The camps stretched before Dinadan like a chaotic quilt across the valley. Fires dotted the valley in unruly clusters, their smoke rising in lazy spirals to meet the pale glow of an aurora that rippled across the darkening sky. Banners flapped like restless ghosts, their sigils obscured by shadows, and the noise—a cacophony of shouts, laughter, and the clash of steel—rolled over the landscape in waves. The Henge of Elders stood sentinel in the distance, its ancient stones stark against the glowing curtain of green and gold above.

  Dinadan guided Bracken through the milling throng of soldiers, servants, and lords, his grip on the reins firm as Aidric slumped weakly against him. The boy stirred, his head lolling against Dinadan’s chest, but his silence spoke of exhaustion rather than recovery. Thistle trailed behind, carrying neither chest nor shard but Merlin, whose sharp gaze cut through the chaos ahead.

  They reached a fork in the path near the outer edge of the camp. Merlin reined in Thistle, pausing as though listening to what could not be heard. His expression was grim, his hand tightening on the staff resting across his lap.

  Dinadan cocked an eyebrow. “What now, wizard? Heard a whisper on the wind? Seen a shadow out of place?”

  Merlin’s eyes didn’t leave the horizon. “The wards I left around the chest and the shard will not hold long. I must ensure they are secure before the council convenes.”

  Dinadan groaned. “Of course you must. Nothing like abandoning us in the middle of a vipers’ den. I’ll fend off the lot of them with my wit and overwhelming charm.”

  Merlin’s lips twitched, though it wasn’t quite a smile. “You have a gift for surviving when you shouldn’t, Sir Dinadan. Let’s hope it holds true.”

  “And you?” Dinadan shot back. “What’s the plan if you don’t make it back? Or is that another chapter in your grand design?”

  Merlin tilted his head, his tone distant. “If I do not return, the weight will shift to you. But I will return.” Without waiting for further argument, he turned Thistle toward the distant stones and rode away, his staff glowing in the deepening gloom.

  Dinadan watched him go, shaking his head. “The weight will shift to me,” he muttered. “That’s comforting. Nothing like a bit of prophecy to warm the soul.”

  Aidric stirred against him, his voice faint. “Where’s he going?”

  “To do wizard things,” Dinadan replied, nudging Bracken forward. “Probably involving glowing rocks and ominous muttering. Don’t worry about him. Worry about us.”

  Bracken plodded onward, navigating the press of bodies with a calm that Dinadan envied. Around them, the camp unfolded in a riot of activity—squires carrying bundles of arrows, cooks stirring great pots of stew, knights sparring in makeshift rings. Dinadan caught snippets of conversation, most of it bitter or boastful, and none of it promising.

  At one fire, two lords shouted over each other about who held the stronger claim to some distant, inconsequential plot of land. At another, a bard plucked a lute with such force that the strings might snap, his voice drowned out by a jeering audience. Soldiers sharpened blades that glinted in the firelight, their expressions grim as death.

  “They’ve come to choose a High King?” Dinadan muttered, his voice low. “Looks more like they’ve come to sharpen their egos and forget what’s at stake.”

  Ahead, a knight stepped into their path, his armor gleaming in the aurora’s glow. His tabard bore the sigil of a roaring bear, its golden threads catching the light with unnecessary drama. Dinadan noted the pristine mail and the polished sword at the man’s side and decided he didn’t like him.

  “Hail, your grace!” the knight boomed, his tone so earnest it bordered on absurd.

  Dinadan blinked, his grip tightening on Bracken’s reins. “I think you’ve got the wrong man, friend.”

  “Nonsense!” The knight stepped closer, grinning. “Your disguise is cunning, but I recognize the bearing of a true king. I am Sir Bartleby of Cambrayne, at your service.” He bowed low—so low his squire had to steady him to keep him from toppling over.

  Behind Dinadan, Aidric stifled a laugh, though his pale face betrayed how much the effort cost him. Dinadan shot him a warning glance before turning back to Bartleby. “I assure you, Sir Bartleby, I am no king.”

  “Such humility!” Bartleby declared, his grin widening. “It only confirms my suspicions. A true king hides his greatness beneath a cloak of modesty.”

  Dinadan sighed, shifting his weight in the saddle. “Fine. Let’s pretend I am a king. What do you want?”

  “The Tournament of Riddles and Combat, of course!” Bartleby declared, his voice ringing out as though announcing the return of Albion’s golden age. He gestured toward a clearing, where a crowd had already gathered under the gaudy flutter of banners. “A contest to prove wisdom and valor! You’ll compete, your grace?”

  “No,” Dinadan said, as if daring the man to test him further.

  “Splendid!” Bartleby exclaimed, either deaf to reason or determined to embody it. “I shall escort you myself!”

  Dinadan groaned as Bartleby turned on his heel and marched ahead, his posture one of exaggerated chivalric pride. “If this ends with me wearing a fool’s crown,” Dinadan muttered to Aidric, “you’re carrying it. And I’ll haunt you if you drop it.”

