The armorer grunted, lifting the breastplate, turning it once in the firelight before setting it down with a decisive thud.

  "You might as well find somewhere else to wait. It won’t be done today."

  Dinadan narrowed his eyes at the scattered plates. "Not done?"

  The armorer didn’t bother looking up. "Takes as long as it takes."

  Dinadan drummed his fingers against the workbench, glancing around the cluttered forge. The heat bore down on him, thick with coal smoke and the sharp tang of molten iron. Sweat clung to his skin, the forge pressing in, suffocating in its stillness. Half-forged blades lay stacked in shadowed corners, rust creeping along their edges like neglect made visible.

  Dinadan drummed his fingers on the workbench, resisting the urge to push. "And how long is that?"

  The armorer shrugged, hammering the question into silence.

  Dinadan exhaled. If his armor wasn’t going anywhere, he must find somewhere less miserable to pass the time.

  He hated waiting.

  The forge door groaned as Dinadan shoved it open, the heat rolling off his back as he stepped into the night.

  The wind struck hard, sharp against the sweat trapped beneath his armor. He rolled his shoulders, shifting the weight, feeling where the steel pinched, where it pressed in new places. Familiar, but never quite right. His own, yet not his.

  He had worn steel most of his life, but this set felt like a collection of borrowed time.

  It fit where it had to, dug in where it shouldn’t, and carried too many stories that weren’t his own. The new armor, once finished, would be his alone. If it was ever finished.

  The streets stretched ahead, slick with rain, lantern glow pooling in the puddles like spilled gold. The scent of roasting meat curled through the damp air, thick with spice and char, tangled with the sharper bite of ale and old wood.

  Laughter. Voices layered over one another, rolling out from behind heavy oak doors. Someone was telling a story. A good one, judging by the hush between words, the way the night itself seemed to lean in.

  Stories.

  They had a way of finding him, whether he sought them or not.

  Dinadan pushed open the door. If he was to waste an evening, he might as well do it with a drink in his hand and an ear to the room.

  The inn was dim, thick with the weight of damp wood, old ale, and too many voices pressed into too little space.

  The hearth smoldered, more embers than flame, throwing jagged shadows against the walls.

  Dinadan sat alone, turning his cup in his hands. He did not drink. He only listened.

  The door opened.

  A gust of cold wind slipped inside, curling through the room before the door slammed shut again. A man stood in the entry, letting his gaze rake over the space, searching.

  His eyes landed on Dinadan.

  He moved without hesitation, the stride of a man who had already decided his course.

  The chair scraped against the floor as he pulled it out and sat—uninvited, unbothered.

  Dinadan did not look up. He could feel the weight of the man’s stare, the kind that expected answers before the question was even spoken.

  A pause. Measured. Intentional.

  "Tell me, knight. Who do you serve?"

  Dinadan’s fingers tightened around his cup. His shoulders rolled beneath the weight of steel—not polished, not uniform, just his. A mismatched thing, piece by piece, shaped by years and battles instead of by a king’s decree.

  His own.

  And yet, here he was. A knight, called as such, asked the same question men had been asking for months.

  Who do you serve?

  He leaned back, slow, measured. His fingers tapped against the rim of the cup, an idle motion that did nothing to quiet the question hammering against his ribs.

  "No one today."

  A truth. A lie. Both.

  The man’s mouth curved, but it wasn’t quite a smile.

  “A rare thing, in these times.” His eyes moved over Dinadan like a blade weighing its edge. “And yet, you carry yourself like a man who has chosen a side.”

  Dinadan exhaled, slow, controlled.

  He had seen few battles and fought fewer still. Not with steel—his wars were quieter. Loyalty against doubt. Oaths spoken, others left unspoken.

  He had stood in halls heavy with banners, surrounded by men who bent the knee. All the while, a question sat heavy in his chest, waiting for an answer he did not have.

  This was another battlefield. The man across from him knew it, too.

  Dinadan lifted his cup but didn’t drink.

  “I listen.”

  The man studied him, fingers tracing idle patterns against the rough wood of the table. The movement was casual, but his words struck with purpose.

