The water in the basin trembled, its surface catching the light like polished silver. Shapes coalesced, pushing aside the dim reflection of his tower’s stone walls. Instead, a sunlit forest unfolded—a place far to the south, where golden light filtered through ancient boughs and the air carried the hush of whispered omens. Through the sharp, predator’s gaze of Wyott, his ever-watchful wyvern, Merlin observed the pair moving below.

  There was the boy, Aidric, his arms locked around a chest glimmering with a power older than any kingdom. And there was the knight, Dinadan, his path as unpredictable as the wind. The man carried himself with a careless air, but Merlin could see the subtle tension in his posture—the wariness of a man who masked his caution with wit.

  “They’re still upright,” Merlin murmured, his voice carrying a faint note of wry amusement. “Not bad, all things considered.”

  Wyott’s wings cut through the reflection, the shadow of its broad frame skimming the treetops as it banked. The wyvern’s golden gaze lingered on the knight and boy, unreadable, before tilting toward the winding road ahead. RRiders approached, their cloaks of fine wool marking them as merchants rather than warriors. Yet these were no ordinary traders.

  Merlin’s jaw tightened as the image sharpened. Hengist and Horsa. The names surfaced like sediment disturbed in a deep pool. The brothers—merchants by trade, opportunists by nature—were agents of Vortigern, the Usurper King. They traded in more than silks and spices, using their wealth and influence to spread the king’s reach into every corner of Albion. Their allegiance was as transactional as their wares, bought with promises of expanded trade routes and dominion over lucrative markets in the south.

  “Of course, it’s you,” Merlin muttered, his fingers drumming against the edge of the basin. “Greed and ambition, Vortigern’s favorite tools.”

  In the basin, Wyott descended, its shadow falling over the riders like the swipe of an unseen predator. The wyvern’s heightened senses carried their voices back to Merlin, clear as if they spoke in the cave beside him.

  “Scouts saw the wyvern circling here,” Hengist said, his pale hair gleaming in the dappled sunlight. His tone was sharp, his words clipped with the efficiency of a man used to command. "And where these ancient hunters circle, treasure lies beneath - be it gold, magic, or secrets worth killing for."

  "The wyrm circles ancient treasures, brother. Merlin's beast guards more than gold - it watches over artifacts that echo with power from the Old Kingdom. The real question isn't the risk..." He traced the pommel of his sword with calloused fingers. "It's whether we can afford to let such secrets remain buried.

  “It’s not for you to think,” Hengist snapped, his voice edged with impatience. “We follow the king’s interests, not our own. Whatever this creature guards, we’ll claim it before anyone else catches wind. Now move.”

  Merlin’s lips curled into a grim smile, his fingers brushing the carved rim of the basin. “Claim it, will you? How like Vortigern to send his hounds sniffing at magic they don't understand.”

  Wyott rumbled low in the vision, the sound vibrating through the cave as the wyvern’s attention swung back to the boy and knight. Merlin’s gaze followed, his expression hardening as the reflection settled on Aidric. The boy’s shoulders slumped under the weight of the chest, and though he moved with determination, his exhaustion was evident. Dinadan walked ahead, his hand resting near the hilt of his sword. His gait was loose, but Merlin could see the awareness in his movements—a predator masking wariness with a careless stride.

  “Do you know what you’re guarding, Dinadan?” Merlin murmured, leaning closer to the basin. “The chest, the boy, the road ahead—they’re threads in Albion’s tapestry. And yet you stumble forward, blind to the weaving.”

  The riders quickened their pace in the vision, the Saxons fanning out to flank the road. Steel glinted as one of them drew a short blade, the polished edge flashing like a threat against the sunlight. Hengist gestured, sending a scout ahead to cut through the trees.

  Merlin’s hand curled into a fist as he watched. “Wolves,” he muttered, the word laced with contempt. “Circling as they always do, hoping for scraps of power to gnaw on.”

  Wyott let out another low growl, its wings beating as it circled back to the knight and boy. Merlin hesitated, his fingers tracing the runes carved into the basin. The temptation to intervene whispered at the edge of his thoughts, but he held back. The balance of Albion’s fate was fragile, its threads too ready to unravel with the right interference. He could watch, guide from the shadows, but this was not his fight—at least, not yet.

  “Onward, knight of wit and folly,” Merlin said, stepping back as the vision in the basin began to fade. The runes around its rim dimmed, the glow retreating like the last light of the setting sun. He turned to the mouth of the cave, where the plains of Aelwyd stretched, their golden grasses rippling in the breeze like the surface of a vast sea.

