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 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 tipped his head back, letting his eyes drift shut as the breeze ghosted over his skin—cool, weightless, a fleeting touch that carried the scent of damp earth and distant rain.

  He hated quiet roads. Quiet roads made room for thoughts, and thoughts were a knight’s greatest enemy.

  But 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.

  The hush came first, creeping in like a held breath. Bracken stopped, ears flicking forward. Dinadan opened his eyes and frowned, patting the mule’s neck. “What now, old boy? Don’t tell me the stones are whispering again.”

  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.

  “By Annwn, Bracken,” he muttered, breaking the silence with his voice. “We’ve been on this depths-abandoned road all day, and not a single thing worth calling ‘adventure.’ No broken carts, no wild boars, not even a farmer with a lost sheep.”

  Bracken didn’t answer. The mule’s ears flicked in vague acknowledgment, his steps never faltering.

  Dinadan chuckled, low and dry. "Mayhap you favor the stillness, eh? Not I. Too much space for thoughts, and thoughts lead to regret. And regret—aye, I’ve carried enough to last a lifetime."

  The mule’s ear flicked again, though Dinadan suspected it had more to do with a fly than agreement.

  “I knew I shouldn’t have listened to that innkeeper,” he continued, scratching the back of his neck beneath his dented pauldron. “Said this way was quicker. Quicker to where, though? Nowhere. Quiet roads and nowhere—they’re the perfect pair.”

  The sun sank lower, its gilded fingers curling back into the horizon. Shadows thickened, stretching long and heavy, while the fields traded their gold for the hushed glow of dusk.

  Silence gathered, thick with the kind of stillness that precedes a storm or a whispered name carried on the wind.

  Dinadan adjusted in the saddle, unease threading through his ribs. The road ahead was empty—just dirt and distance—yet something in the silence felt wrong.

  Then the howl came.

  Low and mournful, it rippled through the air like a stone dropped into still water. Bracken froze, his ears snapping forward, his entire body as taut as a bowstring. Dinadan’s hand fell to the hilt of his sword.

  “Well,” he muttered under his breath, scanning the fields on either side. “That’s not promising.”

  The howl came again—closer, threading through the night air like a drawn breath before the strike.

  A rustle followed, soft but deliberate. Grass parted in measured movements, not the aimless stir of wind but something alive, moving with purpose.

  Not charging. Not retreating.

  Lingering.

  Bracken froze beneath him. So did Dinadan. Not in fear—not yet—but in the kind of stillness that comes when a man senses the world shifting just beyond his sight.

  He knew the stories. The hounds of the Otherworld. C?n Annwn. But knowing a tale and standing in it were two very different things.

  The first shape stepped onto the road. —silent, fluid, inevitable.

  Its form flickered between shadow and substance, edges blurring as if the world itself couldn’t decide whether to hold it. Cold fire burned in its eyes—sharp, pitiless. Its body twisted like smoke caught in a storm.

  A second shape emerged. Then a third.

  Low growls rumbled through the night, bone-deep and unrelenting.

  No breath. No steam rising from their flanks. Only the cold gleam of their eyes, sharp as moonlight on steel.

  Dinadan swallowed, keeping his hands loose on the reins. ‘If they hunt you, you don’t outrun them,’ the old tales whispered in his head. ‘If they mark you, you’re already caught.’ He gave a slow exhale, steadying Bracken with a firm hand.

  “Annwn’s jaws,” he muttered. “This is inconvenient.”"

  The bards sang of men who crossed them, their names spoken once, then never again.

  He hadn’t believed it.

  Until now.

  Dinadan exhaled, slow and steady. No sense in panicking.

  Dinadan settled deeper into the saddle, his voice low but firm. "Easy, lad. No running. You’re a mule, not a deer."

  But Bracken wasn’t listening. He reared back, his hooves pawing at the air, jostling Dinadan. The mule’s wild eyes were fixed on the hounds, his body trembling with fear. Dinadan swore, gripping the reins to steady him. “Blast it, Bracken! I said no running!”

  The hound lunged.

  It moved—faster than thought, faster than breath—a blur of shadow and flame.

  Dinadan got his sword up before it was on him.

