The first king approached the Altar Stone, his breath curling into mist in the bitter air. The hush that followed was not one of reverence but of expectation—heavy, thick, a thing with weight. The wind had stilled, as if Y Tir itself had drawn in a breath, waiting.

  Steel whispered against leather as he drew his dagger, the blade catching the aurora’s light, its edge flashing with an eerie brilliance. He hesitated only a moment, then turned his palm upward, pressing steel to skin.

  A sharp breath. A single line of red welled against the metal.

  Then—drip.

  The blood struck the Altar Stone, disappearing into the weathered grooves as if the rock itself drank it in.

  The hum began.

  Faint at first, a whisper of sound too deep to be heard, more perceived—a tremor in the ribs, a pressure behind the eyes. The kind of sound that did not belong in the world of men.

  The second king stepped forward.

  A blade. A cut. Another drop of blood.

  The hum deepened, growing heavier, sending ripples through the frost-laden earth beneath their feet.

  Then a third. A fourth. Each man stepped forward, slicing their palm, spilling their blood onto the stone.

  The air thickened. The aurora above burned brighter, shifting like the unfurling banners of gods long turned to dust. Gold twisted into crimson, a slow and deliberate bleeding of color as if the sky itself experienced the weight of the ritual.

  The hum was not subtle. It thrummed in Dinadan’s chest, in the bones of every man present. He rolled his shoulders, restless, as if trying to shake off the feeling of unseen fingers pressing against his skin.

  “Never trust a rock that sings back to you,” he muttered.

  Aidric glanced at him, wide-eyed. “It wasn’t singing before.”

  Dinadan let out a slow breath, his tone edged with dry certainty. "Aye, and that’s what worries me."

  A final king stepped forward, his blood joining the rest. The Altar Stone pulsed.

  The sky shattered.

  Shockwaves rippled outward, turning the air into a living thing, shuddering and thrumming with unseen force.

  Dinadan heard himself speak over the roaring in his skull.

  "Ah, well. Off to a fine start, this."

  He turned to Aidric, intending to offer some halfhearted reassurance, but the boy wasn’t looking at him.

  His eyes were locked on the light.

  Because it wasn’t just striking the stone.

  It was gathering.

  Swirling.

  Choosing.

  As if the decision had already been made long before any of them had drawn breath, the light surged forward.

  It wrapped itself around a single figure.

  Uther Pendragon.

  The light coalesced, thick as molten gold, moving with the certainty of knowing. It did not waver. It did not hesitate. It chose.

  It wrapped around Uther like a second skin, sinking into every seam of his armor, into every scar carved into his flesh. The dents and battle-worn edges of his mail flared with brilliance, not marks of war but symbols of endurance. The light did not erase them. It honored them.

  For a breath, Uther did not move.

  Then, he lifted his chin.

  The glow did not diminish. It burned, unwavering. He was not standing in the light. He was it.

  Dinadan let out a slow, steady breath, exhaling through his nose as he nudged Aidric with his elbow.

  “Well,” he murmured, “there’s your answer.”

  But not everyone was so accepting.

  Vortigern stood frozen, raw devastation carved into the harsh planes of his face. His jaw clenched and Dinadan thought he might shatter his teeth. His nostrils flared, his hands curling into fists.

  The ground split open.

  A jagged crack tore through the frozen earth at the base of the Altar Stone, gaping like a wound, and from its depths, darkness bled forth.

  It did not spread like a shadow. It poured, thick and slow, pooling at Vortigern’s feet like spilled ink. It did not belong to the world of men. It did not belong to any world at all.

  The air soured.

  Aidric breathed, the sound audible beneath the rising hum of power. “Dinadan,” he whispered, voice thin and unsteady. “What’s happening?”

  Dinadan drew his sword in one smooth motion, all humor vanishing. The air pressing down on them was wrong, thick with a weight that had nothing to do with magic and everything to do with a force buried deep—ancient, watching, waiting.

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  "This is bad," he said.

  The shadows did not wait.

  They climbed Vortigern, slithering over his boots, wrapping around his legs, curling like serpents eager to sink their fangs into his flesh. They did not pass over him—they sank into him.

  Vortigern took in the darkness. His head tilted back, his lips parting—

  And he laughed.

  Low. Amused. Certain.

  The sound burrowed under the skin, wrong in a way that had nothing to do with mortal ears.

  “The stones may choose,” he murmured, his voice layered now—not just his own, but deeper voices whispering beneath it. His smile stretched wide, too wide, too sharp. “But power is taken, not given.”

  The gathered kings broke.

  The chaos rushed forth like a wave, shouts and murmurs rising as the gathered kings recoiled from the wrongness spilling into the circle. The air was thick and heavy, pressing down like an unseen hand squeezing the breath from their lungs.

  One fell to his knees, whispering prayers to gods that weren’t listening. Another turned and ran, abandoning all pretense of dignity, his sword forgotten where it lay in the dirt. Others hovered between fight and flight, hands on hilts, but what blade could cut through this?

  Only Uther did not move.

  The light still wrapped him, marking him as the land’s own. He watched Vortigern with an unreadable expression. Not fear. Not uncertainty.

  Just certainty.

  And he reached for his sword.

  Then—Merlin’s voice cut through it all.

  "Hold your ground."

  It wasn’t shouted. It didn’t need to be.

  The command rang out, clear as steel against stone, sharp enough to halt the creeping panic.

  "The darkness feeds on fear."

  The Altar Stone pulsed, its light refusing to dim, standing against the encroaching shadow. The golden glow flickered, not with weakness, but with resistance, as if the stone fought back.

  Dinadan adjusted his grip on his sword, keeping his eyes fixed on Vortigern. Or what used to be Vortigern.