  Beyond the plains, the Henge waited, its ancient stones a silent witness to the currents of power shifting through Albion. Merlin’s sharp eyes narrowed, his voice low but resolute. “The game deepens. The players move.

  The morning sun climbed higher, painting the hills and trees in soft gold, but the shadow circling above refused to leave them. Dinadan glanced skyward for the hundredth time, squinting at the dark shape cutting lazy arcs against the blue expanse.

  “That blasted thing is still up there,” he muttered, tugging Bracken’s reins. “Either it’s lost, or it’s got a peculiar taste for mules. What do you think, Bracken?”

  The mule flicked her ears in response, unimpressed by her knightly companion’s attempts at humor.

  Aidric’s gaze darted upward, his face pale. “It’s following us.”

  “Following us?” Dinadan repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Lad, it’s a wyvern, not some lovesick troubadour. They don’t follow unless they’ve got a reason—or unless they’re hungry, which isn’t much better.”

  Aidric’s grip on Thistle’s reins tightened. “It’s watching us.”

  Dinadan huffed and shook his head, though his own unease grew with every flap of the creature’s leathery wings. “If it comes down, we’ll handle it. Wyverns may be fierce, but they’re not invincible. Besides, it hasn’t so much as dipped a wing toward us yet. Likely circling to keep the crows company.”

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  The words rang hollow, even to him. The wyvern’s behavior wasn’t normal—no sudden dives for prey, no roars to mark its presence. Just endless, deliberate circling.

  A sharp whistle broke the stillness, followed by the unmistakable hiss of an arrow slicing through the air. Dinadan’s instincts took over, yanking Aidric behind a tree as the arrow thudded into the dirt where they had been standing.

  “Down!” Dinadan growled, peeking out from behind the trunk.

  A small company of riders galloped into view on the path ahead, their armor glinting in the shifting light. At their head were two men whose presence was impossible to ignore. Hengist, with his sharp eyes and commanding scowl, shouted orders in a language Dinadan didn’t understand. Beside him, Horsa rode with a quieter intensity, his thick arms gripping the reins as he scanned the trees.

  The Saxons had already loosed another volley of arrows, their bows angled upward toward Wyott, who circled low enough to remain a tempting target.

  “Keep firing!” Hengist bellowed. “Bring it down before it brings the skies down on us!”

  “Brilliant,” Dinadan muttered under his breath. “We’re caught between trigger-happy Saxons and a wyvern who might be our only ally. Just another day in Albion.”

  Dinadan pulled Aidric further into the underbrush, gesturing for him to keep low. “Move,” he hissed, his voice carried over the thud of hooves and the twang of bowstrings.

  The forest thickened as they moved, branches clawing at their clothes and brambles snagging at their boots. Bracken followed, snorting her disapproval, while Thistle stumbled over a root, jarring the chest. Aidric let out a muffled gasp, catching the chest before it hit the ground.

  “Watch your step,” Dinadan muttered, his tone sharper than he intended. “If we lose that box, we might as well throw ourselves to the Saxons and be done with it.”

  Aidric’s face flushed, but he said nothing, his grip on the chest tightening.

  The sounds of the riders grew faint, and Dinadan stopped, leaning against a tree to catch his breath. “Well,” he said, forcing a grin despite the tightness in his chest, “that was invigorating. Just the sort of thing to get the blood pumping.”

  Aidric sank to the ground, his back pressed against a rock. He looked drained, his bruised face pale and drawn.

  Dinadan crouched in front of him, his humor fading. “Lad, are you alright?”

  Aidric nodded weakly.

  “Good,” Dinadan said, his voice softening. “Because this isn’t over yet. Those riders will double back when they realize they haven’t hit anything with feathers or scales. We need to keep moving.”

  Far above the forest, Wyott circled with an agitated flick of its tail. Its sharp gaze followed the Saxons as they regrouped on the path below, muttering curses about the elusive wyvern and its prey.

  Merlin leaned closer to his scrying basin, his lips curling into a faint smile. “The Saxons are rattled. Good. The more distracted they are, the better.”

  The wyvern banked, its focus shifting to Dinadan and Aidric, now hidden in the trees. Merlin’s eyes softened as he studied the boy clutching the chest. “So young to carry so much,” he murmured. “But then, Y Tir doesn’t choose without care.”

  His gaze fell on Dinadan, who beckoned Aidric to his feet, his voice walking the line between command and comfort. Merlin let out a quiet chuckle. “And you, fool knight—mending the space between worlds with nothing but wit and sheer obstinacy. Perhaps this role fits you better than you care to admit.”

  As they pressed deeper into the woods, Dinadan saw the tension in Aidric’s face easing. His grip on the chest loosened, and though his steps faltered, he didn’t complain.

