The inn was sturdier than most Dinadan had seen in months.

  Clean shutters. Swept steps. Timber walls standing firm, as if daring the world to break them.

  Above the door, a sign creaked in the breeze—a golden ram, its gilding untarnished.

  Inside, the air was thick with the scent of stewed meat and spiced cider, undercut by the earthy tang of scrubbed floors. A rare oasis in a land fraying at the edges, where uncertainty spread like rot and strife whispered from the shadows.

  Dinadan ducked inside, Aidric close at his heels. Inside, the warmth hit them, chasing the chill from their bones. The common room was full but not stifling, with villagers and travelers scattered across sturdy benches and tables. The fire crackled in the hearth, its glow painting the timber walls in amber hues. Dinadan swept his gaze across the room, already calculating which table might yield the best audience.

  The innkeeper—a wiry man with graying hair and an apron smudged with flour—approached, his eyes flicking between the mud-splattered knight and the boy at his side. “Room?”

  Dinadan nodded. “If you’ve got one. And a bowl of your heartiest stew for the lad, and whatever mead remains in your cellar for me. The kind that doesn't taste of regret and watered memories."

  The innkeeper winced. “No rooms left, I’m afraid. Folk have been pouring in all day, what with the troubles.”

  Dinadan’s brow lifted. “Troubles?”

  The innkeeper’s expression darkened. “Kings gathering at the Henge. Whispers of dark things on the roads. People want a roof over their heads when times turn uncertain.”

  “Well,” Dinadan said, slapping the counter with a wry grin, “if you’ve no rooms, perhaps you’ve got an audience. I’ve a tale or two that might be worth the price of a bench by the fire.”

  The innkeeper hesitated, then nodded. “Folk here wouldn’t mind a good story. Keep their minds off things, you know.”

  Dinadan glanced back at Aidric, whose shoulders sagged with exhaustion. “Right, then. Get him a hot meal and find me a tankard, and I’ll keep your patrons entertained for as long as you’ve got cider.”

  As the boy settled onto a bench near the hearth, Dinadan climbed onto a stool, raising his voice enough to hush the room. “Alright, listen close, friends. Tonight’s tale is about rebellion. Not the pretty kind with banners and glory—but the kind with mud, bruises, and maybe a goat. And like all good stories, it starts with a fool.”

  The room leaned in, drawn by the promise of his words, and as the fire crackled and the boy ate, Dinadan wove a tale that warmed the crowd, as the weight of the world’s shadows pressed ever closer beyond the inn’s walls.

  Dinadan took a long sip from his tankard, then set it down with a deliberate thud. “Rebellion,” he began, his voice smooth yet edged with wry humor, “is the sort of thing that sounds better in songs than in practice. You know the ones—banners snapping in the wind, swords flashing in the sunlight, stirring speeches about valor and freedom.”

  He leaned forward, his blue eyes sweeping the attentive faces. “But rebellion, true rebellion, doesn't begin with glory. No, it starts in places like this—a village with a decent inn, a warm fire, and folk too tired to speak their discontent aloud. It starts when the world’s yoke presses a little too hard, and someone like me—witty, charming, and unqualified—opens his mouth at the wrong moment.”

  The laughter was quick, but Dinadan let it ebb before he continued. “And why speak of rebellion now?” His voice dropped to match the shadows dancing across the tavern walls, “Because the road I’ve walked tells me this: rebellion doesn’t always come from anger. Sometimes, it comes from fear. Fear of what’s growing in the shadows, of what we’ll all face if we don’t find a way to stand together. Perhaps you’ve heard it too—the chill in the wind, the whispers of kings gathering, of darkness the bravest knight cannot cut through alone.”

  The room had fallen into an almost reverent quiet, the crackle of the fire the only sound. Dinadan raised his tankard once more, letting the levity return to his voice. “But of course, we can’t let it all be doom and gloom. No rebellion—or story—worth its salt starts without a proper fool.” He gestured to himself with a flourish, drawing a ripple of laughter dispelling the weight hanging over the room.

  And with that, the tale began, his words weaving humor and insight, the lightness of his wit contrasting with the shadowed truths lurking at its edges. It was a gift, this storytelling, and tonight, the warmth it brought felt more necessary than ever.

  “Rebellion,” I said, pausing to take a long swig from my tankard, “is the sort of thing that sounds good in songs. You know the ones—banners waving, knights charging, speeches about freedom and valor.”

  I leaned forward, lowering my voice conspiratorially. The flickering firelight cast dancing shadows across the room, warming the rough-hewn walls patched with mismatched timber and stone. “What no one tells you,” I continued, “is most rebellions start in places like a village where chickens scratch through mud-slicked squares and the air reeks of rotting cabbage beneath the road stones. Glory seldom springs from gilded halls - it breeds in the dirt, where desperation meets determination."

