The inn crouched beside the road, hunched as if it wished to go unnoticed.

  Lopsided. Patched together. Less a building, more an accident that refused to fall.

  Its chimney bent midway, twisted like an old man gripping his ribs. Moss clung thick to the thatched roof, creeping over the eaves, swallowing wood and stone alike. Beneath the sagging beams, a wooden sign swayed on rusted chains.

  Yr Carw Gwyn—The White Stag.

  The paint had faded, its once-proud image little more than a ghost.

  "The White Stag. A name that carried weight in old tales, the kind spoken in hushed voices over dying embers. Some called it an omen, others a challenge. Dinadan only knew this—when the White Stag appeared, it was never by accident. And it never came for just any traveler."

  An omen wrapped in a test, and never a kind one.

  Bracken snorted, ears twitching. Dinadan eyed the sign, his frown deepening.

  “Yr Carw Gwyn,” he muttered. “The White Stag. Well, that bodes well.”

  The mule tossed his head, as though to say What did you expect?

  “We don’t have much of a choice, boy.” He dismounted, his boots squelching into the damp earth. Rain clung to the air, fine and mist-like, and the scent of wet earth mingled with the sharper tang of peat smoke from the inn’s chimney. “It’s this or sleeping under a hedge. Again.”

  Bracken eyed him with the unimpressed scorn only a mule could muster but stood still as he tied her reins to a weathered post.

  The hum stirred again.

  Faint. Steady. Unshaken.

  It followed him now, threading beneath his ribs, refusing to be lost. Now, it was quieter—almost buried beneath the murmur of rain, almost drowned by the creak of the inn’s door as he pushed it open.

  Almost.

  Inside, the common room was an ode to discomfort.

  The fire spat more smoke than heat. Mildew stains clung to the walls, twisting into shapes best left unnamed. The stew—if it was stew—reeked like it might sprout legs and flee.

  Cloak-drenched travelers huddled at wooden tables, steam rising off their shoulders as they muttered in low, tired voices. The fire sputtered, throwing jagged shadows that twitched across the damp stone.

  Dinadan stepped inside. The door swung shut, smothering the sound of rain. His armor clinked—a quiet warning. A few heads turned.

  Most barely looked. Too weary, too cold. But not all.

  A stout man nursed his ale, eyes flicking up, then down. A wiry tinker watched with the sharpness of a blade just honed. And in the far corner, a woman sat still, her hood drawn low.

  Waiting.

  Dinadan dropped onto a bench near the hearth, his chainmail clinking as he stretched his legs out. He leaned back, letting his weight settle into the rickety wood, and cast a glance around the room.

  “Must you clink like a wind chime every time you move?”

  The voice came from the stout man by the fire. His cloak hung heavy over his shoulders, and his face was lined with the kind of scowl life chisels into men who’ve seen too much.

  Dinadan smirked. “Clinking’s part of my charm.”

  “Charm?” The man snorted. “You’ve got the charm of a rusty gate on a windy night.”

  Dinadan leaned back, letting his armor clatter again. “Rusty gates are indispensable. Without them, how would we know where the trouble starts?”

  The man grunted, unimpressed.

  Dinadan’s smirk faded as his gaze fell on the woman in the corner. Her posture was stiff, her hands clutching a tankard with white-knuckled tension. Though she kept her head down, Dinadan felt the weight of her attention like a hand on his shoulder.

  Before he could decide whether to address her or pretend she didn’t exist, a low murmur drifted through the room—a chant, just beneath the din of conversation. He couldn’t place the words, but they carried the weight of something old. Across the inn, the tinker gave an exaggerated shrug, the kind meant to invite questions or steer suspicion elsewhere. Dinadan narrowed his eyes. A man who moved like that had things he didn’t want found.

  Near the far wall, a group of travelers huddled close, their heads bowed over a small wooden cross. Their voices were low, chanting in steady unison as their fingers traced the simple carvings of the cross’s surface. Dinadan recognized the language—an older dialect spoken in the borderlands, where villages clung to their faith like a talisman against the encroaching dark.

  “Praying for safe roads, are they?” a voice muttered nearby. The tinker, sharp-faced and restless, spat into his tankard. “Won’t help them. Not with the shadows crawling over the east.”

  Dinadan straightened. “Shadows?”

  The tinker shrugged, his thin shoulders sharp beneath his threadbare cloak. “Rumors. Strange lights on the hills. Crops withering overnight. Livestock gone mad. And worse things.”

  Another patron leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “It’s the old gods. The Hen Dduwiau stirs beneath the stones. The land’s restless.”

