The night pressed heavy against the forest, as if the darkness itself held its breath. The fire crackled, casting faint, flickering shadows that struggled to keep the encroaching blackness at bay. Aidric lay wrapped in his cloak near the dying embers, his youthful face slack with sleep, a rare reprieve from the tension that had haunted him during their journey. His breathing was steady, a comforting rhythm in the stillness.

  Dinadan sat a few feet away, his knees drawn up, arms draped over them, but his posture betrayed his restless thoughts. The fire’s glow painted his face in shades of gold and shadow, highlighting the faint lines of weariness etched into his features. His gaze remained fixed on the flames, yet his mind spiraled into places far darker than the forest surrounding them.

  The helm they’d discovered earlier in the day lingered in his memory, its weight as oppressive as the history it carried. He hadn’t told Aidric the full truth of why the sight of it had left him shaken—the memories it had stirred, unbidden and unwelcome. He hadn’t spoken of the day he last saw his father alive, nor the screams that followed as news of the massacre reached his mother. Those memories were wounds he’d buried deep, but tonight they clawed their way to the surface, raw and vivid.

  Beside him, Aidric mumbled in his sleep, shifting to curl tighter beneath his cloak. Dinadan glanced at the boy, his expression softening despite the storm roiling in his chest.

  “He’s just a boy,” Dinadan murmured to himself. “Still full of wonder. Still believing in heroes.”

  His thoughts drifted to the helm, recalling how its shadowed surface caught the faint glow of the sunrise. The raven etched into its crest watched him, unblinking, a silent reminder of the past he’d tried to escape. A shiver ran down his spine, and he leaned forward, stirring the embers with a stick.

  “You should’ve stayed buried,” he muttered, his voice bitter.

  The fire flared, throwing up a spray of sparks before settling into a duller glow. Dinadan stared into the flames, his thoughts pulling him deeper into the mire of memory. Exhaustion crept over him like a slow tide, his eyelids growing heavy despite the tension thrumming in his chest. He slumped forward, his grip on the stick loosening as sleep overtook him.

  The dream began as it always did, with a suffocating sense of dread coiling around Dinadan’s chest like an iron vise. But tonight, the vise tightened more than before, each breath a labor as he stood on a battlefield cloaked in the heavy hues of twilight. The air was thick, stifling, carrying the acrid stench of blood, charred wood, and the copper tang of death.

  Smoke rolled across the desolate plain in heavy waves, swallowing the shattered siege towers and the crumbled remnants of Albion’s once-impenetrable shield wall. The air shimmered with heat, making the jagged ruins of Londinium in the distance flicker like a mirage. Its proud spires—symbols of Albion’s defiance—were skeletal now, blackened and broken, flames devouring them like carrion birds feasting on a carcass.

  The ground beneath Dinadan’s boots was soft and treacherous, each step sinking him deeper into the mire. The mud wasn’t just damp earth—it was thick with blood, littered with shattered blades, broken shields, and the mangled remnants of Albion’s banners. They lay half-buried, their once-vivid colors dulled and smeared with the grime of defeat.

  The clash of swords and the guttural cries of the dying filled the air, yet the sounds reached Dinadan's ears as if filtered through dark water. The chaos of battle warped and twisted, transforming into an otherworldly dirge. Steel sang against steel in discordant harmonies while men's screams stretched into haunting echoes lingering too long in the blood-thick air.

  Sir Alain. His father stood atop a jagged hill, his battered armor a beacon amid the carnage. The metal was dented, splattered with gore, but it caught the firelight with an otherworldly glow, as though defying the darkness pressing in on all sides. He was at the center of the faltering shield wall, his blade cutting through the tide of Saxon invaders with precision born of desperation. His soldiers, pale and bloodied, held their ground beside him, but their movements were sluggish, their strength waning with every brutal charge.

  “Father!” Dinadan tried to shout, but his voice caught in his throat, as if the air conspired to choke him.

  His boots grew heavier, the mud sucking at them, pulling him down as though the battlefield itself sought to claim him. His legs burned with every step, each movement slower than the last. It was as if the earth wanted him to watch, to see what came next but never intervene.

  He forced the words out again, his voice a strained rasp against the oppressive din. “Father!”

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  This time, Sir Alain turned. Their eyes locked across the chaos, and Dinadan saw everything in his father’s face—pride, sorrow, and a grim, unshakable resolve. The weight of an entire kingdom bore down on his gaze, while regret carved deep lines around his eyes. Behind the mask of a father lay the face of a friend who knew the price of necessary betrayals. "I never wanted this path for you," whispered beneath each unspoken word.

  The dream lurched, tearing itself apart and reforming in an instant, as it always did.

  The Saxon captain loomed behind Sir Alain, stepping out of the smoke like a shadow made of flesh. His armor was black and jagged, cruel spikes jutting from the shoulders, and his eyes glowed beneath his helm, unnatural and predatory. The blade in his hand caught the light of the fires, its surface etched with runes pulsing with a malevolent rhythm.