  They stopped at a small clearing where the mules grazed and Dinadan divided their meager provisions. Aidric accepted his share with a quiet “thank you,” earning a raised eyebrow from Dinadan.

  “Well,” Dinadan said, tearing into his bread, “look who’s warming up. Keep that up, and I might start believing you like my company.”

  Aidric glanced at him, his lips twitching. “You’re not as unbearable as I thought.”

  Dinadan laughed. “High praise indeed. I’ll take it.”

  As they resumed their journey, the tension between them eased further. Aidric offered a few words about his father’s warnings—small but significant steps toward trust. But as the path wound ever closer to the Henge, the shadow of Wyott overhead reminded them both the road ahead would only grow darker.

  The sun dipped below the treetops, and the golden light gave way to the deep blue of encroaching night. Dinadan wiped his brow with the back of his hand, squinting at a small clearing ahead. It wasn’t much—a patch of ground clear enough to avoid brambles and flat enough to sleep on—but it would do.

  “This’ll be home for tonight,” Dinadan said, guiding Bracken to a stop. He tossed his bedroll from her back and began unstrapping the saddlebags. “Not much, but it’s better than trying to pitch camp in a marsh.”

  Aidric nodded and lowered himself to the ground near the base of a sprawling oak. Dinadan caught the boy glancing over his shoulder at the darkening forest, his bruised face wary and pale.

  While Dinadan busied himself with gathering kindling, the boy sat cross-legged near the oak, pulling at the grass. A glint of metal, half-hidden beneath a tangle of roots, caught his eye.

  Curiosity flared. He set the chest aside and leaned forward, brushing at the soil with his fingers. The glint became clearer, the curve of a metal edge tarnished with age but still worked by human hands. Aidric’s fingers dug into the cool dirt, prying away the loose earth as the shape grew larger.

  Dinadan returned with an armful of twigs and branches as Aidric sat back on his heels, his hands coated in dirt. “What’s this?” Dinadan asked, dropping the wood with a clatter and crouching beside the boy.

  Aidric pointed to the object in the ground. “It’s... some kind of armor, I think.”

  Dinadan leaned closer, brushing dirt away with practiced hands. His brow furrowed as the curved edge of the artifact came into focus. “Not just armor,” he muttered. “That’s a helm.”

  “A helm?” Aidric asked, his voice was low.

  Dinadan nodded, tracing the edge of the object with a finger. The faint etchings along the rim were worn but still visible—a repeating pattern of interlocking lines and shapes. The design was intricate and unmistakable.

  “Saxon,” Dinadan said, his voice tinged with unease.

  Aidric blinked. “Saxon? What’s a Saxon helm doing out here?”

  “That’s the question, isn’t it?” Dinadan replied, sitting back on his heels. “The Saxons weren’t fond of Albion, and their warbands didn’t roam this far west. Whatever this is, it’s old. And it’s out of place.”

  The glint of the helm in the firelight sent an unsettling chill up Dinadan’s spine. His instincts, honed by years on the road, whispered this was no mere relic.

  “Don’t dig it out,” Dinadan said, rising to his feet. “Whatever it’s doing here, it’s not our problem—not tonight. Leave it buried.”

  Aidric hesitated, his fingers twitching toward the helm’s edge.

  “Lad, I mean it,” Dinadan said, his voice hardening. “We’ve already got enough trouble on our hands without inviting more.”

  Dinadan set to work building the fire, though his thoughts kept straying to the helm buried in the roots. Aidric sat nearby, his knees pulled to his chest, the box resting beside him. The boy hadn’t spoken much since they’d left the village, but Dinadan had learned to let the silence hang until Aidric chose to fill it.

  “You think it’s cursed?” Aidric asked, his voice low.

  Dinadan poked at the fire, the flames crackling and spitting as they grew. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But things like that don’t end up in the ground by accident. If it was left here, there was a reason.”

  Aidric nodded but said nothing more. The shadows of the forest stretched long and jagged, the firelight dancing against the dark trunks. Above, Wyott’s cry echoed, a low rumble vibrating through the earth itself.

  Dinadan leaned back against a log, his gaze fixed on the stars visible through the canopy. “Get some rest,” he said. “We’ve still got miles to cover, and the Henge won’t wait for us.”

  Aidric nodded, though his gaze lingered on the tree roots and the faint gleam of the helm. It wasn’t until much later, long after Dinadan’s breathing had evened into the steady rhythm of sleep, that Aidric closed his eyes.

  The buried helm remained half-hidden, its polished surface catching faint glimmers of moonlight. Above, Wyott circled once more before vanishing into the darkness.