  At the mention of the old gods, the chanting travelers stiffened. Their leader, a wiry man with gray-streaked hair, looked up. “Watch your tongue,” he snapped, his dialect thick and clipped. “The Lord watches these roads. It’s not the stones that protect us—it’s the faith of men.”

  The tinker scoffed, leaning back. “Your Lord won’t hold the shadows back, pilgrim. Not this time.”

  The tension crackled, rising with the fire’s sputtering hiss. Dinadan felt it coil in his chest, a hum beneath his ribs.

  He stretched out on a rickety bench near the hearth, one arm flung over his eyes—a lazy pantomime of sleep. His other hand rested on his sword’s hilt, though he wasn’t sure why. If trouble came, what would he do?

  His armor—battered, mismatched—clinked with every twitch. His body begged for rest. His mind refused to allow it.

  A cough. A snore. The groan of old wood beneath shifting weight. Each sound fed the unease crawling beneath his skin, a tension that had nothing to do with exhaustion and everything to do with the unseen.

  Waiting. Watching.

  When the stew began to churn in his stomach like a ship caught in a storm, Dinadan sat up with a groan, drawing half-hearted glances from the other patrons. His battered armor clinked and rattled with every movement, the noise earning him a few muttered curses and an outright glare from the stout man near the hearth.

  “Second-rate cooking,” Dinadan grumbled, rising to his feet. “That’s what it is. The Immortals themselves couldn’t hold this mess together in my stomach.”

  His chainmail rattled with each movement as he scooped up a cluster of reed lights from the table, the metal rings scraping against one another in protest.

  The fragile lights flickered as he snatched them up, casting jittery shadows across the mildewed walls.

  He adjusted his belt, the hilt of his sword knocking against the edge of the table with a dull thud.

  A woman near the hearth groaned, pulling her hood tighter over her face. “Could you stop rattling? Some of us are trying to forget we exist.”

  “Forget existence? In a place like this?” Dinadan leaned back, letting his armor clatter again. “You’re aiming too high. Aim lower—mediocrity’s the house specialty.”

  A chorus of groans and muttered curses followed. Dinadan grinned, undeterred, and let the faint sound of armor scraping against armor follow him into the dim corridor, where the air was colder and carried a hint of sourness making his stomach churn harder.

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

  “Annwn take it,” he muttered, adjusting the reed lights as their soft glow illuminated the uneven stones of the floor. His boots struck against the damp wood with heavy thuds, each step sending another faint jangle of chainmail echoing down the narrow space.

  “Maybe if I move slower, it’ll be quieter. Not likely. Maybe if I hold my breath, it’ll smell less. Definitely not. Saints preserve me—by the time I’m done here, I’ll stink worse than Bracken in the summer heat.”

  The sour stench thickened as he neared the chamber post.

  It hit him full force before he even reached the door.

  He groaned, bracing himself.

  Lifting the reed lights higher, he found the source.

  A bucket.

  Filled to the brim.

  Balanced on a warped base, teetering like it had been waiting for the worst moment to tip.

  Dinadan froze, his hand still on the doorframe. “By the stones, what fresh misery is this?”

  He stared at the bucket as if willing it to empty itself. When that failed, he let out a resigned sigh. Using it was out of the question—any attempt would end in disaster. His stomach churned, and not from the stew.

  Grumbling under his breath, he grabbed the bucket by its handle. Its contents sloshed as he carried it toward the courtyard, his arm stretched as far as possible to avoid the smell.

  The cobblestones were slick with rain, their uneven surfaces glinting in the dim light. Dinadan stepped with care, but fate had other plans. His boot caught on a loose stone, and he stumbled. The bucket tipped, its contents flying in an arc splattering across the cobblestones with a wet, echoing slap and spread into a grotesque mosaic of filth.

  Dinadan froze, his breath catching in his throat. The smell hit him at once, sharp and overwhelming. The kind of stench that clung to the air, to his clothes, to his soul.

  From inside the inn came a sudden eruption of sound—chairs scraping, voices rising in alarm, and a few loud groans as the stench found its way through the door like an unwelcome guest.

  “By the stones, what stinks?” someone shouted, their tone equal parts outrage and horror.

  The door burst open, and a small crowd of bleary-eyed travelers spilled out into the courtyard. They shuffled into the misty night, their cloaks thrown on in a hurry and their expressions caught somewhere between sleep and disgust. The sour stink of spilled waste greeted them with the enthusiasm of a long-lost friend, and they recoiled, coughing and cursing.

