The tavern at the crossroads sagged under the weight of its own history. Smoke-blackened beams. Warped walls. A place where old bargains still whispered, and betrayals never stayed buried.

  Dinadan stepped inside. Aidric trailed so close he might have been a shadow.

  The room stilled. Just for a breath. The kind of pause that always met strangers—long enough to weigh their worth before the noise returned.

  Ale, sweat, smoke—the air was thick with it. The fire’s uneven flicker carved shifting shadows over road-worn faces.

  Dinadan scanned the room. Exits. Weapons. The ones who sat too straight to be unarmed.

  Then, a step forward.

  He steered Aidric toward a corner table—not hiding, just smart. The edges of a room gave a man two things: time to think and space to act when the knives came out.

  The boy dropped onto the bench with all the grace of a sack of grain, his face lighting up as a serving girl approached with a practiced smile.

  “Two plates of whatever’s hot,” Dinadan said, handing over a coin, “and ale for me.” He tipped his head toward Aidric, who was already fidgeting with the edge of the table. “Cider for the boy. Sweet, not strong.”

  Aidric gave a half-hearted nod, his attention fixed on the room. He wasn’t looking for danger—just taking it all in: the gruff men hunched over mugs, the dark corners where conversations dipped into whispers, and the figure seated near the hearth, cloaked and still.

  Dinadan followed the boy’s gaze, his instincts sharpening as he caught sight of the same figure. Cloaked travelers weren’t unusual in a place like this, but the way this one sat—upright, deliberate—set him apart from the room’s rabble.

  “You’re fidgeting,” Aidric muttered, breaking the quiet.

  Dinadan smirked, leaning against the wall with a casualness that didn’t match the flicker of tension in his eyes. “I’m observant,” he corrected, watching as the serving girl returned with their food.

  The smell of stew filled the air as Dinadan dug into his plate, eating with the steady, measured pace of a man who had learned to savor his meals while keeping one eye on the door. But halfway through his first bite, he sensed it: a shift in the air, subtle but unmistakable, like the weight of a storm gathering beyond sight.

  He set his spoon down, his gaze flicking to the figure by the hearth once more. The man hadn’t moved, but there was undeniable strength in his presence that made the hairs on the back of Dinadan’s neck rise.

  Aidric, oblivious to the unease threading through the moment, glanced at him. “What is it?”

  Dinadan paused, his focus still locked on the cloaked figure. “Just eat,” he said, his tone quiet but firm. “And keep your eyes on your plate.”

  The boy frowned but obeyed, the clatter of his spoon a poor mask for his nerves. Dinadan let his hand drift closer to the hilt of his blade beneath the table. Whatever storm had unsettled the air had yet to unleash its full fury, its presence pressing down, thick and unrelenting.

  The figure rose.

  The motion was unhurried, but it sent a ripple through the room, conversations faltering as heads turned. The man moved with the ease of someone used to command, his cloak shifting to reveal glimpses of a worn but elegant tunic. Gold thread caught the firelight—subtle, but regal.

  He stopped at their table, towering over it for a moment. “You’ve come far,” he said, his voice low but unyielding, each word cutting through the din like a blade. With a fluid motion, he pushed back his hood, revealing sharp, weathered features and hair streaked with silver.

  Uther Pendragon.

  Dinadan’s grip on his mug tightened, but his expression remained unruffled as he leaned back, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “Didn’t realize taverns were hosting royalty these days. Must’ve missed the herald’s announcement.”

  Uther’s lips twitched, almost resembling a smile, though his eyes remained sharp. “And I didn’t realize knights of Albion preferred to skulk in corners, hiding behind wit and shadows. Yet here we are.”

  Dinadan raised his mug in a mock salute. “I find the corners offer the best view of the knives. And the kings.” He set it down with a faint clink, his sharp gaze not leaving Uther’s. “So, what brings you to such humble surroundings, Your Grace? You must better halls waiting for you.”

  Without waiting for an invitation, Uther pulled out the chair opposite him and sat, his cloak falling away to reveal the fine, practical cut of his tunic. Aidric shrank back, his mug held like a shield.

  “Halls have their purpose,” Uther said, his tone measured. “But words spoken in places like this often carry farther than those uttered from a throne.”

  He gestured toward the bustling crowd—the roughened hands of the laborers, the weather-beaten faces of traders, the hum of voices weaving together in quiet discord. “These people—men and women who carry Albion on their backs—they will decide its future.”

  “For everyone,” Uther replied. “Albion must be more than a collection of squabbling thrones. It must be a home—for the farmer, the smith, the warrior, the scholar. For the boy born in a hovel and the knight born to privilege. And yes, even for those who would rather skulk in corners than stand in halls of power.”

  Dinadan’s smirk faltered. “You speak as if Y Tir can be mended with words. As though purpose alone can heal wounds that have festered for generations.”

  “They can,” Uther said. “But not alone. Words must be followed by action. And action demands sacrifice. Men like you understand that better than most.”

