The fogs of the Aelwyd Plains clung to the earth like a second skin—thick, smothering, swallowing sound. Hooves thudded. A crow cried somewhere in the distance, its voice strangled by the mist.

  Dinadan rode at the edge of Uther’s column, Bracken’s steady gait more trustworthy than the knights behind him. The mule didn’t flinch at the whispers of the unseen, didn’t balk at the weight pressing down on the mist-shrouded land.

  But Dinadan felt it.

  A presence. Waiting. Watching.

  And the fog only made it harder to tell where it would come from.

  The Henge of Elders loomed ahead, its jagged stones piercing the fog like broken teeth. They rose in uneven, foreboding shapes, dark and ancient, holding secrets older than the crowns the kings of Albion would squabble over today. Dinadan had always avoided such places when he could; they had a way of pulling at the parts of a man best left unspoken. Yet here he was, armed, half-alert, and neck-deep in what felt far too much like fate.

  Bracken snorted, his ears flicking back as the mule sensed movement, a stirring in the unseen. Dinadan patted his neck, his sharp eyes scanning the shapes moving through the mist ahead. Figures emerged and disappeared, soldiers and squires, nobles and banners half-obscured. The fog was alive, curling and shifting like a breath against the damp earth.

  Ahead of him, Uther rode like a man oblivious to the fog, his shoulders squared and his chin high. The silver streaks in his hair gleamed in the muted light, and his presence cut through the mist in a way stone and sword could not.

  Aidric rode further behind, astride Thistle, the boy’s posture rigid and nervous. The lad’s eyes darted to every shadow in the fog, his unease palpable even at a distance. Dinadan caught himself smirking; it wasn’t the first time the boy had tried to hide his fear, and it wouldn’t be the last.

  “Relax, boy,” Dinadan called over his shoulder, keeping his tone light. “You look like you expect the stones to get up and start walking.”

  Aidric straightened in the saddle, his lips tightening. “It’s not the stones I’m worried about.”

  “Good,” Dinadan replied, turning back to the road. “The stones don’t bite.” He tapped the hilt of his sword at his side. “The living, though—they’ll gut you without a second thought. Best keep an eye on them instead.”

  As if to underscore the point, a sharp laugh broke the heavy silence somewhere in the fog, faint and distorted. Dinadan’s grip tightened on Bracken’s reins, though he didn’t turn his head. Uther’s army wasn’t alone on this road, and the thought didn’t sit well with him.

  The henge loomed closer.

  The stones, once shapeless in the fog, sharpened into towering silhouettes. Torches flickered at their base, their flames carving restless shadows across the ground.

  Banners stirred in the faint breeze, their colors muted by the mist—but their sigils were unmistakable.

  Kings. Lords. Each one gathered to stake a claim. To plot. To bargain.

  The air was thick with purpose. And Dinadan rode straight into it.

  “Charming place for a chat,” Dinadan muttered to himself over the clink of armor and the low murmur of the men around him.

  As they neared the edge of the henge, the air changed, growing heavier, as if the earth itself held its breath. The stones loomed larger now, their surfaces slick with moss and worn by centuries of wind and rain. Strange carvings snaked across their faces, faint and almost indecipherable in the dim light, but Dinadan knew they spoke with meaning. They always did.

  Uther pulled his horse to a stop short of the henge’s outer circle, his gaze sweeping the stones and the gathering figures beyond. Dinadan brought Bracken up beside him, his mule tossing his head at the stillness.

  “Not what I’d call a welcoming sight,” Dinadan said, his tone dry. “Are we here to discuss unity, or to dig up old ghosts?”

  Uther's eyes lingered on the stones, his expression unreadable. “Perhaps both,” he said, his voice low.

  Dinadan frowned, glancing back at the column behind them. Aidric had dismounted now, leading Thistle toward the line of gathered squires. The boy’s face was pale, but he held himself together, his movements careful, deliberate.

  “Let’s hope it’s not the ghosts we end up bargaining with,” Dinadan muttered, his hand brushing the hilt of his sword as he turned his attention back to the henge.

  The murmurs of gathered men drifted like low thunder beneath the weight of the henge. Torches flickered, their flames swallowed by the mist, their light casting long, shifting shadows over the ancient stones. Dinadan experienced it all—the weight of expectation, of old grudges, of kings who would sooner slit each other’s throats than clasp hands.

  Then came the sound of footsteps—light, deliberate, and unhurried, the tread of a man who did not fear the company of wolves but rather counted them among lesser creatures.

  From the depths of the shifting mists, Merlin emerged, his robes dark as the void between stars, his presence neither grand nor imposing, yet outweighing every crown in the gathering. The fog curled away from him like breath from a dying fire, thinning, lifting—until the sky itself broke open.

  Above them, the heavens burned with light. A great aurora unfurled its spectral banners—green, violet, and gold, rippling across the firmament like the fabric of the world had been torn to reveal a watcher. The kings stirred, some with awe, others with unease, but Merlin paid the sky no heed.