  In the middle of it all stood Dinadan, holding the flickering reed lights high like a battle standard in a war no one wanted to fight. The puddle of filth at his feet had spread far and wide, glistening on the uneven cobblestones in a grotesque mosaic.

  Dinadan raised a hand before anyone spoke. “Let me save you the trouble: yes, it’s as bad as it looks. No, I won’t be explaining.”

  The crowd gawked in silence for a moment, their expressions ranging from incredulous to murderous. A stout woman in a faded gray cloak stepped forward, her boots avoiding the edge of the puddle. Her glare could have stripped bark from a tree.

  “You’d better clean this up, Sir Clank-a-lot,” she said, jabbing a finger in his direction. “Or we’ll all be sleeping in that whiff of waste!”

  Dinadan parted his lips to answer, but the hum in his chest surged, wrenching his thoughts off course. His free hand twitched toward the talisman beneath his tunic, fingers brushing the spiraled grooves as though they might calm the insistent vibration.

  The stout woman advanced another step, hands on her hips. “Well? Are you deaf as well as useless?”

  Before the argument escalated, a voice cut through the din—low, calm, and commanding.

  “Enough.”

  Dinadan whirled, the reed light trembling in his hand. Merlin stood beyond the courtyard’s edge, half-shrouded in the shadows of the inn’s eaves. His robe caught the faint glow of the reed lights, the embroidered sigils on its hem glinting like trapped starlight.

  “Stars above, you’re like a ghost,” Dinadan muttered, leaning against the wall.

  “And you’re as predictable as ever,” Merlin replied, stepping closer, his sharp eyes gleaming with quiet amusement.

  The wizard’s robes skimmed the slick cobblestones, the filth shrinking from their touch. The air, heavy with rot and the sour stench of muck, peeled back in his wake, giving way to the sharp tang of crushed herbs and the lingering warmth of distant embers.

  He paused at the puddle’s edge, his presence an offense to the reek clinging to the alley

  His gaze drifted over the scene, calm, as though considering the worth of what lay before him.

  Dinadan cocked his head, lips quirking in that peculiar space between mockery and sincerity. “What’s wrong, Merlin? Not moved by my grand feats of heroism? I’ve decided to name this one The Legendary Tumble of Yr Carw Gwyn—a tale of skill, grace, and sheer mastery of the ground beneath my boots.”

  Merlin’s lips twitched, though his expression remained otherwise impassive. “Always such noble priorities, Sir Dinadan.”

  Dinadan gestured to the puddle of waste, then to the reed lights in his hand. “What can I say? Some of us are knights. Some of us are wizards. And some of us”—he paused, dropping his voice to a mock-serious tone—“Some of us don’t have the luxury of floating around dispensing wisdom,” Dinadan retorted. “What are you doing here?”

  Merlin’s expression softened, though his eyes remained sharp. “I’m on my way to the Henge.”

  Dinadan’s smirk faded. “Of course, you are.”

  Merlin stepped past him into the dim hallway, his presence as commanding as ever despite the humble surroundings. “You’ll meet me there in a week.”

  Dinadan snorted, crossing his arms. “And why would I do that?”

  “Because Y Tir calls to you,” Merlin said, his voice low but firm. “You’ve felt it. You know you can’t ignore it forever.”

  “I can try,” Dinadan muttered, though the weight in his chest told him otherwise.

  Merlin turned to face him, his expression unyielding. “The stones have chosen you, Dinadan. Not because you are perfect, but because you are needed. Your heart is stronger than you think.”

  Dinadan frowned, his fingers tightening around the reed light. “What if I don’t want to be chosen?”

  Merlin’s lips curved into a faint smile. “Then you’re more fool than I thought. But fools can change the world.”

  Dinadan opened his mouth to reply, but the words caught in his throat. Merlin didn’t wait for him to recover. The wizard turned and stepped into the mist, his robes fading into the gray light like smoke dissolving in the wind.

  “Fine,” he muttered. “But if this ends in a bad way, I’m blaming you, Merlin.”

  The courtyard still reeked of spilled waste, the stench clinging to the damp air like an unwelcome guest. Dinadan set the bucket upright with a grimace, glaring at the growing puddle as though it had offended him.

  The crowd of travelers had retreated, muttering curses and complaints as they shuffled back to the common room. Only the stout man lingered by the door, arms crossed and a sneer curling his lips. “Well?” the man asked, his tone mocking. “Aren’t you going to fix this mess, Sir Clank-a-lot?”

  Dinadan gestured to the bucket, his smirk faint but defiant. “I’ve already got the bucket. What more do you want? A song while I work?”