  The laughter was immediate, and I grinned, letting my blue eyes sweep the gathered faces. They were hanging on my every word. Why wouldn’t they? I was giving them the gift of a story.

  “It’s a fine thing to talk about in a tavern, isn’t it? Banners in the wind, swords gleaming under the sun, and stirring speeches about justice and freedom.

  “Of course, what nobody mentions,” I continued, tapping my tankard for emphasis, “is most rebellions reek like pig dung and burnt turnips. Or sometimes, a knight like me—renowned for my wit and charm, mind you—finds himself leading one by accident.”

  That got a laugh from the crowd. I flashed a grin. They loved a good tale, these folk, and I loved telling one.

  “It started in a village,” I said, leaning forward conspiratorially. “A wretched little place—name doesn’t matter, but I’ll tell you this: it had the dubious honor of sitting in the shadow of his castle.”

  I paused for effect, letting the room hold its breath. “Yes, you know the one. Lord Gorlois. Tyrant, tax collector, and all-around delightful human being.”

  The mention of the castle drew murmurs, as I’d known it would. Everyone in these parts had heard of Lord Gorlois—his taxes, his iron grip, his castle perched high like a vulture waiting for its next meal.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  I was passing through this quaint cesspool of a village by chance. My coin pouch was light, my stomach was lighter, and I’d heard rumors Gorlois’s taxes were bleeding the people dry. “Ah,” I thought, “a perfect place for me to spend as little time as possible.”

  The place looked like it was clinging to life. Crooked houses leaned together like drunks after a bad night, their thatched roofs heavy with moss and rain. Chickens pecked at the muddy streets, dodging carts with broken wheels and broken drivers. The road through the square was a churned mess of mud, and the air smelled like pigs, mildew, and a faint, acrid hint of burning porridge.

  “A knight like me,” I said, brushing imaginary dust from my sleeve, “should’ve been welcomed with fanfare. A feast, perhaps, or at least a loaf of bread and some cheese. What did I get?” I paused for effect. “A vendor selling turnips and the worst glare I’ve ever seen.”

  That got a laugh, and I let it roll over me like applause before continuing.

  The man behind the makeshift stall looked like he’d been carved from sourwood. His vegetables weren’t much better—soft, bruised, losing life.

  “How much for the turnip?” I asked, holding up the least offensive one.

  “Three coppers,” he said, in the tone of a man who already hated this conversation.

  “For this?” I turned the turnip over like it might have a hidden gem inside. “Does it sing? Perform tricks? At that price, I’d expect it to recite poetry.”

  The vendor scowled. “Gorlois’s taxes,” he snapped. “Takes everything we’ve got.”

  I sighed. “Ah, yes. Taxes. A fine excuse for robbery. Have you considered rebellion? Pitchforks, torches, the whole lot marching up to the castle gates. Very dramatic.”

  The vendor's words melted into the market's clamor as I passed over the coins, my mind already drifting to the promise of hot stew and warmer mead. I didn’t think another thing about it—until the next morning.

  The laughter rippled again, but I held up a hand. “By dawn, the entire village was gathered in the square. Pitchforks. Torches. Even a goat with ribbons tied in its horns. And who did they credit for this magnificent display of defiance?”

  I pointed to myself with a smirk. “That’s right. Sir Dinadan. The Voice of the Downtrodden. The Knight of Turnips.”

  The crowd burst out laughing, but I waved them down. "Now, I tried to explain. I told them rebellions aren't sparked by tavern dreams and ale-soaked courage. But no, they insisted. They had their leader, they had their cause, and they had their pitchforks. And before I could stop them, they were marching straight toward Gorlois’s castle.”

  “Now,” I said, swirling the dregs of my ale, “this is where things got... interesting.”

  Gorlois’s castle loomed ahead, its towers jutting into the gray sky like broken teeth. The villagers were already shouting slogans—terrible ones, I might add—when a carriage rolled up behind us.

  It was black, sleek, and far too fine for the muddy road. The kind of carriage that didn’t belong anywhere near this mess of a rebellion. I turned in time to see her step out.

  The first thing I spotted about Ygraine, apart from her sharp gaze that made me feel like a scolded squire, was how calm she looked. Here we were, mud and pitchforks everywhere, the villagers bellowing about “freedom,” and she stepped out of that carriage like she was attending a royal ball.

  She stopped in front of me, her dark cloak brushing the muddy ground but somehow remaining spotless, and gave me a long, measured look. Her hair, glimpsed beneath her hood, was the color of spun gold—too bright for this dreary village.

  “You’re Dinadan?” she asked, her voice quiet but sharp enough to cut through the racket.

  “That depends,” I said, tilting my head and forcing a grin. “Who’s asking?”

  Her lips twitched, not quite a smile, but close. “Lady Ygraine. And you’re the knight who thought it wise to rile up an entire village against Lord Gorlois?”

  “Wise?” I repeated, feigning offense. “No, no, that’s far too generous. I’d say ‘reckless,’ or perhaps ‘ill-advised.’”

