The mist didn’t just cling to the air—it writhed and coiled like a living thing, snaking its tendrils around the trees and creeping toward the narrow road. The forest on either side had vanished into the shifting gray, leaving only skeletal branches clawing upward, their shapes distorted and monstrous. The damp chill pressed against Dinadan’s skin, leeching warmth as well as a blade drawn across flesh.

  When the road forked ahead, Dinadan tugged Bracken’s reins, bringing the mule to an uneasy halt. The faint crunch of hooves on gravel was swallowed by the oppressive silence, the kind that amplified the sound of one’s own heartbeat.

  The crossroads loomed ahead, a jagged scar in the mist. The twin paths stretched out before them, one veering into a patch of darker shadows, the other gleaming as though kissed by an unseen light. The mist swirled and pulsed as if waiting, hungry and expectant.

  Dinadan ran a hand along Bracken’s neck, fingers tracing the coarse mane. "Well, boy," he murmured, voice low, "left or right? No mind to me, but you’re the sharper of us. What say you?"

  Bracken flicked an ear and snorted, unimpressed by either option. Aidric perched on Thistle’s saddle with the glowing chest clutched in his arms. Its faint, pulsing light dimmer now, as though the mist was devouring its warmth.

  “This place isn’t right,” Aidric whispered, his voice trembling. “It feels... wrong. Like it’s watching us.”

  Dinadan pulled his cloak tighter against the biting chill, his usual humor faltering under the weight of the boy’s fear. “It’s just fog, lad. Albion has plenty of places like this—damp, eerie, and full of bad memories. You’ll get used to it.”

  But Aidric wasn’t convinced. His gaze darted to the shifting shadows within the mist, his knuckles whitening against the chest’s handle. “No. It’s different here. The closer we get to the stone circle, the more it fights me - like the ground beneath our feet calls to the power locked within its heart."

  Dinadan’s brow furrowed, unease prickling along the back of his neck. Aidric’s words defied easy dismissal, but sarcasm came to him like his breath. “The chest always acts strange, Aidric. It hums, it glows, and it nearly gave me a heart attack the last time it sang. This place is playing tricks on you.”

  “I’m not imagining it,” Aidric insisted, his voice rising. “It’s worse here. I know it is.”

  Before Dinadan could reply, Bracken froze. The mule’s ears pricked forward, and Thistle let out a high-pitched whinny, her hooves pawing at the ground. Dinadan felt it too—a shift in the air, subtle but undeniable. The mist thickened, pressing closer, its damp tendrils wrapping around them like a tightening noose. The faint rustle of the wind had vanished, replaced by a suffocating, unnatural stillness.

  “This is all wrong,” Aidric murmured.

  Dinadan forced a wry smile, though his hand had already drifted to the hilt of his sword. “No, everything’s fine. We’re standing at a cursed crossroads, surrounded by living fog, with a glowing chest that hates us. Nothing unusual here.”

  Aidric didn’t laugh. His wide eyes locked on a shape forming in the mist, his breathing quick and shallow. Dinadan followed his gaze, but the swirling gray gave nothing away—until a voice slid through the silence, soft and sharp as a dagger’s edge.

  “You feel it, don’t you?”

  The voice layered itself over the air, many whispers speaking as one. It carried no anger, no malice—only the quiet inevitability of a shadow falling across the land. Aidric flinched, clutching the chest tighter, while Dinadan’s sword slid halfway from its scabbard.

  “Who’s there?” Dinadan demanded, his tone harsher than he intended, the echo of his own voice unnerving him.

  The mist stirred, twisting into shapes growing darker and more solid with each passing moment. A figure emerged, draped in black and silver veils rippling as though woven from shadow and moonlight. Its face remained obscured, save for brief glimpses of weathered skin and eyes burning with an otherworldly fire.

  “I am the keeper of this place,” the figure said, its voice soft yet undeniable in its power. “I am the Seer of Shadows, and you stand at the Crossroads of Choices.”

  Dinadan frowned, his unease sharpening into irritation. “Another cryptic figure with a flair for theatrics. Let me guess—you’re here to guide us, test us, or devour us. Which is it?”

  The Seer tilted its head, the faint glow of its eyes flickering like embers. “You tread on a place where fates diverge, Sir Dinadan. Every step taken here ripples through Albion. Y Tir watches. But it will not wait forever.”

  Aidric stiffened, his voice shaking. “What... what does that mean?”

  “It means,” the Seer said, turning its veiled face toward the boy, “hesitation has a price. The burden you carry is greater than you comprehend. Y Tir calls for action.”

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  Dinadan stepped in front of Aidric, his sword drawn now, though its weight seemed feeble against the suffocating presence before them. “Enough riddles. If you’re here to help, then help. If not, get out of our way.”

  The Seer didn’t move. Its veils rippled in the mist as it raised a hand, and the swirling gray thickened, twisting into shapes flickering between shadow and form. Figures emerged, gray and formless at first, then sharpening into distinct, haunting shapes.

  The woman stepped forward first, tattered robes dragging through the mist.

  Spectral tears streaked her face. Her ghostly hands reached—desperate—for a child’s wooden horse, shattered on the floor. Splinters of laughter, turned to ash.

  Dinadan saw it in her hollow eyes. A mother who had watched Saxon blades carve away both throne and son in a single blood-soaked night.

  Beside her, a man emerged. His armor—battered, bloodied. A broken spear dangled from his grip, his gaze heavy with exhaustion, his movements dragging as though bound by chains no one could see.

  Last came the knight.