  Steel met flesh—or should have. The blade struck, but the hound shattered like mist, reforming in the same breath, untouched.

  A shockwave slammed through Dinadan’s arm, raw force rattling bone and muscle, trying to the sword from his grip. His fingers tightened to hold on.

  This wasn’t a battle of steel and strength. This was a fight against the impossible.

  "Ah, grand," Dinadan gritted out, flexing his fingers as the sting throbbed through his hand. "Hounds of Annwn that steel won’t touch. Just what the immortals saw fit to grant me."

  He shook out the ache, rolling his wrist as if to undo the sheer absurdity of the situation.

  The other hounds began to circle, their movements slow and deliberate. Dinadan turned in his saddle, trying to keep them all in sight.

  His heart hammered against his ribs, but his voice, ever a blade of its own, remained light.

  "Now then, lads, no need for all this shadow and teeth. What say we settle this over a game of dice? Winner takes my soul—seems a fair wager, aye?"

  The hounds gave no answer, only the low, rolling growl that thrummed through the earth, rattling up through Dinadan’s bones.

  The air thickened, pressing close—a weight without form, yet undeniable.

  His breath quickened, shallow and sharp. And for the first time in years, fear—true and biting—curled its fingers around his spine.

  “Stand yer ground, Sir,”

  The man on the hill sharpened into focus.

  Dark hair streaked with gray, loose waves tumbling to his shoulders—wild, yet deliberate. His face, lean and angular, bore the lines of time, not age. A man who had once been young, now cut sharp by knowledge deeper than any blade.

  His eyes—emerald shards catching the last of the light. Humor flickered there, but so did sorrow. And beneath both, a weight Dinadan couldn’t name.

  His cloak, plain but well-worn, carried the scent of wood smoke, as if he had stepped from the hollow of an ancient tree rather than the road behind him. A traveler. A ghost of the old world.

  But it wasn’t just his presence that set the air on edge. The hounds faltered.

  They had prowled forward, silent and certain, but now their steps wavered. Their growls thinned. One bared its teeth, then hesitated. Another took a step back. Then another. Retreating—not from steel, not from command, but from him.

  The ground knew him. The trees leaned in. The air itself bristled. And the hounds, born of mist and death, fled.

  That was the most unsettling part of all.

  Dinadan lowered his sword, though his hand lingered on the hilt as if reluctant to let go. “Well,” he drawled, eyeing the flickering shadows where the hounds had vanished, “Strange company you keep.” He slid the blade back into its scabbard with a faint hiss. “Is this how you welcome all wanderers or has fortune decided I deserve a special greeting?”

  The man smiled, his eyes narrowing, sharp as frost biting through autumn leaves.. “Ye must be Sir Dinadan. No mistaking that.”

  Dinadan arched an eyebrow, his tone laced with dry humor. “You’ve the advantage of me, friend. My name doesn’t outrun my trouble—though they tend to arrive hand in hand.” He leaned forward, studying the stranger with a guarded grin. “Unless, of course, I owe you coin. In which case, I regret to say I’ve no memory of who I am.”

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  The man’s smile deepened, a dangerous gleam flickering in his eyes. “Yer reputation precedes ye—not for coin, but for wit and wandering. A sailor without a destination, they’d call ye.”

  Dinadan held the stranger’s gaze a beat longer than was comfortable, his grin tilting, careless in shape but lacking its usual warmth. "And who might you be, then? Some wanderer too long in his cups, mistaking tavern tales for truth?"

  His fingers tapped against his sword hilt—not a threat, but not idle, either. "If it’s a story you’ve come for, I fear you’ll leave disappointed. I’m far less interesting than rumor would have me."

  “I am Taliesin,” the man said, his voice carrying a melodic richness that settled into the stones beneath them. “Bard. Seer. Teller of truths.”

  He stopped a few paces away, pulling back his hood to reveal a face marked by time and wisdom.

  Dinadan tilted his head, his grin sharp and laced with skepticism. "A seer, is it? And what grand visions do you bring me?"

  He leaned in, his voice rich with dry humor, the kind that masked whether he was laughing at the man or at himself. "Let me guess—you’re here to tell me I’m destined for greatness. Because nothing speaks of glory quite like a battered sword and a mule with more sense than her rider."

