The muck clinging to Dinadan was becoming unbearable. Every shift in the saddle released a fresh wave of the stench—sour and choking, like stagnant water steeped in rotting vegetation. It curled into his nostrils, clinging to his hair and seeping through the padded gambeson beneath his armor. No amount of fresh air could escape the wretched odor.

  Bracken, ever the stoic mule, flicked her ears with increasing irritation, stomping a hoof against the dirt trail. Her tail lashed at the swarm of flies that had taken up residence around Dinadan, their incessant buzzing a symphony of condemnation.

  One bold fly landed on his cheek, and he swatted it away with a curse, only to have another dive at his neck.

  “I know, I know,” Dinadan muttered, glaring at the mule as if she were the source of his troubles. “You’d think I planned to stink like a midden heap. Maybe it’ll scare off bandits.”

  He waved his hand at the flies, only for them to regroup and return, undeterred. Without a cloak to drape over himself, their assault was unrelenting. His cloak—battered and threadbare though it had been—now lay in a refuse pile somewhere far behind him, sacrificed to mop up the aftermath of a regrettable encounter with a chamber pot.

  “I’d give half a coin for that wretched thing back right now,” he muttered, brushing a fly from his eyebrow. “At least it was good for swatting you lot.”

  Bracken snorted, tossing her head as another fly settled near her ear. Her usual patience thin as she shook herself and took an obstinate step off the trail.

  Dinadan tugged his reins, his attention caught by the faint gurgling of water up ahead. He craned his neck, spotting the glimmer of a stream snaking through the woods,

  its surface fracturing the moonlight into ribbons of silver.

  “Well, that’s a blessing if ever I saw one,” he said, relief creeping into his tone. “Hold steady, girl.”

  Dismounting with a groan, he landed, his boots squelching against the soft earth. His armor clinked with the discordant jangle of an ill-tuned bell. The flies surged around him in protest, forming a noisy, tenacious cloud determined to haunt him to his grave.

  “If I’m going to endure this miserable road,” he muttered, patting Bracken’s neck with an air of resolution, “I refuse to do it smelling like old stew and dragging half of Albion’s flies along for the ride.”

  Bracken flicked her ears again, offering no sympathy as Dinadan began to guide her toward the stream. The mule, for all her loyalty, shared his opinion about the stench he carried.

  The cool air by the water’s edge offered a brief reprieve, the breeze carrying away some of the stench. He glanced at his gauntlets, the steel dulled and smudged from grime. Every piece of him cried out for a scrubbing, but the thought of removing his armor—alone—made him groan aloud.

  “Right,” he muttered, grimacing as he loosened the first strap. “Let’s see if I can do this without flinging myself into the stream headfirst.”

  Removing his armor was always a chore, even with a squire’s help. Alone, it became a full-scale battle, requiring ingenuity, persistence, and a generous helping of curses. The flies hovering around him did little to improve the experience.

  Dinadan pried off his gauntlets, fumbling at the leather straps until they gave way. They dropped to the ground with a dull clang.

  His fingers stretched, stiff and aching after hours of riding, struggled to undo the knots. He flexed his hands, savoring their newfound freedom. Until the next time some fool demanded he dress like a walking forge.

  Next came the pauldrons. He twisted, reaching over his shoulder to unbuckle the straps securing them to his gambeson. The left one came free with only minor grumbling, but the right was determined to stay put. He tugged harder, almost losing his balance as the stubborn strap gave way. The pauldron clattered to the ground, and Dinadan let out an exasperated sigh.

  “You’re supposed to protect me in battle,” he muttered at the fallen piece, “not resist me at every turn.”

  Now came the hard part: the chainmail shirt made of a thick layer of interlocking metal rings. It weighed on his shoulders, already aching from the day’s journey. Dinadan tugged at the hem, pulling it loose from where it had bunched against the padding of his gambeson.

  “I’ll regret this tomorrow,” he grumbled, bending forward and gripping the neckline. He tugged at it, leaning forward further to let gravity do the work. The mail caught on his shoulders, and he gave an awkward shimmy, jerking his shoulders side to side to free himself.

  The effort was less than dignified. He bent double, shaking his upper body like a dog shaking off water, the heavy links scraping against his skin and tangling in his hair. With a grunt, he gave one last heave, and the chainmail slid free, crashing to the ground with a muffled thud.