  “Then listen well.” He leaned in, voice lowering beneath the noise of the tavern. “Not all men see Uther as a king. Some see him as a man who took what was not his. A usurper who stole a crown from a better man.”

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  Dinadan did not react.

  Because he had heard this before. Because he had stood before men who spoke of rightful heirs and stolen thrones, of war and what should have been.

  The stones had spoken. The land had bent. No blade had forced the hand of fate—Uther’s crown had been granted, not stolen.

  But that did not quiet the old loyalties of men.

  A log shifted in the hearth. The room flickered with the sudden glow of firelight as if the world itself were listening.

  The man did not pull away. His presence was steady, pressing against the space between them.

  “And there are those who believe Albion should be returned to those who bled for it.”

  Dinadan’s fingers tightened against his cup.

  Bled for it.

  He had seen the cost of war. He had listened to the ghosts it left behind, to the men who mourned not just kings but futures they would never see. A sword could carve a path, but it could not mend the world it cut through.

  The weight of his armor shifted over his shoulders—his own, not Uther’s. A patchwork of years, of places he had outlived, of choices he still could not name.

  The man’s eyes held steady. Waiting.

  Dinadan had spent a lifetime learning when to speak. And when to let silence hold the answer.

  He lifted his cup and finally drank. The ale burned, sharp and bitter.

  The moment stretched.

  It passed.

  The man exhaled through his nose and pushed back from the table. He stood, adjusting his cloak, then left without looking back.

  Dinadan set his cup down.

  The taste lingered. So did the question.

  He sat in the silence left behind.

  He listened.

  The tavern pulsed with warmth and noise—laughter, clinking tankards, the steady hum of voices woven together like threads in a tapestry. Predictable. Constant.

  Until it wasn't.

  A voice cut through the hum, quiet but sharp enough to pull at the edges of Dinadan’s attention.

  "It is too soon."

  His fingers stilled against the rim of his cup. He did not turn immediately. Did not shift, did not show he had heard.

  "No," another voice countered, softer, weightier. "It has already begun. He will take back what was stolen."

  Something coiled tight in his chest. A slow, creeping tension.

  And beneath his armor, where metal met flesh, the shard stirred.

  A pulse of heat. A whisper of movement, curling along his ribs like the first breath of a smoldering ember.

  Dinadan exhaled, slow and steady. He set his cup down and rose—stretching his legs, moving toward the fire, toward the bar.

  Toward them.

  The two men sat pressed against the far wall, their voices no more than a whisper. Not drunks. Not fools spilling secrets for the price of ale. These were men who had learned to speak softly, who understood the danger of speaking at all.

  But Dinadan had spent a lifetime listening to the things men did not want heard.

  He stopped near their table, hands loose at his sides, gaze drifting—unfocused, unthreatening. Just another man moving through the room. Another shadow among many.

  But beneath his armor, the shard stirred.

  His voice, when he spoke, was casual. Careful.

  "And who is ‘he’?"

  The first man stiffened. A flicker of instinct—a hand twitching toward his belt before stilling.

  The second exhaled, his chair groaning as he pushed back. He did not look at Dinadan as he moved toward the door. Before stepping into the night, he murmured—

  "The rightful king."

  The words landed like iron striking stone.

  Dinadan did not move. Not at first.

  The door hung open behind them, the cold seeping in, curling around his boots. The tavern’s warmth pressed against his back, but it felt distant, thin—like something fading from another life.

  Beneath his armor—the shard flared.

  Heat seared against his ribs, sharp and insistent. Not pain. Not warning. Recognition.

  It pulsed. Alive. A thing remembering.

  His mind turned the words over, again and again.

  The rightful king.

  No hesitation. No doubt.

  There was only one man left in Albion who still claimed that title.

  Vortigern.

  Dinadan exhaled, slow, quiet. Then he followed.

  Outside, the street stretched in damp stone and shadow. The men moved quickly, their boots silent over the cobblestones, their heads low, their course certain. They did not look back.

  They did not need to.