  Taliesin smiled, a shadow of knowing in his expression. “Destined, perhaps. That much is certain. For greatness?” His gaze flickered, sharp as a blade’s edge. “That depends on ye.”

  Dinadan groaned, slumping in the saddle. “Why is it never stew? Or ale? No fine meals, no good drinks.” He threw a hand into the air, his voice rising in mock exasperation. “No one ever shows up saying, ‘Sir Dinadan, you’re destined for a feast fit for a king.’ Always ‘destiny’ this and ‘fate’ that. It’s enough to put a man off prophecy for good.”

  Taliesin’s gaze sharpened. “Ye jest, knight, but ye know it, don’t ye? The tremor in yer chest, this Galw’r Tír, this pull of the Y Tir. It speaks to ye, whether ye admit it or not.”

  Dinadan hesitated, the hum in his chest deepened—not a sound, but a presence, thrumming through his bones like a distant war-drum. It had lingered all day, coiling tighter, pressing heavier, a pull he could neither name nor ignore.

  "It’s indigestion," Dinadan said at last, his tone a shade too light. "Or mayhap a yearning for stew."

  The chuckle that followed was thin, more habit than humor, fading as his gaze flicked to the horizon. The unease remained, quiet but persistent, like a burr caught beneath his armor—felt, but not yet worth tending to.

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

  Dinadan folded his arms, leaning back with a faint smirk. “Go on, then. Spin your tale. But if it involves grand destiny or some nonsense about chosen knights, you’ll lose me before the first stanza’s out.” His tone was light, but his eyes narrowed, the humor a thin veil over his weariness. “Make it interesting, or I’ll have Bracken wander off mid-sentence. He’s not patient, and neither am I.”

  Taliesin’s expression sobered. “This is no mere tale, Sir Dinadan. It is prophecy.” His gaze bore into Dinadan, unyielding. “And it concerns ye.”

  Dinadan hesitated and led 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 ancient earth, mossy and damp. At the center of the hollow stood a ring of ancient stones, their surfaces etched with markings that writhed in the dimming light.

  Taliesin stepped 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.

  “This is a sacred place,” Taliesin said, his voice low and reverent, each word falling like a stone into still water. “A place where Y Tir itself speaks.”

  Dinadan followed, his steps dragging as if the stones themselves were pulling him forward against his will. He gave the ancient circle a cursory glance, his brow arching. “Looks like rocks to me. Pretty ones, sure, but rocks all the same.” He paused, his gaze lingering on the faint, shifting glow etched into the surface. His voice dipped, quieter now. They descended the hill into a hollow where the air hung heavy, thick with the scent of wildflowers and ancient earth, mossy and damp.

  “Ye see what ye wish to see, Sir Dinadan,” Taliesin replied, his voice quiet but edged with certainty. He turned, his gaze catching Dinadan’s and holding it, unyielding. "There is more to Y Tir than meets the eye." His tone softened, but his eyes never wavered. “And more to ye.”

  “To me?” Dinadan scoffed, though the sound rang hollow. “Oh, you’ve got the wrong knight. I’m nobody’s hero.” He ran a hand through his hair, his grin faltering as he glanced at the horizon. “If the land’s looking for a champion, it can try its luck with someone else. There must be a brave fool over the next hill, sword raised, heart full of glory, eager to save the day.” His voice dropped, quieter now. “I’m the fool without the bravery.”

  “Ye misunderstand,” Taliesin said, his staff striking the earth with a deliberate, resonant thud. “Y Tir does not seek bravery. It seeks balance.” His eyes fixed on Dinadan, piercing yet calm. “Ye are not here by accident, Dinadan of Caer Celemion. The road ye walk is not yers alone.”

  The sound of his birthplace—Caer Celemion—stopped Dinadan in his tracks. The name struck like a stone against glass, stirring echoes of regrets he’d long buried. He swallowed hard, forcing a smirk onto his face, though the tension in his jaw betrayed him. “Caer Celemion, eh?” he said, his voice tight but trying for lightness. “And that’s why you think I’m your fool? Plenty of knights out there with sharper swords, shinier armor, and—” His tone dipped for a breath. “—less history weighing them down.”