  “No!” Dinadan screamed, his voice cracking. He lunged forward, but the mud dragged him back, clawing at his legs like grasping hands.

  Sir Alain didn’t see the captain. His sword rose again, cutting through an attacker, but he was too slow. The captain’s blade swung downward in a savage arc, cleaving through armor and biting deep into flesh.

  Sir Alain staggered, his shield falling from his grasp, and blood poured from the wound, staining his chest and the earth beneath him. He fell to his knees, his face pale but unyielding as he turned toward Dinadan one last time.

  “Stand tall,” his father rasped, his voice faint but resolute. “Dinadan... stand tall.”

  The words hit harder than any blow, echoing through the battlefield as the shield wall crumbled around him. The soldiers of Albion fell one by one, the Saxons’ relentless advance leaving nothing but ruin in its wake.

  Dinadan screamed his father’s name, straining against the mud as it pulled him down, its cold grip reaching higher until it wrapped around his chest. He clawed at the earth, but it crumbled in his hands, slipping through his fingers like ash.

  And the ground gave way.

  He fell into darkness, the battlefield vanishing above him. The clash of swords, the screams of the dying, the roar of flames—all of it faded into a vast, suffocating silence.

  For a moment, there was nothing but the void.

  Then, came the whispers. They seeped from the darkness, low and sibilant, growing louder until they surrounded him. Words in a language he didn’t understand hissed in his ears, sharp and biting like shards of ice. Images flashed before his eyes—Saxon banners drenched in blood, a raven circling a burning city, and a shadowy figure seated on a black throne, its eyes glowing like embers.

  “Stand tall...” The voice of his father echoed again, distorted and far away, but this time, it was joined by others. Voices he didn’t recognize, but they all carried the same message, repeating it over and over until it became a chant.

  “Stand tall... Stand tall... Stand tall...”

  The darkness pressed in tighter, threatening to smother him. His chest burned as though his lungs had turned to fire, and his body screamed as though it were being torn apart.

  As the void was ready to swallow him whole, Dinadan jolted awake, gasping for air, his chest heaving as if he’d run miles. The fire had burned down to faint embers, and the forest was eery and still. Aidric snored, undisturbed by the turmoil raging in Dinadan’s mind.

  He ran his hands over his face, his skin clammy with sweat. The images from the dream clung to him—his father’s blood, the sound of his final words. He glanced at the helm beside Aidric’s pack, the raven emblem catching the faintest trace of light, and nausea churned in his stomach.

  Dinadan stood, brushing dirt from his tunic as he moved to the edge of the clearing. The cold night air hit him like a slap, but it did little to ease the ache in his chest. Leaning against a tree, he clenched his fists, his knuckles white as he stared into the dark expanse of the forest.

  “Stand tall,” he whispered to himself, the words heavy with the weight of memory.

  For years, he’d buried his guilt beneath humor, his resentment beneath a facade of indifference. But tonight, the dream had stripped away those defenses, leaving him raw and exposed.

  His father had believed in things greater than kings.

  Prophecies carved into standing stones. Whispers from dying druids. The old magic still pulsing through Y Tir’s veins, threading sacred places where the world thinned—where destiny bled through.

  He had died for those beliefs.

  Dinadan had scoffed, called it folly. Recklessness. A man chasing ghosts.

  Yet now, staring into the shadows, he felt it. The weight of something unseen. The slow creep of doubt.

  Had his father been right all along?

  He sank to the ground, his back pressed against the tree, his knees drawn to his chest. For the first time in years, he allowed himself to feel the grief he’d kept locked away, to confront the pride and the responsibility his father’s legacy demanded.

  When morning came, Dinadan was already up, packing their camp with a quiet intensity. Aidric stirred, rubbing his eyes as he sat up.

  “You’re up early,” Aidric said, his voice still thick with sleep.

  “The road’s not getting any shorter,” Dinadan replied, tightening the straps on his pack.

  Aidric's gaze flicked to the helm. "The shadows beneath your eyes tell their tale. The helm whispers to you in the dark hours, doesn't it?"

  Dinadan paused, his hand lingering on his sword’s hilt. He looked at Aidric, his expression unreadable.

  “My father died for Y Tir,” he said. "He died defending sacred oaths carved in stone and sealed in blood. He gave his life knowing dawn would break over a different land, even if his eyes would never see it rise."

  He hesitated and shook his head. “I’ve spent years running from that. But maybe it’s time I stopped.”

  Aidric smiled. “I think he’d be proud of you.”

  Dinadan snorted, a shadow of his usual humor returning. "The only heroic thing about me is my spectacular talent for finding trouble in taverns that haven't even been built yet."

  As they set off, Dinadan glanced at the horizon, the weight in his chest still heavy—but now, for the first time, it was less like a burden and more like a purpose.