  Men who spoke of ghosts did not expect to be overheard.

  Dinadan kept his steps measured, distant enough to appear like another traveler braving the cold, another soul with no purpose but the road ahead.

  But he listened.

  "It will be soon," one muttered, his voice thin against the wind.

  "Not soon enough," the other answered. "The people are waiting."

  Dinadan’s jaw tightened.

  Not a rumor. Not a dream. Something real.

  The men turned into an alley. Dinadan slowed, waiting, letting the dark take them before he followed.

  The passage was tight, the walls pressing close. He stepped with care, his movements no louder than the wind, until he caught sight of them again—ahead, half-lit by a sliver of moonlight.

  They had stopped.

  One of them stood still, hands braced against the wall, head lowered as if listening.

  The other turned, scanning the alley, gaze flicking over the darkness behind them.

  His eyes landed on Dinadan.

  The moment stretched.

  A heartbeat.

  Then they moved.

  Not away. Toward him.

  Dinadan reached for his sword.

  The first man raised his hands, slow, deliberate, not in surrender but in patience. "No need for steel, knight."

  The second man’s gaze flickered down, taking in Dinadan’s armor—not Uther’s, not sworn to any king.

  A pause—a knowing look.

  "You’re not his."

  It wasn’t a question.

  Dinadan said nothing.

  The first man tilted his head, considering him. "Ask yourself something." His voice was steady, heavy with certainty. "If the stones chose him, why do they still whisper of another?"

  Dinadan did not answer.

  Could not.

  The men did not linger. They knew they had given him enough.

  They slipped past him, disappearing into the night.

  Dinadan let out a breath, his hand still resting on his hilt.

  The stones chose Uther.

  And yet—

  Men do not whisper of ghosts unless they are ready to follow them.

  Dinadan retraced his steps, boots pressing into the damp stone, his thoughts tangled in the cold air.

  The alley was empty. The men were gone, but their words lingered, settling into the marrow of the night.

  If the stones chose Uther, why do they still whisper of another?

  The question coiled tight in his ribs, winding itself into the places he had long ignored.

  The rightful king.

  Not a dream. Not a memory. A man.

  He reached the tavern door, the warmth leaking from the threshold, heavy with the scent of wood smoke and ale. He should step inside, let the heat pull him back into the world of men who did not whisper of ghosts.

  But something held him.

  A pause. A weight.

  Not hesitation.

  Watching.

  The air around him stretched too thin, the wind too still. A presence brushed the edges of his mind—not a sound, not a movement, but something beyond reach.

  His breath curled in the cold, but he did not turn yet. He had played this game before. The fastest way to catch a shadow was to let it think it had not been seen.

  His fingers flexed at his sides, aware of the pull of his armor, the weight of the shard burning low beneath it.

  He turned his head.

  Nothing.

  The street lay empty, the alley still.

  But the feeling remained. A presence, just beyond sight.

  His breath left him slow, measured. If someone meant to strike, they would have done so already.

  Whoever—or whatever—watched him now only wanted to be known.

  That was enough.

  Dinadan exhaled once more, rolling his shoulders, shaking off the tension. With the same ease as before, he reached for the door and stepped back into the warmth of the tavern.

  The fire burned low in the hearth, throwing long, twisting shadows against the walls. The tavern had settled into quiet. The drunken revelers had faded, the raucous energy of the night dimming into something slower, heavier.

  Dinadan sat near the flames, a thin scrap of parchment laid flat before him.

  A quill rested between his fingers, ink pooling at the nib.

  He had written little. He did not know what to say.

  The rightful king.

  Vortigern’s name remained unspoken, yet it filled the room all the same.

  Dinadan tapped the quill against the edge of the parchment, watching as the ink marked the wood in small, uneven dots.

  What if he forgot?

  Not tonight, perhaps. Not tomorrow. But later.

  What if he misremembered? What if, in time, the words changed as all stories did?

  His fingers brushed the fresh ink, his voice a breath above a whisper.

  "A tale half-told is already half-lost."

  The words lingered. They did not feel like his own.

  Perhaps they never were.