  “And yet Y Tir has chosen ye,” Taliesin said, his staff striking the ground once more with a deliberate, echoing force. This time, the hum in Dinadan’s chest surged, sharp and unrelenting, like a distant drumbeat growing louder. His breath hitched, and his fingers tightened on Bracken’s reins as though the mule might anchor him to the moment. “The land speaks through yer veins,” Taliesin continued, his voice low, carrying a power both ancient and undeniable.

  “I’m not chosen for anything except making a gwallgofyn—a foolof myself,” Dinadan said, his voice cutting like a blade dulled by bitterness. “If you’re looking for someone to save the world, try somewhere else.” His hand tightened on the hilt of his sword, though he didn’t draw it. “The land’s got the wrong man, and if it’s smart, it’ll figure that out before it’s too late.”

  Taliesin’s lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. “Ah, but Y Tir requires a gwallgofyn.

  Dinadan blinked, stunned before his lips twisted into a wry smile. “Well, congratulations. You’ve managed to find one.” He gestured at himself, his tone dry as old parchment. “The wrong one, mind you, but here I am. Let’s see how long it takes before you regret it.”

  Taliesin gestured toward the stones, their glowing surfaces pulsing against the deepening twilight. “Then listen, fool,” he said, his voice a low murmur carried like wind through the trees. Hear what Y Tir whispers.”

  Taliesin hummed—a low, haunting melody sending shivers crawling down Dinadan’s spine. The words came next, not loud, not grand—just inevitable.

  From shadowed birth, a star shall rise,

  A child of kings with lion’s eyes.

  The blade of light shall know his name,

  And Albion shall never be the same.

  The stones vibrated in harmony, their glow intensifying with every word.

  A chill prickled at the back of Dinadan’s neck. He shifted his weight, arms folding across his chest, as if bracing against a wind no one else could feel.

  “What is this?” he demanded, his voice rough, cracking under the weight of disbelief. “What in all of Annwn is this?” His eyes darted between the glowing stones and the figure before him. “Is this some kind of trick? Or has the land itself lost its wits?”

  “It is no trick,” Taliesin said, his gaze turning distant, as though looking beyond the veil of the present. grasping at the fragments of a memory slipping through his grasp. woven into the stones.”

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

  Yet darkness gathers, greed and might,

  The land shall weep, its heart alight.

  A fool shall stand, unarmed, alone,

  The bridge between the stone and throne.

  Dinadan shook his head, his fingers curling into tight fists at his sides. “No,” he said, his voice taut as a bowstring. “This isn’t about me.” His gaze flicked to the stones, their glow reflecting in his eyes like firelight. “It can’t be. It shouldn’t be.” The words faltered, but the weight of them lingered, unshakable.

  Taliesin’s eyes locked onto his, pinning him in place. “Ye hear it, don’t ye?” he murmured, his voice low and weighty. “The Galw’r Tír, humming in yer bones like a storm waiting to break.”

  Dinadan’s chest tightened, the ache sharp and relentless, th pull dragged him in every direction at once. “You’re wrong,” he bit out, his voice fraying at the edges. “I’m not one of them. I can’t—”

  “Y Tir does not choose without much thought,” Taliesin said, his voice soft but unyielding. “Ye may not believe in fate, Dinadan, but the fate of the land calls to ye.” His gaze held steady, sharp and unrelenting. “The Galw’r Tír speaks yer name, and it will not stop until ye answer.”

  Dinadan let out a sharp laugh, harsher than he intended, the sound grating in the tense stillness.

  “Find another to play the part—I’m not your man,” he said, his smirk brittle at the edges. “I’ve no interest in being a hero. Or anything else Y Tir thinks it wants from me.” His hand brushed the hilt of his sword, more for comfort than courage.

  The bard’s sharp green eyes cut through Dinadan’s bravado, piercing the cracks he worked so hard to hide. “Ye think yerself unworthy,” Taliesin said, his voice soft but heavy with knowing, “because ye have failed before.”

