Dinadan glanced back.

  Aidric kept pace, but barely. The bruises on his face had darkened under the rising sun, his steps faltering, though he tried to mask the weakness. The chest remained clutched to his ribs, its glow dimmed in the daylight.

  Dinadan’s own body throbbed from the morning’s chaos, every ache a reminder. But watching the boy—his stubborn, staggering resolve—stirred something unwelcome in his chest. Duty. A weight he had spent a lifetime outrunning.

  The old instinct flared. Leave. Walk away.

  But something else had taken root.

  Each step forward was a battle. Each heartbeat, a war drum pounding between the man he was and the one he might have to become.

  “Hold up,” Dinadan said, stopping so quickly Aidric almost collided with him. The boy caught himself in time, clutching the chest tighter. “Change of plan. First stop, the healer. You’re looking worse than a stew left too long on the fire, and I’ve no intention of dragging a corpse to... wherever you’re going.”

  “I’m fine,” Aidric muttered.

  Dinadan raised an eyebrow. “You don’t look fine, lad. You look like you’ve been thrashed by a tavern brawl and lost. Badly.” He softened his tone, adding, “I know what being banged up looks like. Trust me—this is banged up.”

  Aidric hesitated, his gaze darting to the ground, then gave a reluctant nod.

  “Good choice,” Dinadan said, turning back to pat Bracken’s neck. “And you,” he said, addressing the mule, “don’t give me that look. We’re stopping whether you approve or not.”

  Bracken flicked an ear and swished her tail, her opinion clear enough.

  The healer’s hut huddled at the edge of the village, its crooked frame listing as if bowing beneath the weight of its years. The tang of crushed herbs—sharp and alive—mingled with the damp musk of aged timber, enveloping Dinadan the moment he stooped beneath the low lintel. Shadows flickered in the gloom, cast by the hearth's restless flames, and overhead, clusters of brittle plants swayed like whispers, their dry fingers brushing against his hair.

  The healer paused.

  A wiry woman, skin like weathered parchment, eyes sharp as whetted steel. Her hands—stained with the green ghosts of countless remedies—hovered over a tangle of roots and leaves strewn across a cluttered table. The air around her hummed, thick with unspoken command.

  Her gaze flicked up—a blade drawn and sheathed in a single motion.

  Aidric. Then back to her work.

  Irritation. Resignation. As if she already knew this would cost more than she was willing to give.

  “Over there,” she said, jerking her chin toward a low stool beside the hearth. Her voice carried the authority of someone who’d seen too many fools ignore her advice—and regretted none of her crisp words.

  Her dismissal was as sharp as the flint she used to spark her fire, but Dinadan only arched a brow, the ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. The healer had a temper to match her skill, and as with all fiery creatures, he found himself equal parts wary and amused.

  Aidric obeyed without a word, still clutching the chest as though it might disappear if he let go. The healer’s eyes flicked to the box, narrowing in question, but she didn’t ask. Instead, she crouched in front of the boy and poked at his bruises with rough, practiced fingers.

  “Cracked rib,” she muttered. “Could’ve been worse. The bruises’ll turn every shade under the sun before they heal, though.” She straightened with a grunt and began rummaging through the shelves lining the walls.

  Dinadan leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed “Not much of a hand for pleasantries, are you?”

  The healer snorted. “Want me to coddle him? Pat his head and kiss his bruises?”

  Dinadan grinned. “Wouldn’t say no.”

  She ignored him, returning with a jar of pungent salve and a roll of cloth. “Hold still,” she instructed Aidric, her tone brooking no argument. She worked, dabbing the salve on the worst of the bruises and binding his ribs with steady, calloused hands.

  Aidric flinched but didn’t make a sound. The healer stepped back, nodding in approval. “You’ll live,” she said. “But don’t go running about like a fool, or you’ll undo my work.”

  “I’ll make sure he doesn’t,” Dinadan said, pushing off the doorframe. “You’ve a deft hand, Herbwife. What’s the cost for your work?”

  “Two coins,” she said without looking up, already tidying her shelves.

  Dinadan patted his pockets, grimacing. “Ah, about that... How do you feel about taking payment in the form of a riveting tale or two?”

  The healer turned, her glare enough to fell a tree.

  “Or,” Dinadan added, “perhaps I’ll owe you a favor. I’m good at those.”

  She waved a hand dismissively. “Get out. You’ve wasted enough of my time.”

  “Much obliged,” Dinadan said, steering Aidric out the door. “Your generosity is unmatched.”

  Outside, Dinadan rummaged through Bracken’s saddlebags, pulling out what little remained of his provisions. Aidric perched on a low stone wall, the chest resting on his lap. His fingers rested on its surface now.

  Dinadan handed him a hunk of bread and a sliver of cheese. “Not much, but it’ll keep the worms from gnawing at your insides.” He tore into his own bread and added, “You’d be amazed at how long you can survive on dried apples and hard cheese. Well, survive poorly, but survive all the same.”

  Aidric nibbled at the bread, his gaze distant. Dinadan decided against pressing him for answers—at least for now. The boy’s silence surrounded him like armor, and Dinadan knew better than to hammer away at it yet.

  Instead, Dinadan’s attention drifted to Bracken, who grazed nearby, her ears twitching with contentment. The sight of her, calm and steady, soothed like a balm to his own restless thoughts.

  “You need a mount,” Dinadan said, breaking the quiet.