  Dinadan arched a brow. “Men like me?”

  “Men who see the cracks,” Uther replied, his gaze unwavering. “Who know how to bridge them. Albion doesn’t need heroes right now—it needs those who understand what’s worth fighting for, and what isn’t.”

  Dinadan stilled, his chest tightening as the weight of those words pressed against him. He glanced at Aidric, whose wide eyes betrayed that he, too, understood the gravity of this moment.

  “Then we fight harder,” Uther answered, his voice steady as a blade. “We fight until Y Tir remembers its own strength. Until its people remember they are more than their lords, more than their clans. Y Tir is watching, Dinadan. It always is. And it knows when to choose those who can endure the fight.”

  Dinadan’s chest tightened. The weight of those words wasn’t aimed at the room, but at him. “You’re asking for more than swords or clever quips, Uther. What are you after?”

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  Uther’s faint smile returned, though there was no mirth in it. “I’m after what you already carry, even if you don’t know it yet. Albion doesn’t need heroes, Dinadan. It needs its people. And it needs those who can remind them what they’re worth.”

  Before Dinadan could respond, a faint, tense shift rippled through the room. The kind of silence that had nothing to do with volume and everything to do with danger. Dinadan’s eyes darted to the door, where a new figure had appeared, cloaked in shadow and menace.

  The cloaked figure stood in the doorway for a beat too long, his presence souring the air like the first rancid note of spoiled wine. Conversation in the tavern faltered, and eyes flicked toward him—furtive, nervous glances from men who knew trouble when it walked in. The figure stepped forward, his boots striking the floor with deliberate force, the glint of steel catching under his cloak as he moved.

  Dinadan’s hand drifted to the hilt of his blade beneath the table. Aidric stiffened beside him, the boy’s instincts catching up to the tension filling the room. Uther, however, didn’t move. He remained seated, his gaze locked on the intruder, calm as stone.

  The man stopped a few paces from their table, pushing back his hood to reveal a scarred face and eyes sharp with malice. “Uther Pendragon,” he said, his voice low but carrying, cutting through the room like a drawn blade. “I heard you’d come down from your high halls to mingle with the dirt. Didn’t think you’d be so easy to find.”

  Dinadan’s grip tightened on his sword hilt, though he kept his posture relaxed. “Friend of yours, Uther?” he asked, his tone masking the tension thrumming in his chest.

  Uther’s eyes didn’t leave the man. “Not quite.”

  The scarred man chuckled, his hand brushing aside his cloak to reveal the hilt of a dagger. “You’ve made a lot of enemies, Your Grace. Some of them might be in this room. Makes a man wonder why you’d stroll into a place like this without a guard. You’re either brave or foolish.”

  “Perhaps both,” Uther replied, his voice calm as a lake’s surface.

  The man’s hand moved toward his dagger, slow enough to taunt, quick enough to threaten. The tension in the room coiled tighter, ready to snap. Dinadan’s eyes flicked to Uther, who gave no sign of moving, his calm bordering on unnerving.

  Dinadan sighed under his breath. “Of course it comes to this.”

  With a sudden, fluid motion, Dinadan shoved the table hard with his knee, sending it crashing into the man’s stomach. The would-be attacker staggered back, his hand clutching at the air where his dagger had been moments before. Dinadan was already up, his blade flashing free as he stepped forward, driving the man back toward the hearth with a series of quick, precise strikes.

  “Really?” Dinadan said as the man stumbled, trying to regain his footing. “You’ve got one shot to take out a king, and this is what you came up with? No plan, no backup, just a rusty dagger and a bad attitude?”

  The man snarled, lunging with a blade he managed to unsheath. Dinadan sidestepped, kicking a chair into his opponent’s path. The man went down hard, his weapon clattering to the floor.

  Dinadan stepped over him, pressing the tip of his sword against the hollow of the man’s throat. “Now,” he said, his voice low and sharp. “Before I get bored, why don’t you tell me who sent you?”

  The man’s mouth opened, then snapped shut, his eyes darting toward Uther.

  “Nothing to say?” Dinadan pressed the blade just enough to draw a bead of blood. “Fine. I’m very good at guessing games.”

  “Enough,” Uther said, rising from his seat at last.

  Dinadan hesitated, his sword still poised, but he stepped back with a faint shrug. “Your show, Pendragon.”

  Uther approached, his movements slow but deliberate, each step carrying the weight of a man who had faced down armies and would not be rushed by the likes of this. He knelt, meeting the would-be assassin’s gaze.

  “You came here to make a point,” Uther said, his voice as calm as ever. “Consider it made. But if you have more to say, I suggest you do it now. Otherwise…” His gaze flicked to Dinadan. “You’ll be left to his mercy.”

  The man swallowed hard, his bravado crumbling under the weight of Uther’s stare. “You won’t win,” he spat, though the words trembled. “Not the council, not the people. The land doesn’t need another king—it’s already bleeding because of the ones it has.”