  Dinadan froze, his breath catching as the air between them grew heavy, thick with unspoken weight—as though the land itself was waiting. For a long moment, words failed him, his throat constricting with bitter shame. When he spoke, his voice was low, rough at the edges. "What would you know of failure?"

  Taliesin did not answer right away. Instead, he turned his gaze to the horizon, where the last light of the sun bled into the encroaching darkness. For a moment, he stood transfixed, his eyes distant as the whispers of ancient magic echoed in his blood. When he spoke, his voice was low, ancient, and unyielding. “Y Tir remembers, Sir Dinadan. Be certain, it remembers every oath sworn, every bond broken, every choice made.” His green eyes flicked back to Dinadan, piercing and steady. “It carries them, as ye carry yer own. But the burden of failure is not meant to crush ye. It is meant to teach ye.”

  Dinadan let out a sharp breath, shaking his head as though the motion might dispel the weight of the moment. “You know,” he said, his tone brittle beneath the humor, “for a bard, you’re remarkably bad at making people feel better.” His gaze flicked up, a smirk tugging at his lips, thin but present. "Is this the part where you thrust a sword into my hands and declare I’m fated to save the world? Because if so, I’d like to request a different fate—one that involves a warm stew and far less responsibility."

  “And yet,” Taliesin said, his voice quiet but resolute, as he reached into the folds of his cloak. “Gwybydd y Tír dy enw—the land knows ye, even if ye have yet to know yerself.”

  He held out a small shard—ancient and weathered, its surface etched with intricate patterns, danced in the light.

  Dinadan eyed the talisman, his arms remaining crossed. “A glowing rock?” he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “How useful. I’m sure the next pack of spectral death-hounds will take one look and drop dead from fright.” He snorted, though his gaze lingered on the faint, pulsing light.

  “This is no ordinary stone,” Taliesin said, his voice low and steady, resonant as the hum beneath their feet. “It is a fragment of the land itself, bound to its will. It is tied to the soul of Y Tir.” He held the stone out, its faint glow casting shadows on his weathered hand. “It will guide ye when the time comes. But whether ye heed its call—the choice is yers alone.”

  Dinadan hesitated, the weight of the moment pressing down on him like a physical force. His first instinct was to refuse—to turn away and leave Taliesin and his riddles behind. But the hum in his chest flared stronger now, resonating with the shard as if it were alive. Against his better judgment, he reached out and snatched the stone from the bard’s hand.

  “Fine,” he muttered, his tone gruff as he snatched the talisman and shoved it into his pocket like it burned to touch. “But if it starts glowing or wailing, it’s going straight into the nearest river.” He shot a glare over his shoulder, his lips curling into a smirk. “And don’t expect me to dive in after it.”

  Taliesin chuckled. “I expect nothing less, —my dear lad.”

  He turned and began walking away, his staff striking the ground in sharp, deliberate beats. Dinadan’s voice rang out behind him, edged with defiance. “What if I ignore all this nonsense? What if I just keep wandering, minding my own business?” He took a step forward, his fists clenched at his sides. “What happens? Does Y Tir throw a tantrum, or do I vanish into the mist like some half-forgotten tale?”

  Taliesin didn’t stop. “Then Y Tir will find another way,” he said, his voice calm, unyielding.

  "Even if ye turn away, the land will not. Mae’r Tír yn dy adnabod, Sir Dinadan. It never does.”

  As Taliesin vanished into the growing twilight, Dinadan mounted Bracken and rode on. He told himself he’d forget it all—Taliesin, the prophecy, the ghostly hounds—but, the shard sat like a heavy weight in his pocket

  When he reached the next hill, he glanced back, his thoughts a tangled mess. The horizon was empty except for the faint glow of the setting sun. The road stretched out before him, empty and endless, the kind of road promising nothing and demanding everything.

  “Well,” he muttered to Bracken, tugging the reins as the mule stamped a hoof, uneasy. “Looks like it’s just us again, hen ffrind—old friend. A knight, a mule, and a road to nowhere. What could go wrong?”

  Bracken snorted as if in reply, his hooves clopping as they resumed their journey. The hum in Dinadan’s chest remained, a constant reminder of the bard’s words, but he forced himself to ignore it. For now, it was another quiet road.

  At least, that’s what he told himself.