  Dinadan straightened, rolling his shoulders with a wince. “By the Shining Ones,” he muttered, rubbing at the red marks left on his skin, “if I ever meet the man who invented chainmail, I’ll be sure to thank him kindly before strangling him with it.”

  The night air nipped at Dinadan’s damp gambeson as he shrugged out of it, the padded fabric reeking of sweat and grime. He tossed it onto a flat rock near Bracken, the mule eyeing the motion with her usual silent judgment. His breeches followed, sticking to his legs like they were making a last stand before joining the pile. When he stood in just his tunic, goosebumps prickling his skin, he let out a huff.

  “Well,” he muttered, patting the tunic’s hem, “one more layer to go, and it’s just me, the moon, and half a bar of soap.” He tugged the tunic over his head and added it to the heap, standing bare and defiant in the cool night. Bracken snorted, unimpressed.

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  “I’ll spare you the view,” he said with a wry grin, grabbing the soap and leaving the frayed towel on the rock. “You hold down the fort.”

  The stream welcomed him with a biting chill that seized his breath as he waded in, the icy water swirling around his thighs like a dare. Gritting his teeth, he splashed water over his chest and arms, scrubbing with the misshapen bar of soap. The faint lather was better than nothing, though the soap crumbled in protest at his rough handling. His hands moved with practiced efficiency—arms, legs, and hair done in swift strokes. The cold seeped into his bones, but he wasn’t about to linger.

  Emerging from the stream, water dripping down his shivering frame, Dinadan grabbed the rough cloth and toweled off. The material scratched against his skin, but he welcomed the sensation. At least it wasn’t mud or sweat.

  He stepped onto the flat rock, settling himself with a slow ease, legs dangling over the water as the current tugged at the night. He loosed a breath, quiet, measured, the moonlight washing the clearing in pale silver.

  Behind him, Bracken huffed, the sound full of opinion.

  “Oh, don’t give me that,” Dinadan said without turning. “I’ll be back to smelling like despair soon enough. Let me pretend to be civilized for five minutes.”

  Bracken swished her tail, unimpressed as always. Dinadan chuckled to himself, his breath misting in the crisp air. For a moment, with the chill fading from his skin and the stream’s quiet song lulling his thoughts, he almost sensed peace. Almost.

  The stillness shattered.

  “Knights in Albion must be desperate, bathing in streams like vagrants.”

  Dinadan froze, one hand hovering over his discarded tunic. The voice was smooth but carried a weight that sent a cold shiver down his spine. His eyes scanned the shadows at the edge of the clearing.

  A figure stepped into the moonlight, the night seeming to darken as if recoiling from him. His cloak, black and fluid as a raven’s wing, swept the ground with each deliberate step. Pale, angular features emerged from the gloom, sharp as a blade etched in frost. But his eyes—cold, unrelenting, and void of humanity—pinned Dinadan in place. They held him like a stag caught in the gaze of a wolf, aware it had no chance of escape.

  "Well," Dinadan said, forcing a grin as he dragged the tunic over his damp hair, "my court attire seems to have gone missing. Had I known I'd have an audience, I'd have dressed for the occasion. Mayhap a crown of oak leaves to match my dignity?"

  The man’s lips curled, though it was far from a smile. “Formality is wasted on a fool who reeks of failure.”

  Dinadan sighed, scrubbing a hand through his wet hair, shaking off both water and tension. “Nice to meet you, too. Though I assume you didn’t come here to critique my grooming habits.”

  “You jest,” the man replied, his voice low and cutting, “as though this is a game.”

  Dinadan tilted his head, brushing water from his brow with deliberate nonchalance. “Not a game. More of a performance. Though I admit, your entrance has stolen the spotlight. A touch dramatic, don’t you think?”

  The figure’s gaze didn’t falter. His presence pushed the temperature lower, the edges of the clearing curling into shadow. “You are unarmed, unarmored, and unworthy,” he said, stepping closer. “Your existence is an insult to the land.”

  Dinadan stiffened, his hand drifting toward his chainmail before stopping mid-motion. His grin thinned, though it refused to vanish. "You've yet to introduce yourself, friend. Though I'll give you this—your insults are top-notch. Did you hone your razor wit against the standing stones, or was your nursemaid cruel?"