  Spectral plate dulled by the haze that clung to him, edges once sharp now swallowed in gray. His visor was raised.

  Hollow eyes flickered within.

  Like embers struggling to burn.

  “These are the shades of those who faltered,” the Seer intoned, its voice quieter now, but no less oppressive. “Their choices undone. Their paths abandoned. They remain here, bound by their indecision, unable to move forward or back. They are a warning, Sir Dinadan.”

  The spectral knight stepped forward first, his hollow gaze locking onto Dinadan with a force that made the knight’s chest tighten. His voice echoed like steel scraping against stone, vibrating through the trees.

  “Why do you linger?” he demanded, his tone sharp and unyielding. “Do you not feel the weight of your delay? Every hesitation feeds the decay. Albion crumbles while you dither.”

  Dinadan’s grip on his sword tightened, his jaw clenching as he forced himself to hold the knight’s gaze. “And every decision demands answers I don’t have yet. So forgive me if I take a moment to think.”

  The knight tilted his head, his hollow eyes narrowing. “I, too, once thought caution was wisdom. When the enemy advanced on my lands, I waited—for reinforcements, for certainty, for a sign. But no sign came. No allies arrived. And when I acted, it was too late. The land I sought to protect was already ash, my people scattered like leaves in the wind. I hesitated, and Albion paid the price.”

  Dinadan’s breath caught, but before he could reply, the man with the shattered spear stepped forward, his weary gaze heavy with regret. His voice was softer than the knight’s, but no less piercing, a lament carried on the wind.

  “I was no hero,” the man said, his shoulders sagging under an invisible weight. “Only a soldier. When the call came to hold the line, I doubted my place. I told myself I was not ready, I was unworthy of the task. By the time I found the courage to step forward, the line had broken. My brothers fell, and Albion bled. Hesitation is a coward’s excuse, and I was its fool.”

  Dinadan frowned, his knuckles white against the hilt of his sword. “It’s easy to speak of bravery now, when the choice is already behind you.”

  The soldier’s hollow eyes met his, full of sorrow. “You think you have the luxury of time, but time is a liar. It will promise you certainty, leaving you with nothing but regret.”

  Before Dinadan could respond, the woman in tattered robes stepped forward, her spectral tears glistening in the faint light. Her voice was brittle, as though each word carried the weight of an unspoken grief.

  “I had no sword to wield, no shield to bear,” she said, her hands trembling as they reached toward him. “My choice was simpler—speak, or remain silent. The truth burned on my tongue, but fear held me silent. I told myself it wasn’t my place, others would act in my stead. But no one did. My silence condemned them, and I have lived in its echo ever since.”

  Dinadan’s chest tightened, the woman’s words striking a nerve he couldn’t name. “And if you had spoken? What guarantee was there it would’ve mattered?”

  Her spectral gaze bore into his, fierce and unrelenting. “There are no guarantees. There never are. But hesitation is a choice as much as action, and it has consequences. I waited for certainty, and I found only the certainty of failure.”

  The Seer’s veils rippled as it stepped forward, its shadow towering over the shades. “Do you hear them, Sir Dinadan?” it asked, its voice resonant and soft, like the hum of distant thunder. “Do you feel the weight of their warnings? Y Tir will not wait while you wrestle with doubt. Albion cannot endure hesitation. Every choice ripples through its veins.”

  Dinadan’s hand dropped from his sword, his head lowering as the shades’ words sank into him. Each had their own tale, their own regret—but their warnings were the same. Hesitation was no shield; it was a blade turned inward, cutting at the heart of purpose.

  Aidric stepped forward, clutching the chest tighter as he looked at the shades, his small voice trembling but determined. “He’s not hesitating because he’s afraid,” Aidric said, his voice breaking. “He’s hesitating because he wants to make the right choice.”

  The spectral knight turned his hollow gaze to Aidric, his tone softening. “And yet, child, the right choice is seldom clear. Do you think the world will pause while you debate its worth?”

  Aidric’s knuckles whitened around the chest’s handle, his chin lifting. “No. But... but at least he’s trying. He hasn’t given up.”

  Dinadan straightened, placing a steady hand on Aidric’s shoulder. His gaze swept over the shades, his tone measured but firm. “You all speak of the price of hesitation, but what of the price of rushing in blind? Y Tir doesn’t need another fool rushing to their death without thought.”

  The Seer tilted its head, the faint glow of its eyes intensifying. “And yet, Sir Dinadan, the path will not wait for you to measure every step. The Henge awaits. The land calls. Will you answer, or will you add your name to the chorus of those who faltered?”

  Dinadan’s grip tightened on Aidric’s shoulder as he met the Seer’s gaze. “Y tir calls for action, you say. Then let’s not waste another word on warnings and riddles. Show me the path.”

  The Seer raised its hand, and the mist churned again, parting to reveal the twin roads ahead. One glimmered with a pale, unearthly light; the other disappeared into deeper shadows, its end unseen.

  “The choice is yours,” the Seer intoned. “But remember this, Sir Dinadan: hesitation has a cost. Do not pay it without care.”

  Dinadan hesitated, the shades’ words echoing in his mind. Aidric’s trembling hand pointed to the glowing path. “It’s this one,” he whispered. “I can feel it.”

  Dinadan took a deep breath, then stepped forward. The path stretched ahead, uncertain and foreboding, but he pressed on, Aidric following close behind. Behind them, the Seer and the shades dissolved back into the mist, their voices lingering like an echo in the still air.

  “Every choice ripples through Y Tir.”