  The man who had once been a fearsome warlord was shifting, stretching away from human form. His skin no longer caught the light—it swallowed it, twisting with the writhing darkness curling around him like living chains.

  Vortigern lifted his gaze, eyes gleaming wrong, in a way that had nothing to do with light or shadow. He smiled, and the darkness stirred at his feet, eager, waiting.

  "The stones are relics," he sneered, voice warping—too many voices, layered and fractured, each one hissing from somewhere beyond the circle of men.

  "They choose the weak. Y Tir needs a ruler who takes what is his."

  Dinadan tilted his head, brow furrowing in mock consideration.

  “Oh, sure,” he said. “Because nothing screams ‘good leadership’ like shadow snakes and villainous monologues.”

  For a heartbeat, the darkness faltered.

  A silence stretched between them, taut as a bowstring.

  Vortigern turned his gaze to Dinadan.

  Not a glance. A weight.

  Like the cold pull of deep water dragging at a drowning man’s legs.

  "Careful, fool," he said, his voice low and venomous. "You tread on ground you do not understand."

  Dinadan met his stare, his grip firm, his smirk unwavering.

  “Understanding’s overrated,” he said. “I prefer improvisation.”

  The shadows lunged.

  But before they could reach him—

  Uther moved.

  He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, each movement carrying the weight of ancient ritual.

  Steel sang as he drew his blade, the sound cutting through the unnatural stillness.

  The aurora above flickered, its corrupted green light casting sickly hues over the battlefield, but Uther’s sword caught the last vestiges of silver and gold.

  For a moment, the blade burned, gleaming like the final light of a dying sun.

  "Enough."

  The word landed with the weight of stone and legacy, settling into the ground beneath them as if to last.

  "You defy not only the ancient ways, but Y Tir itself."

  The darkness surged.

  It struck outward in tendrils, reaching, grasping, desperate to claim the ground that had already rejected it. The air warped under its weight, thick as storm-choked water. The aurora twisted above, its corrupted green and black streaks spreading like rot through the heavens.

  But the stones answered.

  Golden light burst from the carved surfaces, not a mere pulse but a fury—ancient, relentless, unshaken by time. It surged upward in searing ribbons, chasing the paths etched by hands long since dust, scorching away the encroaching darkness with a force older than thrones, older than the first spoken oath.

  Dinadan staggered as a shockwave tore through the circle, his talisman igniting against his chest. The burn lanced through him, searing hot, like Y Tir itself had reached through the metal to brand him with its will. He hissed through his teeth, eyes watering, but did not fall.

  The wave of light struck, slamming into Vortigern’s encroaching darkness with the weight of ages.

  The two forces clashed, golden brilliance and black rot writhing together, locked in a battle that had no place in the world of men. The ground trembled beneath them, the air shuddering with the force of it. The hum of the stones swelled, deafening, reverberating in Dinadan’s ribs, in his skull, in the marrow of every man present.

  Then, the balance broke.

  Vortigern screamed, a sound not of pain but of rage, of refusal, of force that would not break—

  And then, the light consumed him.

  The darkness twisted, recoiling upon itself, writhing in fury. The black tendrils lashed outward, searching for purchase, but the golden force of the stones tore through them.

  Vortigern’s form contorted, shadows peeling away from his skin in frantic, clawing wisps. For a single breath, his expression flickered—not as a warlord, not as a king, but as a man facing a foe he could not conquer.

  Then—

  The swirling winds took him.

  The darkness collapsed inward, a spiraling abyss swallowing its master whole, sucking him into the void it had tried to unleash.

  As if it had never been there at all—it was gone.

  The wind died.

  The earth settled.

  The aurora, once a burning banner above them, flickered, its golden fire bleeding out into the cold. The stones that had roared with power only moments ago now dimmed too quickly, their glow draining like breath from a dying man’s lips.

  The weight of the moment pressed down on them all.

  Y Tir had chosen.

  The battle had been fought.

  But it did not feel like a victory.

  Dinadan let out a slow, sharp breath, flexing his grip on his sword before sliding it back into its sheath. The sound was too loud in the hush.

  "Well," he said, his voice steady, though a tightness coiled in his chest. “That was dramatic.” He turned, glancing at Aidric. “Think we can go home now?”

  Nobody answered.

  Nobody moved.

  A few of the kings, their faces unreadable, exchanged glances—small, quick, but enough for Dinadan to notice. One, a broad-shouldered warrior with a streak of silver in his beard, stepped back. Not out of reverence, but as if already calculating his next move.

  Dinadan felt a flicker of unease.

  Merlin stepped forward.

  His robes still stirred in the dying wind, his eyes distant—not in thought, but in sight. As if he saw beyond the here and now, looking into places men were never meant to see.

  "The stones have chosen," he said, his voice quiet, but heavy enough to crush the air.

  A pause. Too long.

  "But the choice is only the beginning."

  The weight of it settled over them like a second storm. The kind that did not break.

  "The land’s healing is yet to come."

  A shift moved through the remaining kings. A tightening of shoulders. A lingering hesitation that should not have been there.

  Y Tir had spoken. But men had not finished their scheming.

  Dinadan drew a slow breath, steadying himself, his jaw tightening as he forced himself not to scowl.

  It’s never simple, is it?

  The light around Uther had faded enough that he no longer looked divine. Now, he was a man again. A man with a sword and a crown he had not yet placed upon his head.

  His grip on that sword was tight.

  White-knuckled.

  His face was unreadable in the dying light.

  His voice came—low, steady, no triumph in it. Only a weight that had already begun to press on his shoulders.

  "Then let it begin."