  Uther studied him for a moment and straightened. “Take him outside,” he said to the barkeep, who nodded, motioning for two burly patrons to drag the man out.

  As the door slammed shut behind them, the tavern came back to life, the tension breaking like a popped blister. Aidric stared wide-eyed at Dinadan, who sheathed his sword and sat back down, reaching for his tankard like nothing had happened.

  “Well,” Dinadan said, glancing at Uther, “if you wanted to convince me the land’s in trouble, that was a solid demonstration.”

  Uther returned to his seat, his expression unreadable. “Y Tir is bleeding, Dinadan. And men like him will keep making it worse unless we act.”

  Dinadan leaned back, his expression skeptical. “You’re not wrong, Pendragon. But if you want me to believe unity will fix that…” He trailed off, gesturing toward the door. “It’ll take more than words. Or ale.”

  Uther’s gaze met his, steady and unflinching. “Then fight with me,” he said. “If not for Albion, then for the boy beside you, and the men and women who don’t have the strength to hold a blade.”

  Dinadan tilted his head, considering. “You’re relentless, I’ll give you that.” He sighed, reaching for his drink. “Fine. I’ll hear you out. But don’t expect me to stick around for the happy ending.”

  Uther’s faint smile returned. “The ending doesn’t matter. It’s what we do before it that counts.”

  Dinadan opened his mouth to reply, but Uther lifted a hand, silencing him before the words could form.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Uther said, his voice steady, measured. “You’re not a hero. You’re not a leader. But Albion doesn’t need heroes right now. It needs those who understand what’s worth fighting for—and what isn’t.”

  Dinadan stilled. There was an undercurrent in Uther’s tone that ran deeper than the words themselves. This was not the plea of a desperate king. It was a certainty.

  Uther’s smile returned, faint but unshaken. “The council is only the beginning. A spark to light the fire. And sparks,” he added, his voice lowering to a near-whisper, “require kindling.”

  Dinadan narrowed his eyes, searching the man’s face. “You know..."

  Uther inclined his head. “I know many things.” His gaze flickered toward Aidric, lingering just long enough to unsettle the boy before shifting back to Dinadan. “I know Y Tir knows its children, that it chooses them for roles they cannot yet imagine. I know a knight who hides his heart behind wit may be the voice that saves this land. And I know a boy born in shadow may one day bring light to its darkest corners.”

  Aidric stiffened beside him, his fingers curling around his mug. Dinadan sensed the shift in him, a sharp intake of breath suppressed.

  Dinadan’s grip tightened on his tankard. “How?” he demanded. “How do you know that?”

  Uther rose, his cloak falling into place like a shroud. His voice, though quiet, carried the weight of a man who had spent his life hearing whispers the rest of the world ignored.

  “I know because it was written long before either of us took our first breath. Y Tir speaks, Dinadan, and I have learned to listen.”

  The words settled between them, heavier than steel. Dinadan raked a hand through his hair, his fingers lingering at the nape before he turned away. His gaze settled on the fire, its glow dancing across his face.

  For a moment, he wasn’t in the tavern. He was standing on the road from the vision, the crown shattered at his feet, the weight of fate pressing against his ribs.

  When he turned back, Uther was watching him. Waiting.

  Dinadan scoffed, though the sound lacked conviction. “You’ve got a way with words, I’ll give you that.” His fingers tapped against the rim of his tankard. “But what happens when the kings refuse to listen? When they’d rather tear Albion apart than share its throne?”

  Uther’s expression softened, though the intensity in his gaze remained. “Then we remind them what’s at stake. And we keep reminding them until they can’t ignore it.”

  He stepped closer, his presence a force in the dim light of the tavern. “Join me,” he said, his voice rich with conviction. “Help me turn this council into more than a stage for petty grievances. Help me lay the foundation for a kingdom that serves its people, not itself.”

  Dinadan stared at him, the weight of the offer pressing against his ribs like unseen chains.

  “And if I refuse?”

  Uther’s gaze didn’t waver. “Then you will walk away, and Albion will still find you. Because this is not a matter of choice, Dinadan. It is a matter of calling. And Y Tir has been calling to you.”

  Dinadan’s chest tightened, the echoes of the mirror’s vision flashing through his mind. The crown. The shattered stones. The road stretched before him.

  He squared his shoulders, drawing in a slow breath before rising to meet Uther’s gaze, steady and unflinching.

  “You’re a persuasive man, Uther Pendragon,” he murmured. “I’ll join you. But I’m not promising miracles.”

  Uther’s smile deepened, a flicker of satisfaction behind his eyes. “I don’t need miracles, Dinadan. I need men of courage. And you have more courage than you know.”

  He turned toward the door, pausing only to say, “We leave at dawn. Rest while you can. The kings are waiting, and Y Tir is watching.”

  As Uther strode out of the tavern, Dinadan let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Aidric sat motionless beside him, his fingers still curled around his mug.

  Dinadan cast him a sidelong glance and sighed. “Well, boy,” he muttered with a faint grin, “we’re in it now.”