  She sighed, the kind of sigh that suggested she’d dealt with my type before. “Do you know what you’ve done?”

  “Besides improve morale?” I gestured toward the villagers, who had transformed an old tavern ballad into a warrior's cry. The familiar tune of 'The Maiden's Kiss' now carried lyrics of burning thrones and fallen kings, each verse growing more passionate - and less in tune - than the last. “They seem happier than they were yesterday. Call it a public service.”

  “You’ve put them in danger,” she said, her voice cooling. “Do you think Gorlois will sit by while his villagers march on his gates?”

  Her words pulled me up short. I glanced back at the castle looming above the village, its towers wreathed in shadow. “You know Gorlois?”

  “Well enough,” she said, her voice carrying the practiced warmth of court manners laid over old hatred.

  Somehow, Ygraine convinced the villagers to let her accompany me to the castle. “Talk first,” she said, giving me a look that brooked no argument. “If that fails, you can go back to leading this lot into disaster.”

  And so, I found myself at Gorlois’s gates, accompanied by a woman who moved with the confidence of someone who’d stormed castles before.

  The gates groaned open after an eternity, and we were led into the hall—if you could call it that. It was cold and grand, all stone walls and high ceilings that amplified the clinking of boots and the distant murmur of guards. A great hearth blazed at the center, but the heat didn't reach the corners of the room.

  Lord Gorlois sat at the head of a long table, his fingers drumming on the arm of his chair. He was a broad-shouldered man, his face lined with age and hardened by years of wielding power. His dark hair was streaked with gray, and his sharp eyes flicked from me to Ygraine with the calculating precision of a hawk.

  “Who is this?” he asked, his voice a deep rumble.

  Ygraine didn’t wait for me to answer. “The villagers’ idea of a leader,” she said dryly, gesturing toward me as if I were a stray dog she’d found on the road.

  “Charmed,” I said, bowing with an exaggerated flourish.

  Gorlois’s gaze narrowed. “And you’re here to negotiate, I presume?”

  “Negotiate?” I echoed. “No, I’m here to explain why your taxes are so high they’ve inspired a rebellion involving pitchforks, torches, and a goat named Ferdinand.”

  Ygraine shot me a warning look, but I ignored it, stepping closer to the table. “Here’s the thing, Gorlois—you can crush the rebellion, sure. But it won’t stop another one from springing up next year, or the year after. You’re bleeding these people dry. They’re desperate, and desperate people don’t scare.”

  Gorlois didn’t respond for a pause. He leaned back in his chair, studying me with the air of a man deciding whether I was worth the trouble.

  “You speak with boldness for a knight with no army,” he said.

  I shrugged. “I find boldness often gets me further than silence. You should try it sometime.”

  Before Gorlois could reply, Ygraine stepped forward. “My lord,” she said, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade. “If I may speak?”

  Gorlois nodded, though his expression remained guarded.

  “These people don’t want war,” Ygraine said, her gaze steady. “They want to survive. Lower the taxes, a little, and you’ll give them hope. Hope keeps them quiet. Fear doesn’t. A cornered dog bites, but a fed one stays loyal.”

  The analogy was blunt but effective. Gorlois’s expression darkened, but he didn’t argue.

  “You’ve always been pragmatic,” he said, his tone grudging.

  “Pragmatism keeps the peace,” Ygraine replied. Her eyes flicked toward me, a warmth kindling in their depths that spoke of hard-won respect - the kind that comes from recognizing a kindred spirit in the art of survival.

  In the end, Gorlois agreed to lower the taxes. It wasn’t a real victory, but it was enough to send the villagers home satisfied and avoid a massacre.

  Afterward, Ygraine and I stood outside the castle, watching the villagers disperse. She folded her arms, her cloak billowing in the wind.

  “Not bad,” she said.

  “Coming from you, I’ll take that as high praise,” I replied.

  Her lips quirked, almost a smile. “Don’t let it go to your head. You’re still reckless.”

  “Reckless?” I echoed. “No, no. I prefer ‘adventurous.’”

  She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue.

  As we parted ways, she turned back to me, her expression serious. “You have potential, Dinadan. Try not to waste it.”

  It was the closest thing to a compliment I’d ever gotten from someone like her, and I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or be offended.

  “And that,” I said, raising my tankard with a grin, “is how I toppled a tyrant without lifting a sword.”

  The crowd roared with laughter, and I leaned back, letting the warmth of the fire and the ale wash over me. I had to admit - I'd sparked more than rebellion tonight. The villagers' voices rose in a battle cry that had begun as a tavern song, and somewhere in that cacophony of courage and foolishness lay the seeds of change. The kind that grows in blood-soaked soil and bears fruit in the shape of broken crowns.

  “Though,” I added, pointing to the barkeep, “I still don’t recommend making jokes about rebellion. You never know who might give heed.”