  Aidric, pale and too weary for much amusement, still managed a faint smirk. “I’ll carve a notch for you in history, Sir Dinadan the Reluctant.”

  As they entered the clearing, the chaotic noise of the camp bent into to a more theatrical din. Lords and knights lined makeshift thrones and benches, the expressions on their faces ranging from skepticism to predatory ambition. Banners snapped in the wind, casting distorted sigils across the packed dirt ground. At the center stood a herald garbed in a nauseating clash of purples and yellows, the gold trim on his robes glowing in the aurora’s light.

  Dinadan gave the garish figure a once-over, grimacing. “Who dressed him? A bard drunk on too much mead?”

  The herald raised his arms for silence, and the chatter faded with a reluctance Dinadan envied. “The rules are simple!” the herald bellowed, his voice carrying with the force of someone who’d had too much practice. “Each contestant shall answer three riddles, followed by three challenges of combat. The victor shall earn the honor of crowning the High King of Albion!”

  Dinadan winced. “They’re choosing a ruler with riddles and swordplay?” he said to Aidric, keeping his voice low. “I’ve solved more meaningful problems with a sharp wit and a dull mug of ale. No wonder Albion’s falling apart.”

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  Bartleby, standing tall beside him, leaned in conspiratorially. “It’s tradition.”

  “It’s idiocy,” Dinadan muttered. “But by all means, lead me to glory.”

  The riddles began with ceremonial pomp, the herald’s booming voice attempting to infuse each question with gravitas. The first was delivered with a flourish: “I speak without a mouth and hear without ears. I have no body, but I come alive with wind. What am I?”

  Dinadan rubbed his chin, his face a picture of exaggerated thought. “A chatty ghost?”

  The crowd erupted in laughter, their humor fraying the edges of the herald’s patience. “Incorrect,” he snapped.

  Dinadan shrugged. “An echo, then.”

  “Correct!” the herald barked, though he begrudged it.

  The pattern continued with the next riddles. Dinadan answered each but not without first delivering a quip, his voice a needle pricking the bloated egos around him. The audience warmed to him in spite of themselves—or perhaps because of it.

  Aidric watched from the sidelines, his expression thoughtful. “The riddles are metaphors,” he murmured to himself. “Leadership, strength, wisdom…”

  Dinadan caught the boy’s muttering and shot him a smirk after the second riddle. “Wisdom?” he whispered as he passed by. “If wisdom got you the crown, Albion would’ve sorted itself out centuries ago.”

  When the riddles ended, the herald gestured with great ceremony toward the combat ring. “Now, noble contenders, prove your worth with valor!”

  Dinadan approached the ring with the enthusiasm of a man heading to his own execution. His first opponent, a towering knight who looked more like a fortress than a man, mounted his horse with the grace of an ox. Bracken, ever the reliable mule, snorted with apparent disdain.

  Dinadan patted the mule’s neck. “I know, old boy. Let’s just aim low and hope he overcorrects.”

  As the charge began, Dinadan tilted his lance just enough to look deliberate. His opponent, expecting a direct strike, veered too hard to compensate. The knight toppled from his horse with a thunderous crash, his armor clanging like a dropped cauldron.

  The crowd roared with laughter, and Dinadan tipped an imaginary hat. “Victory through clever cowardice,” he called, his voice tinged with amusement. “A knight’s greatest weapon.”

  The archery and sword challenges followed the same absurd pattern, with Dinadan’s wit and unorthodox methods drawing laughter from the spectators. By the end, he stood victorious, though the triumph was as hollow as the riddle answers.

  The herald stepped forward, his garish robes catching the aurora’s light. “Behold! Sir Dinadan of Albion, Champion of Wisdom and Valor!”

  A heavy, gilded crown was thrust into Dinadan’s hands—or rather, onto his head. It fit poorly and sat askew, its weight a sharp reminder of the absurdity of it all. Bartleby beamed as if he’d just orchestrated the greatest victory Albion had ever seen.

  “You’ve united the camps with your humor and skill,” Bartleby declared.

  Dinadan sighed, tugging the crown off and holding it at arm’s length. “No, Bartleby,” he said. “I’ve distracted them. That’s not the same thing.”

  Later, Dinadan fell against a weathered post that creaked under his weight. The garish crown lay discarded in the dirt beside him, its jeweled surface catching the faint light of the aurora like a bauble dropped in the mud. Aidric sat nearby, perched on a pile of cloaks. The boy’s thin fingers toyed with the gaudy thing, turning it over and over as if it might reveal some hidden truth beneath its cheap splendor.

  The aurora above painted shifting hues of green and gold across his pale face, giving him the look of a soul caught between realms. Aidric’s brow was furrowed, his thoughts chewing on some question he hadn’t yet spoken aloud.

  He broke the silence, his voice soft and hesitant. “Do you think they’ll choose a High King?”