  He stepped to the largest of the standing stones, laying a hand upon its worn surface, fingers pressing into grooves carved by hands long turned to dust. He stood still, listening—not as one who sought an answer, but as one who already knew, who was waiting for the world to catch up.

  The hush that followed was not reverent. It was thick, taut, the breath before a storm.

  “Y Tir remembers,” Merlin said, his voice calm but unyielding. “It has seen men stand here before you, gathered in council, their swords weighed heavier than their words. It has seen them spill blood where they should have built, burn what they should have preserved, and claim dominion over that which was never theirs to own. Y Tir has suffered under your wars, your rivalries, your greed. And now, you ask it to suffer again.”

  His gaze swept the gathered kings, his expression unreadable. “You come here carrying the weight of old names—Pendragon, Cadell, Branoc, Rhydderch, Vortimer. But your names are not the first to be spoken in this place. Long before you, others stood where you now stand. The Painted Ones who worshipped the earth itself, the High Kings who bled their lines into stone, the Romans who sought to cage Albion beneath their law, the Saxons who came to carve it into pieces, and the invaders yet to come who will do the same. And still, Y Tir remains.”

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  He turned, his hand trailing over the carvings in the stone, ancient symbols worn smooth by time. “You see yourselves as rulers. You call yourselves kings. But kings do not own Y Tir, nor does it bow to them. You may draw borders on parchment, but the rivers do not change their course for you. The mountains do not kneel. The forests do not ask which god you follow before granting you shelter. Y Tir belongs to none of you.”

  A few murmurs rippled through the gathered men—some with indignation, some with unease.

  Merlin lifted his head, his voice like the low rumble of distant thunder. “But Y Tir chooses.”

  Silence followed, deeper than before.

  “You think you stand at the edge of an age of kings.” Merlin’s gaze swept across them, sharp as a blade. “But the truth is, Albion stands at the edge of Darkening. You have sensed it, each of you, though you do not name it. Crops failing where the soil was once rich. Beasts turning on their masters. Rivers running black with ash after battles that should have been forgotten. You call it misfortune, bad harvests, ill omens. But it is more than that. It is the weight of a land grown tired of those who would claim it but not serve it.”

  He let the words settle, then continued, his voice like the wind before a storm. “For years, you have waged war in the name of power, in the name of the gods—both old and new. The followers of the Christ-god seek to wash away the faiths of their ancestors, while the druids cling to the old rites, fearing what the future may bring. The noble houses claim blood gives them the right to rule, while the warriors of the North carve their rights with the edge of a blade. And through it all, Albion bleeds.”

  Merlin turned to face them, his eyes like burning embers in the mist. “You believe this gathering will decide the next High King. That one of you will rise above the rest, bend the others to his will, and bind Y Tir beneath his banner. But you are wrong.”

  A ripple of unease passed through the assembled rulers, but Merlin did not falter.

  “You cannot choose the one who will heal Y Tir. You will not. Not by council, not by treaty, not by war. Your hearts are too heavy with old grudges, your hands too stained with the blood of those who stood in your way. The choice is not yours to make.”

  He turned back to the stone, pressing his palm against it once more. “Y Tir will choose.”

  The torches guttered, their flames trembling as if the ground had drawn breath at his words. A low wind stirred, heavy with the scent of damp soil, of old things awakening.

  Merlin’s voice was softer now, but no less certain. “You may deny it. You may fight it. But Y Tir remembers, and it does not forget. If you wish to see Albion whole, you must listen. If you wish to stand against the Darkening, you must serve ideals and goals greater than your crowns, your gods, or your legacies.”

  He stepped back from the stone, the finality of his words hanging in the mist. “You have come to make a choice. But in the end, it is not your choice to make.”

  Silence followed—long, unbroken, and absolute.

  Dinadan gripped Bracken’s reins tighter. He had spent his life mocking fate, dodging prophecy, and running from the weight of men like Merlin. But as he sat there, watching kings shift in their saddles, watching Uther’s gaze darken with understanding, he knew—

  Merlin’s voice, quiet but cutting, pierced the heavy silence. “You have come to make a choice,” he said, his hand resting on the weathered stone beside him, “but in the end, it is not your choice to make.”

  His words fell like the distant echo of a hammer on iron, sharp and final. The mist curled around his dark robes as he turned toward the gathered kings, his movements slow and deliberate. From beneath the folds of his robe, Merlin pulled a bundle wrapped in dark, weathered cloth.

  Aidric froze.

  Thistle stirred beside him, but he barely noticed. His breath hitched as the bundle emerged.

  That cloth. He knew it. The shimmer of its weave.

  And just like that, he was back on the road with Dinadan—hauling a small, unassuming box across Albion. Carrying it without understanding. Without questioning.

  But now—now—it was unwrapped.

  His chest tightened. His knees locked.