  The faint smirk faded, replaced by a chilling stillness. “I am Vortigern,” the man said, the name landing like the toll of a bell.

  Dinadan’s breath hitched, his heart racing as the weight of recognition struck. His bravado faltered, the name summoning memories whispered in dim taverns and sung in somber verses.

  “Vortigern,” Dinadan repeated, his voice unsteady. “The tyrant. The scourge of Albion.”

  Vortigern's eyes gleamed, his lips curving into a blade's edge smile, promising blood and betrayal. "You flatter me."

  Dinadan swallowed hard, his mind scrambling for a plan. He had heard the stories—how Vortigern rose on the backs of the broken, a shadow swallowing kings and armies alike.

  “I’ve heard tales of you, too,” Vortigern said, his tone cutting through the silence like a blade. “A knight who hides behind his tongue, who wears folly as his armor. Tell me, fool—do you think your wit will shield you from what comes?”

  Dinadan’s grin flickered, but he caught it before it slipped. “Well, it’s worked so far,” he said. “Besides, words are harder to blunt than steel. And I do enjoy a good swing.”

  Vortigern stepped closer, his presence suffocating. “And when your words fail you?”

  Dinadan met his gaze, his voice softer but steady. “When they fail, they remind me I’m human. That I can falter. And fall.”

  Vortigern’s brow twitched, disdain flickering across his face.

  Dinadan leaned forward, his tone sharpening. “The world doesn’t need another perfect knight, Vortigern. Albion has plenty of those—heroes with shining swords and spotless cloaks, men who stand unyielding until they break.” He gestured to himself, water dripping from his damp tunic, hair plastered to his face. “What it needs is someone to remind those perfect knights they bleed. That their glory is a brittle thing, no stronger than the rest of us.”

  Vortigern’s gaze was icy, his expression unchanging. “And so, you’ve chosen to be the fool.”

  Dinadan gave a faint laugh, though there was no humor in it. “Chosen? No. The world made me a fool long before I learned to wear it like armor. Better to make them laugh than to let them see me fall.”

  The shadows at Vortigern’s feet deepened, curling like smoke made solid. His voice dropped, sharp and cutting. “Do not mistake your folly for wisdom. The land does not call jesters to its Henge. It seeks strength—unyielding and absolute. Not the musings of a man who hides behind his tongue.”

  Dinadan’s smile tightened, though his shoulders squared. “Strength, you say? You mean the kind that burns villages, crushes the helpless beneath a heel? Or the kind that demands kneeling from men too hungry to stand?”

  “You mock what you cannot comprehend,” Vortigern growled, his pale eyes flashing.

  “Perhaps I do,” Dinadan admitted, his voice light but his gaze sharp. “Or perhaps I’ve seen enough of men like you to know your strength is a lie. A performance. Except where I leave them laughing, you leave them bleeding.”

  The warlord stepped closer, his voice a cold, measured blade. “You know nothing of power.”

  Dinadan’s voice dropped, his grin faint but unwavering. “And you know nothing of humility.”

  Vortigern raised a hand, and the clearing erupted.

  Shadows surged from the edges of the stream, rising like black fog made flesh. The first tendrils coiled around Dinadan’s legs, cold and unyielding as iron chains. They tightened, dragging him down, their icy grip biting into his flesh and spreading frost through his veins.

  He stumbled, gasping as they wound around his chest and arms, squeezing tighter with every heartbeat. The air thinned, his breath coming in ragged bursts, the tendrils pressing against his throat like a vice.

  “Well, this is excessive,” Dinadan rasped, his voice strained but defiant. “Can’t we settle this with a wager? Or a riddle, perhaps?”

  Vortigern ignored him, his voice a whisper slithering through the air. “You are the land’s mistake. A jest when it needed resolve. I will see you silenced.”

  The tendrils coiled higher, pressing against Dinadan’s ribs, his throat, his will. Every attempt to move only fed their strength, the oppressive cold stealing the air from his lungs.

  “Silenced?” Dinadan choked out, his voice defiant as the darkness smothered him. “Good luck. I’ve been talking since I learned to walk.”

  The warlord sneered. “Then speak your last, fool.”

  With a flick of his wrist, the shadows surged, consuming him.