The tendrils of shadow tightened around Dinadan, coiling like living chains, pressing the air from his lungs. Every movement only drew them tighter, biting cold was more like despair than frost seeping into his bones. Vortigern loomed above him, his pale features framed by a swirling mass of black fog writhing and twisting as though alive. His presence turned the air heavy, the clearing darker than it had any right to be under the moon’s silver light.

  “You don’t understand what’s happening,” Vortigern said, his voice carrying an edge that made Dinadan’s pulse falter. “Your kings rally their banners. Even now, they march for the Henge of the Elder, clutching at some foolish hope of salvation.” He stepped closer, his boots crunching against the dirt as his cloak bled into the shadows around him. “But salvation will not come. Not for Albion. Not for them. And not for you.”

  Dinadan fought to breathe, each gasp shallow and sharp as the tendrils dug deeper into his chest. “Bold of you… to assume I… wanted saving,” he managed, though the words came out ragged.

  Vortigern’s lips curled, though his eyes held no humor. “You mock because it’s all you have left. But your words won’t stop what’s already begun. You feel it, don’t you? The Darkening.”

  Dinadan’s stomach twisted at the name. Everyone had felt it—the creeping weight in the air, the growing unease that never left, like a storm on the horizon refusing to break. The land itself was muted, its rivers slower, its forests quieter, its skies veiled with a pall of gray. Farmers whispered of crops withering overnight, of animals refusing to eat. Villages lit fires at night, not for warmth but to ward off the ancient shadows stalking the edges of their nightmares.

  “You’re a part of it,” Dinadan said, his voice sharper despite the shadows tightening around his throat. He glared up at Vortigern, defiance burning in his gaze as his body trembled under the weight of the tendrils. “Aren’t you?”

  Vortigern stopped, his cloak billowing in the still air. His pale eyes glinted like ice shards as he inclined his head, the faintest acknowledgment of truth. "The Darkening is not a force to be fought with sword and shield, fool. It is the void between stars, the entropy that devours all light. It is the unraveling of all that is weak, all that is unworthy. And I am its hand."

  The words struck harder than the shadows, and for a moment, Dinadan faltered. The weight of it—the scope of it—pressed down on him like the tendrils themselves. Vortigern wasn't a tyrant; he was the darkness that ancient druids warned of in their prophecies. In him dwelled the corrupting void that had once driven the Old Ones from Albion's shores - the power that turned sacred circles to ash and made the land weep blood.

  Vortigern knelt, bringing his face level with Dinadan’s. His presence was suffocating, his cold gaze boring into Dinadan’s as though peeling away every layer of wit and bravado to expose the fragile thing beneath.

  “You can feel it already,” Vortigern murmured. “The land rejecting you. The pull in your chest, the hum you pretend not to notice. It’s the call of destiny, and yet it slips through your fingers because you are too afraid to take it. Too broken to wield it.”

  Dinadan’s jaw tightened, his hands twitching against the ground as the shadows held him in place.

  “This land doesn’t need jesters, Dinadan,” Vortigern continued, his voice sharp as a blade. “It needs strength. And strength is forged through pain.”

  Vortigern rose with deliberate grace, his cloak sweeping behind him like a tide of shadow. The fog around him thickened, spreading outward, and Dinadan swore he could hear faint whispers within it. The air itself settled heavier, the shadows colder, as if the land was recoiling from the presence of the man before him.

  “You’ll be here long enough to understand,” Vortigern said, turning away. “You’ll feel the weight of your failure as Albion crumbles around you. And when the kings fall—when they see there is no hope left—perhaps you’ll understand what strength is.”

  The shadows surged, tightening once more before Vortigern’s figure melted into the fog, his voice lingering in the air like the last note of a dirge.

  And then, silence.

  The clearing sat hollow, the oppressive presence gone, but the tendrils remained. They wrapped tighter around Dinadan’s chest, their cold bite now burning like frostbite.

  Dinadan’s head slumped forward, his breath shallow and uneven as the cold shadows coiled tighter around him. He was aware of the faint gurgle of the stream, its mocking constancy only heightening his despair. The kings were gathering, Vortigern’s words reverberated in his mind. Even now, banners were unfurling, alliances forged by desperation rather than trust. They would meet at the Henge of Elders, where Albion’s fate would be decided. And where was Dinadan, knight of no renown? Bound, voiceless, and powerless.

  This is the end, he thought, the crushing weight of the shadows mirrored by the weight in his chest. His father’s voice rose unbidden in his memory, sharp and scornful: A knight who cannot stand is no knight at all.

  The memory dragged him further into himself. He saw the training yard again, the wooden sword clutched in his trembling hands. His father had towered over him, his shadow stretching long and cold. “You’ll never amount to anything if you can’t hold your ground,” he had said, his voice heavy with disdain.

  Dinadan had tried—had lunged forward with all the strength his boyish limbs could muster—only to trip, his blade falling from his grasp as he hit the dirt. The laughter that followed had burned more than any bruise. And his father? He hadn’t laughed. He hadn’t looked angry. Just disappointed.

  “You’ll never be a knight,” the voice echoed in his mind, a mantra of failure pressing him deeper into the darkness.