  Dinadan didn’t look at him, his gaze fixed on the distant fires dotting the camp like restless stars. “Oh, they’ll choose someone,” he said, his tone dry. “They have to. Too much pomp and shouting for it to end any other way. But whether he leads or just wears the title… well, that’s the real gamble, isn’t it?”

  Aidric frowned, his fingers tightening on the crown’s rim. “You led them tonight.”

  That brought Dinadan’s attention back, if only for a moment. He barked a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Led? No, lad. I distracted them. I made them laugh, gave them folly to cheer about. That’s not leadership. It’s sleight of hand.”

  “But it mattered,” Aidric insisted, his voice steady despite its softness. He held the crown up, its gems catching the faint shimmer of the aurora. “Even for a moment, it mattered.”

  Dinadan’s eyes flicked to the crown, then back to Aidric. His smirk faltered, turning sharper and more brittle. “Moments don’t change the world, Aidric. They flicker and burn out, like that crown of yours—flashy, maybe, but hollow underneath.”

  Aidric didn’t look away, his expression unwavering. “Flashy or not, it got their attention. It made them listen.”

  Dinadan leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He let the weight of Aidric’s words settle between them, heavy as the crown itself. The truth was, he didn’t know if moments mattered. Maybe they did, maybe they didn’t. But the idea they might—that one fleeting instant of connection or laughter or understanding could shift the tide—wasn’t as easy to dismiss as he wanted it to be.

  “Well,” he said at last, his voice quieter now, almost resigned. “Let’s hope the next moment doesn’t disappoint them. Or us.”

  The stars appeared, as if Albion’s wounds were too raw, too jagged, even for the heavens to illuminate. Dinadan sat at the edge of the camp, slouched against a post that swayed enough to match his mood. Around him, the camp stirred in the restless way only knights, lords, and their hangers-on could manage—every movement designed to be louder, brasher, more important than it was. Fires crackled, banners snapped in the chill breeze, and somewhere behind him, a man barked orders that no one heard.

  The Henge loomed beyond the bustle, silhouetted against the eerie light of the aurora. The stones stood silent, ancient and unmoved, as though mocking the trivial squabbles playing out beneath them. Albion was waiting. Watching. Its pulse shivered through the air, faint but insistent, like the ghost of a battle drum. Dinadan could feel it in his chest, but instead of calling him to purpose, it only churned the questions he’d rather leave unanswered.

  He tapped a finger against the hilt of his sword, a rhythm without melody. His gaze flicked to Aidric, curled in a pile of mismatched cloaks. The boy had succumbed to sleep, though his face was drawn and pale, his rest fractured by dreams Dinadan would never dare to ask about. The thought twisted at the edge of his mind, refusing to settle.

  “Funny thing, destiny,” Dinadan muttered, his words meant for no one but the night. “It always seems to pick the ones least likely to survive it.”

  Aidric deserved better. He deserved a knight of steel and certainty, someone who could stride into the Henge and rally the chaos into an order resembling unity. Someone who didn’t crack jokes when the world teetered on the brink. Instead, he had Dinadan—the sort of man who could dodge spears and cut through insults but balked at the weight of real responsibility.

  Unworthy.

  The word hung in the air, unspoken but unavoidable. It wasn’t the kind of thing a sword could cut through or wit could deflect. It clung to him, tangled with the smoke on the wind and the bitter taste of failure.

  He forced himself to look away from the boy and toward the Henge. The aurora rippled above it, green and gold threads weaving like fate itself was showing off. It was dazzling, yes, but there was a sharpness to it, as though Albion was daring him to do more than sit and sneer.

  Dinadan huffed, tugging his cloak tighter against the bite of the breeze. “If you’re trying to make a point, Albion, you’ll need to be clearer than that. I don’t do riddles before breakfast.”

  Still, the land’s pulse remained, steady and inescapable.

  The sword at his side dragged heavier than steel alone, its weight not just metal but memory. Once, it had been a beacon—a knight’s pride, a tether to glory. Now, it hung like a question he dared not face. Could he raise it beyond his own cause? Could he wield it for Aidric, for Albion, for a purpose vast enough to eclipse the weight of its history?

  Dinadan let his head fall against the post, staring up at the swirling sky. His voice was low, edged with bitterness and resignation. “Some champion of unity I am. A fool with a sword, a boy on the brink, and a kingdom that’d rather tear itself apart than lift a finger to fix the bleeding land beneath it.”

  A shift in the wind brought the faint tang of smoke, curling through the camp like a warning. It carried with it the memory of the charred village they’d passed, the ghost of flames still lingering in the hollow of his chest. He could almost hear the whispers of its ruins, a voice he’d done his best to ignore.

  Dinadan glanced at Aidric again, the boy’s breath shallow but steady. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Sleep, lad. I’ll keep you on this side of ruin for as long as I can, though I can’t say how far that is.”

  The night crept on, and Albion held its breath.