  And for the first time, he wished he’d never touched it at all.

  Merlin peeled the cloth back with the slow, deliberate precision of a man unveiling the sacred. Beneath it was the crown Aidric had delivered, though it had looked far less menacing in the safety of its box.

  The Crown of Elders wasn’t made to dazzle.

  No gaudy display of wealth, no empty symbol for vain kings.

  It was gold—deep, burnished, old—not the bright gleam of new coin, but the heavy luster of something shaped by time itself.

  Its edges weren’t soft. The metal curled into sharp, unyielding points, each rise and dip speaking of hands that were forged, not adorned.

  Across its surface, runes wove like tangled roots, half-worn by centuries—yet when the torchlight struck, they stirred.

  Not just engravings. Not mere relics.

  They pulsed.

  Alive.

  Whispering with the voice of Y Tir itself.

  Aidric stared, his heart pounding. He couldn’t explain how, but he knew the crown’s importance now. Knew it wasn’t just some relic from Albion’s past but a thing of purpose. A thing decided, rather than being decided upon.

  Beside him, Thistle stamped her hooves, and Aidric reached to steady her. His hand shook as it gripped her bridle, his thoughts whirling. He had carried that thing. He had touched its container, borne its weight. But only now did it seem heavier, as if it carried more than iron and age—vast and unknowable.

  “This,” Merlin said, holding the crown aloft, “is the Crown of Elders. It is not yours. It is not mine. It belongs to Y Tir, and it answers only to Y Tir. It was forged in the time before your thrones and banners, before your gods and wars, and it has broken men far greater than any of you.”

  The kings fidgeted in their saddles. Their mounts tossed their heads, sensing the unease in their riders, whose wary glances darted between one another, seeking certainty where none could be found. Branoc, whose disdain had been clear earlier, watched the crown with growing fear.

  Aidric’s gaze flicked to Dinadan, who sat astride Bracken a short distance away. The knight’s expression was unreadable, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword, his sharp eyes flicking between Merlin and the kings. Aidric thought Dinadan might say some wry remark to break the tension—but the knight remained silent.

  Merlin turned, holding the crown out as if offering it to the stones themselves. “This crown does not care for your bloodlines or your boasts. It will not weigh your titles, your conquests, or the gold in your coffers. It will not be swayed by prayers to old gods or new ones. It will only answer to the one who serves Y Tir, who carries its burdens, who will endure its pain.”

  Aidric’s stomach twisted. The weight of the moment pressed down on him as if the air itself had grown heavier.

  Merlin continued, his voice rising. “You are gathered here, each of you believing yourself worthy. You tell yourselves you stand above the others, that Y Tir would bow to your strength, your wisdom, your destiny. But the truth is simpler—and far more damning. You cannot choose the one who will heal Albion, because none of you are worthy to choose.”

  A ripple of anger passed through the gathered kings. Branoc scowled, and King Cadell let out a low, disbelieving chuckle.

  “And who will choose?” Cadell asked, his voice smooth and mocking. “You, Merlin? Or does this crown of yours leap from your hands to settle on the ‘chosen one’?”

  Merlin’s gaze cut to Cadell, sharp and cold. “The crown chooses,” he said. “As it always has.”

  The kings fell silent again, and Merlin took a step forward, holding the crown higher. “Albion is watching,” he said, his voice ringing through the henge. “Y Tir remembers every drop of blood spilled on its soil, every promise broken, every life taken for the sake of pride and power. And now, Y Tir calls for a ruler who kneels before destiny . It calls for a king who will serve.”

  Aidric shivered, though the air wasn’t cold. He looked at Dinadan again, but the knight wasn’t looking back. Dinadan’s gaze was fixed on the crown, his jaw tight, his usual smirk gone.

  Merlin turned his attention to the gathered kings, his eyes blazing with an intensity far older than the man himself. “If you wish to lead Albion,” he said, his voice softer now but no less commanding, “you must let Y Tir decide. Stand beneath these stones, beneath the weight of its gaze, and let it choose who is worthy. You think yourselves strong, but Y Tir will show you who is unbreakable.”

  The torches flickered as if the wind itself had stirred. Aidric gripped Thistle’s reins, his knuckles white. He felt the ancient power surge beneath the earth, a deep vibration that echoed through bone and blood.

  “You have brought your swords and your banners,” Merlin said, lowering the crown. “But leave them behind now. No blade will sway the will of Albion, no oath to gods or men. Stand before the crown as you are—bare, unarmed, and with nothing but your soul to offer.”

  The silence that followed was suffocating. Aidric’s heart pounded in his chest, and for a moment, he thought he might be sick. He had carried that crown, had touched its container, had thought it was just another task. But now… now he realized it was far more.

  Beside him, Dinadan muttered under his breath, his voice so low only Bracken heard him. “This is madness,” he said. Yet, as he spoke, he sat straighter in his saddle, his sharp eyes never leaving the crown.