  The kings would convene without him. Merlin would be there, looking for answers. Dinadan could already imagine the old man’s voice, laced with an infuriating blend of expectation and patience. “A knight of wit, they call you. So where were you, Sir Dinadan, when Albion needed you most?”

  He clenched his teeth, his head falling lower as the shadows constricted, their cold tendrils biting into his arms and chest. The voice in his mind turned cruel. You’ve always been a fool. Vortigern was right. Albion doesn’t need you. It never did.

  The stillness pressed heavier, the world fading into a suffocating void.

  Then, through the oppressive silence, came a sound—a faint rustling, sharp and jarring against the quiet.

  Dinadan’s eyes snapped open, the fog of despair lifting. The sound came again, louder this time: a frantic crashing through the underbrush, branches snapping and leaves scattering.

  He strained against the shadows, his gaze darting toward the source. A boy burst into the clearing, his face streaked with dirt and sweat, wide eyes darting like a cornered animal. He clutched a small wooden chest to his chest as though it were his lifeline.

  Dinadan’s breath caught as the boy’s eyes locked onto him. For a fleeting moment, the lad froze, his mouth opening in shock. But the pause cost him. His foot caught on a root, and he tumbled forward, the chest flying from his hands and landing in the tall grass with a muffled thud.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  The boy scrambled after it, but before he could reach it, three men emerged from the trees. Brigands, by the look of them, clad in mismatched leather and armed with short, cruel blades. Their leader, a wiry man with a scar cutting across his cheek, grabbed the boy by the scruff and hauled him to his feet.

  “Thought you could run, did you?” the scarred man sneered, shaking the boy like a rag doll. “I’ll give you credit—you’ve got spirit.”

  “Let me go!” the boy shouted, twisting in the brigand’s grip.

  The brigand laughed and shoved him toward one of his companions, who caught him with a sharp jab to the ribs. The boy doubled over, clutching his side, but his glare burned with defiance.

  Dinadan’s entire body strained against the binding tendrils. Every muscle screamed to move, to act, to escape. His fingers twitched, and the cold grip of the shadows tightened further. The scene played out before him like a nightmare, each blow against the boy landing like a hammer on his pride.

  The brigands hauled the defiant boy to his feet, their hands rough and unyielding as they rifled through his pockets. He twisted and squirmed, but his resistance only earned him a sharp shove. The chest lay discarded on the ground nearby, its polished surface gleaming through the grass.

  Dinadan’s eyes locked onto it, a strange sensation blooming in his chest deep within him resonating with the chest’s presence. Though the lid remained closed, he felt its pull, a steady, rhythmic energy thrumming in time with the shard hanging beneath his tunic. Whatever secrets the chest held, it wasn’t an ordinary box—it was bound to his bloodline by spells older than Y Tir's stones.

  “The shard,” Dinadan thought. “It’s responding to the chest.”

  But it was useless if he couldn’t move. The boy would be beaten, the chest would be lost, and Dinadan—Sir Dinadan, the great fool in dented armor, would remain helpless, a silent witness to his failure.

  His head fell forward, the weight of despair crushing him. What use am I? he thought. Y Tir calls, but it chooses a fool. Vortigern was right. I’m not a knight. I'm a broken man stuck in the mud.

  The shard beneath Dinadan’s tunic flared again, searing against his chest like a spark waiting to catch fire. The hum surged through him, insistent and unrelenting, as though Y Tir itself was calling out. He clenched his jaw, forcing his breath steady against the suffocating weight of the tendrils.

  The voice in his mind—the voice that had always whispered of failure, of inadequacy—clawed at him. You’re not strong enough. You’ve never been strong enough.

  But this time, Dinadan didn’t shrink from it.

  Strength. He had chased that word his entire life, forcing himself to wear armor that sat wrong on his shoulders - each piece of steel and nobility a betrayal of the jester's heart beating beneath. The world demanded a warrior's might, but his power lay in wit and wisdom, in the ability to see truth where others saw only glory.

  Strength was enduring mockery and still finding a way to laugh. It was staring despair in the face and deciding to try, even when you stumbled again. It wasn’t a knight’s unbroken blade—it was the fool’s battered armor, patched and worn but still standing.

  Strength was failing and standing back up.

  “I’m not perfect,” Dinadan thought, the words reverberating through him like a drumbeat. “But I’m still here. And that’s enough.”

  The shard ignited in response, a burst of heat flooding his chest and limbs. The tendrils hissed and writhed, recoiling like serpents struck by flame. Dinadan gritted his teeth, the warmth in his chest roaring into a fire as he forced his arm free.

  The tendrils shattered, dissolving into black mist as Dinadan stumbled to his feet, his breathing ragged but steady. His legs trembled, but they held, the strength of his resolve steadying him in a way his body never could alone.

  For the first time, the weight that had always dragged at him—his past, his failures—was lighter. I don’t need to be perfect. I need to keep going.

  The shadows fled, leaving the clearing bathed in the faint glow of dawn. Dinadan stood tall, his battered pride forged anew in battle's flame. His gaze snapped to the brigands, who were too preoccupied with their prisoner to notice the shadow of vengeance at their backs—yet.

