The dense briars of the labyrinth fell behind them at last, the path spilling out onto the wide expanse of the Plains of Aelwyd. Dinadan shielded his eyes from the sudden brightness, squinting as the golden sea of grasses rippled under a brisk wind. For all his grumbling, he had to admit the sight was striking—the kind of view that made bards wax poetic for days. But his admiration was short-lived.

  “Well,” he muttered, eyeing the Henge of Elders in the distance, “there it is. The place that hums, whispers, and likely judges. I suppose we’ve arrived.”

  The Henge rose in the heart of the plain, stark and imposing. Its towering stones, carved with ancient marks glimmering under the noonday sun, drank in the light rather than reflect it. The circle thrummed, the hum so subtle it could almost be mistaken for the wind—at first. With every step closer, however, the sound grew, a vibration sank through the ground and into their bones.

  Aidric’s pace quickened, Thistle trotting beside him as though sensing her master’s urgency. The boy’s gaze was locked on the Henge, his face solemn, the weight of the chest strapped to his back seeming heavier now than ever before.

  “It’s like walking into a sermon,” Dinadan muttered, his voice breaking the stillness. “Quiet and foreboding. All we’re missing is someone telling us to repent.”

  Aidric shot him a look but said nothing. His gaze remained fixed ahead, where the faint outline of the Henge began to emerge through the trees.

  Aidric slowed, his hand brushing the chest as if to reassure himself it was still there. When he spoke, his voice was quieter than the wind. “The Henge isn’t just a place, my lord. It’s… alive.”

  Dinadan groaned. “Alive. Of course, it is. Why wouldn’t it be? Because nothing tied to this blasted land can just exist. It must hum, whisper, glow, or outright terrify. Is there nothing normal in Albion? No inns? No fields of sheep? Just once, I’d like—”

  “Dinadan.” Aidric’s voice cut through his complaints, calm but firm. He turned, his eyes meeting the knight’s. “It isn’t normal because it isn’t meant to be. This place—it listens. My father said it remembers. It’s where the land’s truth is revealed.”

  Dinadan’s retort died on his tongue as Aidric turned back toward the Henge, his steps resolute. For all his bluster, Dinadan couldn’t shake the feeling the boy’s words rang true. The hum of the Henge deepened as they approached, reverberating through the air like a distant storm building on the horizon. Even Bracken quieted, his nervous snorts subsiding as though he too knew the gravity of the place.

  The last of the tree line fell away behind them, and the open plains gave way to the Henge itself. The towering stones loomed higher now, their sheer size defying comprehension. Each stone bore markings of a language Dinadan couldn’t decipher. The carvings wavered, restless under his gaze. He halted just short of the circle, one hand steadying Bracken’s neck as he lifted his eyes to the looming monoliths.

  "Well, lad," Dinadan said, his usual sharp wit gentled to match the sacred hush that had fallen over the stones, "I trust you'll make proper introductions when your father's legacy awakens. Remember if ancient powers come forth hungry for a sacrifice, I prefer to die a hero, best after a stirring speech about destiny and valor."

  Aidric stepped forward, unbuckling the chest from his back with steady hands. He glanced at Dinadan, his expression unreadable but full of quiet resolve. “It won’t wake anything that isn’t already waiting.”

  Dinadan frowned, his fingers twitching toward his sword. “By the Depths, I should’ve stayed in bed.”

  Aidric didn’t answer. He stumbled, the chest in his glowing brighter now, its light casting his shadow long across the grass. His breathing grew labored, and he clutched the straps of the chest as though they were the only thing tethering him to the earth.

  “Aidric!” Dinadan closed the distance between them in two strides, gripping the boy’s arm. “What’s wrong?”

  “The chest,” Aidric whispered. His voice was thin, distant, as though he were speaking from someplace far away. “It’s—calling. The Henge... it knows we’re here.”

  Dinadan frowned, a rare flicker of genuine fear crossing his face. “Knows we’re here? That’s comforting. Anything else it knows I should worry about?”

  But the boy was already moving again, driven forward by an unseen force. The hum grew louder, matching the rhythmic pulse of the chest. The air warped around them, growing heavier, thicker. Dinadan felt it pressing down on him, a weight making every step harder than the last.

  His pouch began to vibrate.

  He froze mid-step, his hand dropping to the small leather bag at his side. Inside, the shard burned hotter, its pull undeniable.

  “Don’t you start,” he muttered, yanking the pouch open and pulling out the shard. The moment it touched his palm, it flared with heat, its carved surface shimmering in the dim light. The warmth wasn’t painful—not yet—but it was alive, as though the piece of rock itself was urging him onward, pulling him toward the Henge like a lodestone to the earth.