  The man snorted. “If you sing as bad as you clean, we’re all doomed.”

  Ignoring him, Dinadan set the reed lights on a nearby ledge and unfastened his cloak. The worn fabric had long since lost its dignity, frayed and ruined well before tonight—one more stain would not matter. He dropped it onto the puddle with a grimace and muttering curses best left unheard he began mopping up the mess.

  The cloth slapped against the floor with a wet splat, drinking in filth rather than clearing it. He ground his teeth, shoving the fabric across the boards with all the enthusiasm of a man gutting a fish with his bare hands. The stench curled into his nose. His grip tightened. He wrung out the cloak, filth pooling at his feet, his expression curdling right along with it.

  By the time he’d scraped the worst of it into a sad little puddle in the corner, his cloak was ruined, his patience was dead, and his dignity had fled the room."

  “That’s it,” he muttered. “I’m done with this cursed inn.”

  Dinadan trudged toward the stable, the stink of spilled waste still clinging to him despite his attempts to scrape it off with a rag from the refuse pile. The stable doors creaked open, and the familiar fragrance of hay and horse musk greeted him like an old, indifferent friend.

  “Bracken?” he called, lifting the reed lamp. The shadows stirred, and from one of the stalls came a familiar snort. Her long, velvety ears appeared first, twitching with practiced disdain, followed by her dark muzzle.

  She fixed Dinadan with a baleful glare that said, What mess have you dragged me into this time?

  “Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” Dinadan muttered, stepping closer. He patted her neck, his fingers trailing over her rough coat. “Don’t give me that look. You’re still the best company I’ve got, mule.”

  Bracken huffed, tossing her head as if dismissing him.

  Dinadan reached out to pat her neck, his fingers brushing through the coarse hair. “You wouldn’t believe the night I’ve had,” he said. “I’m starting to think the lands are using me for their own entertainment. I mean, really, a full chamber pot?”

  Bracken nipped at his sleeve, and Dinadan chuckled, brushing her muzzle away. “Alright, alright. I get it. No moping allowed.”

  He glanced around the stable, his eyes lingering on the piles of hay stacked against the walls. It wasn’t much, but it was better than the common room and far better than dealing with the glares of his fellow travelers.

  Dinadan grabbed an empty burlap sack from a hook near the door and tossed it into the corner of Bracken’s stall. He arranged a small nest of hay, his movements slower now, fatigue weighing on his limbs.

  “Not a feather bed,” he muttered, sinking onto the makeshift pallet, “but it’ll do.”

  Bracken nudged him with her nose, her large, dark eyes watching him as he stretched out.

  “I know,” Dinadan said, his voice softer now. “I should’ve stayed out of trouble. But where’s the fun in that?”

  He adjusted his position, his chainmail jingling as he pulled his arm beneath his head. The stable was quiet except for the faint rustle of hay and the occasional stomp of Bracken’s hooves. Outside, the wind whispered through the cracks in the walls, carrying with it the faint hum of the talisman beneath his tunic.

  Dinadan sighed, closing his eyes.

  “Just a few hours,” he muttered, the words slipping into the stillness. “Then we’ll figure it out.”

  The dawn broke with a pale, watery light, casting long shadows across the courtyard. Dinadan stood by Bracken’s stall, tightening the straps on her saddle. His pack, lighter than he would have liked, hung across her back, and his sword rested against her flank.

  “You’re going to earn your keep today,” he said, patting her side. “The Henge isn’t far, but it’s far enough.”

  Bracken flicked her ears, her expression unimpressed.

  Dinadan climbed into the saddle with a groan, rattling as he adjusted his position. He glanced back at the inn, its lopsided silhouette outlined against the morning sky.

  “Well, goodbye to you,” he said, tipping an imaginary hat. “And may the next knight you meet be less clumsy.”

  As Bracken’s hooves clopped against the stone, Dinadan glanced back at the inn. Merlin stood in the doorway, his sharp gaze fixed on Dinadan as if trying to pierce through the haze of excuses and reluctance.

  The wizard raised a hand in silent farewell, his expression unreadable.

  Dinadan hesitated, a breath catching in his throat. A flicker of something—doubt, defiance—rippled through his chest before he forced it down.

  The weight of Y Tir’s expectations wasn’t spoken, but it was there, heavy in the space between them, etched into the wizard’s unwavering gaze.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” Dinadan muttered under his breath. “I’m going, aren’t I?”

  Bracken snorted, his ears flicking back. Dinadan tipped an imaginary hat toward Merlin and turned away.

  “The Henge in a week,” he muttered to himself. “That gives me six days to come up with an excuse.”