  Dinadan grabbed his sword from the pile near the stream, the blade feeling heavier than usual in his bare hand. His tunic clung to him, damp and wrinkled, but it would have to do.

  The brigands turned as he approached, their sneers melting into confusion. “Who are you supposed to be?” the scarred leader barked.

  Dinadan’s lips curled into a grin, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “A knight in soggy linens,” he quipped, raising his blade. “Care to see how well I swing steel?”

  The first brigand charged, his blade arcing toward Dinadan’s side. Dinadan sidestepped with ease, twisting his wrist to catch the man’s arm with the flat of his sword. The brigand yelped as the force spun him off balance, leaving his midsection wide open. Dinadan didn’t hesitate, driving a sharp kick to the man’s stomach. He crumpled to the ground, groaning.

  The second came at him fast, his movements wild and sloppy. Dinadan ducked under the swing, the blade slicing the air inches above his head. With a practiced motion, he drove the pommel of his sword into the man’s jaw, the dull crack of impact echoing in the clearing. The brigand collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut, his weapon clattering to the ground.

  The leader hesitated now, his sneer melting into the cautios mask of a cornered wolf. His eyes flicked between Dinadan and the boy clutching the glowing chest. “This isn’t over,” he spat, his voice shaking with forced bravado. He took a step back, then another, before vanishing into the trees, leaving his fallen companions behind.

  Dinadan stood over the crumpled brigands, his chest rising and falling as he caught his breath. The morning sunlight filtered through the canopy, dappling the clearing in patches of light and shadow. It highlighted everything—the defeated men sprawled on the ground, the boy trembling but defiant with the chest clutched to him, and Dinadan himself, standing with his sword lowered but ready.

  Aidric’s wide eyes met Dinadan’s, his gaze a mixture of awe and suspicion. The chest in his arms pulsed, casting rhythmic patterns of light over his bruised face.

  Dinadan crouched, keeping his movements measured and non-threatening. “Alright, lad,” he said, his tone softer now, though a hint of weariness crept in. “You’re in one piece. But you’re not getting far without help.”

  The boy’s grip on the chest tightened, his knuckles white. “I don’t need help,” he said.

  Dinadan raised an eyebrow, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Really? Because from where I’m standing, you look like you could use a rest and a proper meal. And maybe someone to carry that glowing mystery box of yours.”

  Aidric’s eyes flicked to the chest, then back to Dinadan. His jaw tightened, but he didn’t speak.

  Dinadan sighed, sheathing his sword with a metallic hiss. “Look, I’m not asking for your life’s story. Yet. Let’s start simple, eh? Your name.” He glanced toward the forest path. “There’s a village not far from here. I’ll buy you breakfast. Or at least try to, though with the state of me…” He gestured to his wrinkled, damp tunic. “…we’ll see if charm’s a decent substitute for coin.”

  The boy hesitated, then gave a reluctant nod. “Aidric.”

  “Good lad,” Dinadan said, straightening and brushing dirt from his knees. He extended a hand. “Stick close, Aidric. I’ve got a mule that bites and no patience for foolishness, so don’t try anything stupid.”

  Aidric stared at the offered hand for a moment, ignored it and pushed himself to his feet.

  Dinadan chuckled, shaking his head. “Fair enough. You’ve got spirit. I’ll give you that.”

  Behind him, Bracken let out an indignant snort, her ears flicking back as if protesting the insult to her character. Dinadan patted her neck as he approached, speaking in an exaggerated whisper loud enough for Aidric to hear. “She likes to think she’s dignified, but don’t let her fool you. She’s as grumpy as a hedge witch without her herbs.”

  The mule’s ears twitched, but she tolerated the remark as Dinadan began strapping his armor to the saddle. The pile of steel clanked, its weight a reminder of how close he had come to losing everything. He secured the last strap with a tug, muttering, “Let’s hope the villagers are more inclined to kindness than those fine gentlemen.” He nodded toward the unconscious brigands, sprawled in the grass like discarded marionettes.

  Aidric lingered near the edge of the clearing, his grip on the chest firm and his gaze darting between the mule and the man who had saved him. His eyes lingered on the faint glow of the shard pulsing beneath Dinadan’s tunic, but he said nothing.

  “Right, then,” Dinadan said, motioning for Aidric to follow. “I’ll save my questions for later. But you might want to think of a few answers on the way—like why your box looks ready to burst into song.”

  Aidric’s lips twitched, the briefest flicker of a smile—or maybe a grimace. Dinadan couldn’t tell, but he decided to take it as a good sign.

  The path ahead stretched long and winding, the trees arching overhead like the ribs of some great beast, their branches tangled with streaks of sunlight and shadow. Dinadan walked beside Aidric, the steady clop of Bracken’s hooves the only sound cutting through the morning’s quiet.

  Whatever trouble this boy carried with him, it had already taken root in Dinadan’s path. And as the road to the Henge stretched out before them, twisting and uncertain, Dinadan couldn’t help but grin.

  “Well,” he thought, glancing at Aidric and the glowing chest, “this got a lot more interesting.”