  Ahead, Aidric faltered again, dropping to one knee. The chest on his back pulsed brighter, its glow almost blinding now.

  “Aidric!” Dinadan was beside him in a heartbeat, his hands gripping the boy’s shoulders. Aidric’s skin was clammy, his face pale, but his dark eyes remained fixed on the Henge.

  “I can feel it,” Aidric murmured, his voice trembling. “Y Tir... it’s waking up.”

  Dinadan glanced at the Henge, its stones now alive with light and sound. The carvings shimmered with shifting patterns, and the hum had deepened into a resonant thrum pressing against his chest like a heartbeat.

  The shard in his hand scalded. He hissed, tightening his grip as the pull became a compulsion, dragging him forward step by step.

  “Aidric, we need to stop—this isn’t—”

  “I can make it,” Aidric panted, his gaze locked on the altar at the center of the Henge. “We’re almost there.”

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  Dinadan’s retort died on his lips as he looked ahead. The stones were alive now, their carved surfaces glowing with shifting patterns of light. The hum had deepened into a resonant thrum that shook the air, the sound vibrating through Dinadan’s bones.

  Together, they stepped into the Henge’s circle. The wind fell silent, the hum becoming the only sound in the world. The grass here was short and pale, as though it had withered under the weight of the stones’ presence.

  Aidric staggered to the altar and dropped to his knees, unstrapping the chest with trembling hands. Dinadan crouched beside him, his pulse hammering as Aidric placed the chest on the altar, his fingers lingering on its surface.

  Dinadan glanced at the boy, then at the glowing carvings on the chest. “You’re sure about this?”

  Aidric nodded, though his hands trembled as he gestured to the shard. “It’s the only way.”

  Dinadan sighed. “Fine. Let’s get this over with.”

  The shard grew warmer in his grip as he crouched beside the chest. Its intricate carvings shimmered in the moonlight, echoing the shifting patterns on the Henge stones. He pressed the shard to a matching shape shimmering on the lid, the chest whispered a faint release of tension. The carvings on the chest and the shard pulsed in unison, their glow intensifying in a rhythmic cadence matching the low hum surrounding them.

  Dinadan rotated the shard, and with a soft click, the lid creaked open releasing a flood of golden light that spilled over the altar and cascaded across the Henge like liquid fire. It bathed the stones in brilliance, the carvings on their surfaces flaring to life as though awakened from a long slumber.

  Inside, resting on a bed of worn velvet, lay a crown. Unlike the grand, jeweled regalia of kings, this circlet was delicate, its gold etched with flowing patterns shifting in the light. The designs mirrored the carvings on the stones around them, as though the crown belonged to the Henge itself.

  Dinadan stared at it, his fingers pulling away. “Oh, no,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ve seen enough crowns for one lifetime. That’s not for me.”

  Aidric’s hand hovered over the circlet, but he hesitated, his expression unreadable. “It’s not for me, either,” he said. “My father told me the crown’s purpose is to guide, not to rule. It’s a healer’s crown. A symbol for those who mend, not those who command.”

  Dinadan frowned, his gaze darting to the glowing stones. “Why does it look like these stones have been waiting for someone?”

  The air grew heavy, the hum deepening into a resonant vibration that shook the ground. Light poured from the crown, rising in tendrils that twisted and wove through the Henge like golden threads. Aidric and Dinadan stepped back as the light coalesced into shapes—ghostly figures standing tall among the stones.

  The first figure emerged—a man with broad shoulders and piercing eyes beneath a helm of iron and gold. His face bore the wear of battle, but his gaze softened as it fell on the circlet. The hum in Dinadan’s chest flared with heat as the Henge’s voice filled the air, low and resonant.

  “The first bearer forged peace in the fire of war. His strength brought unity to a fractured land, but his hands could not heal its wounds.”

  The figure dissolved into light, replaced by another—smaller, slighter, with a face less burdened by age. This figure’s eyes were gentle, his hands steady as they reached toward the circlet.

  “The second bearer will come, unbidden yet undeniable. His hands will heal what was broken, and his heart will mend what was torn.”

  The light dimmed, the figures dissolving into golden dust that swirled around the crown before settling back into the chest.

  Dinadan let out a slow breath, his grip tightening on the shard. “I don’t know about you, but I’m getting tired of being Cryptic Visions’ favorite audience.”

  He turned to Aidric—and froze.

