ahead. “The chest isn’t infernal, Dinadan. It’s… important. Each step closer to The Henge makes the wards pulse stronger, singing songs of power your skeptic's heart must feel."

  Dinadan had no words to reply.

  "Perhaps ancient magic stirs in your blood after all,” Aidric said at last, glancing over his shoulder. “Or perhaps it’s me the Y Tir is calling. Maybe you’re just here because someone needs to keep me alive long enough to deliver this.”

  Dinadan arched an eyebrow, stepping over a tangled root that jutted out of the path. “Oh, I feel it. Humming is in my teeth now. What is in that blasted thing, Aidric? You’ve been hauling it around since I met you, and you’ve yet to spill its secrets.”

  Aidric hesitated, his hand tightening on Thistle’s reins. “I don’t know everything,” he admitted, his voice quieter. "My father entrusted it to me before he died," Aidric's fingers traced the ancient runes pulsing beneath his touch. "He said it carries the seed of Albion's destiny, sealed within by the last druids when the old magics still ran wild through the land."

  His eyes met Dinadan's, fierce with inherited purpose. "The power in this chest must reach the Henge of Elders, where the boundary stones will crack its ancient seals and release what lies dormant within - magic that could reunite a fractured kingdom or tear the land apart."

  Dinadan raised an eyebrow. “Release magic? Lad, that’s the sort of phrasing that ends with things like ‘ancient doom’ or ‘eternal despair.’ You didn’t think to mention this before we walked headfirst into a thorny death trap?”

  Aidric’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, there was steel in his gaze Dinadan had not yet seen. “You may think this is just some errand, my lord, but it isn’t. Within these runes lies a power that brought tears to my father's eyes and steel to his spine. He bled out on sacred ground to keep this safe, and now the old magic sings louder with each step toward the Henge. The wards pulse in time with Merlin's stones, calling to powers that could reshape Albion's destiny." His eyes met Dinadan's, fierce with the fire of those who've glimpsed truth in ancient places. "The doom may well be real, but I'll walk into it with my head high, as my father did."

  Dinadan fell silent, watching the boy for a long moment. Aidric seemed older, as though the weight of the chest had seeped into his bones. For all Dinadan’s cynicism, he couldn’t deny the spark of determination in Aidric’s voice—or the way the humming chest resonated with every step they took closer to the labyrinth’s heart.

  “Fine,” Dinadan said at last, slashing away another vine. “But if this thing opens and it’s a cursed sword or some forgotten beast, I’m holding you responsible.”

  Aidric smiled and pressed on, his steps unwavering as the path grew narrower. “I’ll take that burden if I must, my lord.”

  The labyrinth groaned, brambles twisting and grinding as the walls realigned, wrenching the path in a new direction. Dinadan muttered a curse, tightening his grip on Bracken’s reins as the mule tossed its head and let out a sharp, uneasy bray.

  “I’m starting to think the Shining Ones don’t want us reaching the center,” Dinadan muttered.

  “Then we’re on the right track,” Aidric replied, his voice steady despite the tension in the air.

  The humming from the chest grew stronger as they rounded another corner, and Dinadan felt a strange pull in his chest, like an invisible thread tugging him forward. Aidric felt it too, his pace quickening as if some unseen force urged him onward.

  “What’s it doing now?” Dinadan asked, gesturing to the chest.

  Aidric didn’t answer right away. He ran his hand along its surface, his fingers brushing over the intricate carvings glowing as if awakened by the labyrinth itself.

  “It’s guiding us,” Aidric said. “It knows the way.”

  Dinadan gave the chest a wary glance. “I hope it’s not guiding us to our graves.”

  Aidric turned, his expression unwavering. “If it is, it’s a grave worth reaching.”

  Dinadan sighed, shaking his head as he followed. “Of course it is. Because nothing in Albion is ever simple.”

  The oppressive walls of the labyrinth were endless, the briars closing tighter with every step as though the land itself sought to trap them. Aidric pressed forward, leading Thistle with unwavering determination, while Dinadan trudged behind, his grumbling constant.

  “If this chest of yours guides us into one more thorny twist,” Dinadan muttered, swatting at a vine with the flat of his blade, “I swear by the Depths, I’ll toss it over the nearest ridge and let the Shining Ones sort it out.”

  Aidric didn’t answer, his gaze fixed beyond the thorny briar. The hum of the chest grew louder, resonating through the dense air, and even Thistle and Bracken felt the pull, their steps quickening as though eager to leave the brambles behind.

  As Dinadan was preparing another complaint, the path before them widened. The dense thorns began to thin, and faint sunlight broke through the canopy above, spilling golden light across their faces. Aidric stopped, his hand resting on the chest as if steadying it, his breath hitching in anticipation.

  Dinadan came to a halt beside him, narrowing his eyes against the sudden brightness. “Is it—”

  The words died in his throat as they took their first steps out of the labyrinth. The thorns gave way to a vast expanse, the Plains of Aelwyd stretching out before them in all their haunting beauty. Rolling fields of silver-green grass shimmered under the pale sun, swaying in a breeze carrying the scent of wildflowers mingled with the raw power of ancient rites. The wind itself tasted of druid-song, of oaths sworn beneath standing stones when the world was young and magic ran wild through Y Tir's veins.

  And there, on the far side of the plains, the Henge of Elders stood like a solemn sentinel against the horizon. Its ancient stones jutted skyward, their surfaces etched with markings that pulsed, even at this distance. The circle was bathed in an ethereal light, the shifting hues of greens and violets from the sky above reflecting on the polished faces of the monoliths.

  Dinadan let out a low whistle, leaning on his sword as he surveyed the scene. “Well, Aidric, your chest knew where it was going after all. Though I’d wager it could’ve chosen a less thorny route.”

  Ancient power reflected in his eyes - the same raw force had called to his ancestors when these monoliths first pierced the sky.

  The weight of destiny carved deep lines around his mouth, while wonder and terror warred across his features.

  Thistle stomped and let out a sharp snort, but Aidric stood frozen, his hand pressed to the chest as if it tethered him to the world.

  Dinadan glanced at him, tilting his head. “What’s the matter, boy? You’ve been dragging that thing halfway across Albion to get here. Time for celebration, tears, perhaps a rousing speech about destiny's grand design?

  Aidric’s voice, when it came, was quiet but steady. “It’s more than the destination, my lord. This… this is where it begins.”

  Dinadan straightened, his expression darkening as he followed Aidric’s gaze. The henge loomed like a silent judge, its power palpable at this distance. The weight of Aidric’s words settled over him like a shroud, heavy and unyielding.

  “Begins?” Dinadan repeated, his usual sarcasm faltering. “Don’t tell me you’ve got another trial in mind, Aidric. I’ve only survived the first.”

  Aidric smiled, though his eyes remained on the henge. “Not my trial, Dinadan. Ours.”

  Dinadan groaned, resting his head against Bracken’s neck. “By the Depths, Aidric, you’re going to be the death of me.”

  But as he complained, he urged Bracken forward, following Aidric as the boy began to descend the gentle slope leading to the plains. The Henge of Elders awaited, its ancient power drawing them closer.

  For once, Dinadan had no quip, no grumbling retort. The hum of the chest had quieted, the air cracked with ancient prophecy—deep magic thrummed in the air. It whispered of change, of endings and beginnings, and a truth neither man nor mule could yet name.