  The boy was slumped against the altar, his face pale as ash. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, his hands limp at his sides.

  “Aidric!” Dinadan dropped to his knees, gripping the boy’s shoulders. “Come on, lad, wake up!”

  There was no response. Dinadan glanced at the chest, its glow now dim and quiet, then back at the boy. His heart pounded as he hoisted Aidric into his arms, his mind racing.

  The boy’s face was pale, his breaths shallow and uneven, his small frame fragile. The chest sat dark and silent on the altar behind them, its glow extinguished as though it had spent the last of its strength.

  “Come on, lad,” Dinadan muttered, his voice tight with worry. “You’re tougher than this. Don’t let a few glowing rocks and cryptic visions do you in.”

  Aidric gave no response, his head lolling weakly against Dinadan’s shoulder. Dinadan swore under his breath, his panic simmering just beneath the surface. He glanced back at the Henge, its towering stones cold and indifferent in the encroaching dusk.

  “Well, thanks for nothing,” he spat at the ancient circle. “You’ve had your show, and now the boy’s paying the price.”

  He lifted Aidric, rising to his feet with a grunt. His legs felt heavier than before as if the weight of the Henge had seeped into the earth beneath him, but he forced himself to move. The grass crunched under his boots as he carried Aidric to where Thistle and Bracken waited at the edge of the circle.

  The mules stood side by side, their postures tense. Bracken pawed the ground, his ears twitching at every sound, while Thistle snorted, stamping her hooves as Dinadan approached. The lingering tension in the air hadn’t escaped her, and her usual stubbornness was replaced by skittish unease.

  “Easy, girl,” Dinadan murmured, his tone soft but firm. “We’ve got no choice here. You’re going to have to carry him.”

  He pulled a length of rope from his saddlebag and slung it over Thistle’s back, looping it through the stirrups to create makeshift straps. The mule shied, but Dinadan steadied her with a sharp tug of the reins.

  He hoisted Aidric onto the mule’s back, tying the boy in place with quick, practiced motions. Aidric’s head lolled to the side, and Dinadan winced at how lifeless the boy looked. He tightened the ropes around Aidric’s chest and thighs, securing him as best he could without restricting his breathing.

  “There,” he said, stepping back to check his work. His hands were shaking, and his voice was rough with suppressed emotion. “You’re not falling off, even if she bolts.”

  Thistle tensed, her ears flicking back toward the Henge. Dinadan placed a hand on her neck, his grip firm. “Don’t even think about it,” he muttered. “I need you steady, just this once.”

  Bracken let out a low whicker, nosing Dinadan’s shoulder as if sensing his concern. Dinadan gave the horse a distracted pat. “I know, old boy. You’re not thrilled about this either.”

  Once Aidric was secured, Dinadan tugged on Bracken’s reins and checked the mule’s bridle. The tension in the air hadn’t escaped either animal, and their usual calm was giving way to skittish unease.

  “Easy, Thistle. Easy, Bracken,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing. “We’re leaving this cursed place. You need to get us there in one piece.”

  He led them away from the Henge, the golden plains stretching ahead. The glow of the stones faded behind him, but the weight of what they had witnessed clung to him, thick and suffocating.

  The wind picked up, cold and sharp, rustling through the tall grass and carrying with it the faint scent of wood smoke. The sky darkened, stars beginning to prick through the black expanse as night fell in full. Dinadan glanced up at Aidric’s slumped form, his jaw tightening.

  “You’re not dying on me, you hear?” he said, his voice hoarse. “Not after dragging me all the way out here. If I have to carry you to the nearest healer myself, I’ll bloody well do it.”

  Bracken snorted in response, his head dipping as he trudged beside Thistle. Dinadan tightened his grip on the reins, his boots crunching against the uneven ground. The ache in his legs and the sting of the wind were nothing compared to the gnawing worry twisting in his chest.

  “Almost there,” Dinadan muttered, though he had no idea where there was. His eyes scanned the horizon, searching for any flicker of light, any sign of life. The boy needed help, and Dinadan knew he couldn’t do this alone.

  The grass grew rougher underfoot as they pressed on, patches of thistles snagging at Dinadan’s boots. The stars brightened above them, casting a faint silver glow over the plains, but it wasn’t enough to light their way. Still, Dinadan kept moving, his grip on the reins firm as he led Thistle and Bracken forward.

  “We’ll find help,” he promised, glancing at Aidric. His voice was steadier now, though the weight of his worry lingered. “And if Y Tir thinks this is all part of some grand plan, it had better make blasted sure I get there in time.”