  Aidric blinked at him, confused. “What?”

  “A mule,” Dinadan clarified. “You can’t lug that chest on foot all the way to wherever you’re headed. Trust me, lad, I’ve been on the road long enough to know. A mule’s your best bet—strong, smart, and far less inclined to throw you into a ditch than a horse.”

  Aidric hesitated. “I don’t need—”

  “You do,” Dinadan cut in, his tone firm but kind. “Trust me, lad. I’ve been on the road long enough to know.”

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  The village stables leaned at an angle that made Dinadan wonder how they hadn’t collapsed. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of hay and manure.

  Dinadan approached the merchant tending the pen, a shrewd-looking man with a thick beard and a sharp eye.

  “This one,” Dinadan said, pointing to a gray mule with a calm demeanor. “What’s its price?”

  The merchant scratched his chin. “Here’s a fine beast. Strong legs, good temperament. Fifteen silver.”

  Dinadan scoffed, shaking his head. “Fifteen? For a mule? Are we buying it or commissioning a painting of it?”

  The merchant bristled. “It’s worth every coin! You’ll not find a better one in the shire.”

  Dinadan leaned on the fence, his smile disarming. “Ten silver, and I won’t tell everyone in the market about the time I saw you sell a rooster that crowed at the moon instead of the dawn.”

  The merchant’s eyes narrowed, but after a tense moment, he sighed. “Fine. Ten silver. But only because that rooster was cursed, not faulty.”

  Dinadan laughed, tossing the coins into the merchant’s hand. He led the scruffy mule out into the sunlight. Its long ears twitched, and its tail swished. There was a spark of stubbornness in its dark eyes.

  Aidric frowned, his gaze flicking between the mule and Dinadan. “That’s it?”

  Dinadan patted the mule’s neck. “Oh, don’t be fooled by his looks. Mules are smarter than they let on, tougher than a knight’s hide, and far less likely to throw you when the going gets rough.”

  The mule brayed, as if in agreement, and flicked its ears toward Aidric.

  “See?” Dinadan said, grinning. “He likes you already. What’ll you name him?”

  Aidric hesitated, then said, “Thistle.”

  Dinadan nodded. “Good choice. Stubborn, prickly, and unlikely to budge without good reason. I’d say it suits him.”

  For the first time since they’d met, Aidric smiled—a faint, fleeting thing, but real enough to catch Dinadan off guard.

  By the time they left the village, the sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the path ahead. Aidric walked beside Thistle, the chest resting on the mule’s squared back now. Dinadan adjusted the straps on Bracken’s saddle one last time, then set off at a steady pace, the rhythm of hooves and boots filling the quiet

  “Well, lad,” Dinadan said, breaking the silence, “you’ve got yourself a mule, a patched-up set of ribs, and a full stomach. I’d say you’re better off than most travelers.”

  Aidric didn’t answer, but he looked more relaxed, his shoulders not hunched as if braced for a blow.

  Dinadan smirked, “This is shaping up to be the quietest journey I’ve ever been on. You’re not much for conversation, are you?”

  Aidric shrugged without looking up. Dinadan smirked. “Right, I suppose the ‘nearly beaten to death by brigands’ thing might have dampened your enthusiasm. But don’t let me monopolize the chatter. Go on, tell me all about yourself. Where you’re from, what you like to do in your spare time, why you’re carrying a box that glows like it’s holding a piece of the sun...”

  Aidric’s reached up and put his hand on the chest. “It doesn’t glow.”

  "Lad, I saw it," Dinadan said, arching an eyebrow. "The light played no tricks. That chest pulses with old magic - the kind that makes druids whisper and Christians reach for their crosses."

  Aidric glanced at him, his jaw set. “It’s none of your business.”

  Dinadan sighed. “Ah, the old ‘none of your business’ line. Fair enough. I’m just the fool who saved you from brigands, put you in a healer’s care, and bought you a fine mule. No reason at all I’d need to know what trouble you’re dragging me into.”

  Aidric looked away, his lips pressed into a thin line. They walked in silence for a while, the path narrowing as it began a gradual incline. The trees rustled in the breeze, their shadows flickering across the ground. Birds flitted between branches, their songs filling the gaps in conversation.

  “You’re heading to the Henge,” Dinadan said, his tone less teasing now.

  Aidric stiffened but didn’t answer.

  “You don’t have to say it,” Dinadan went on. “I know the look of someone with a purpose they can’t shake, even if it’s bigger than they are. Whatever’s in the box, you have to deliver it, don’t you?”

  Aidric stopped walking; his shoulders hunched again. He glanced down at the chest and back up at Dinadan. “It’s not just a box,” he said.

  Dinadan tilted his head, intrigued by the sudden shift. “Go on.”

  Aidric hesitated, then began walking again, his words slow and cautious.

  “My father... he told me about it before he died." The boy's voice wavered, fingers tracing the ancient runes carved into the chest's weathered surface. He said it was our family’s burden, passed down for generations. It’s... part of Y Tir, somehow. The old magic flows through it like lifeblood, older than crowns, older than the memory of kings."

  Dinadan frowned, his steps faltering. “Older than the kings? What does that even mean?”

  Aidric shook his head. “I don’t know all of it. He didn’t have time to explain. He said it has to be at the Henge before the meeting of the elders. That it’s... important.”

  Dinadan fell silent, his mind working through the boy’s words. He’d heard tales of artifacts tied to Albion’s magic—things said to hold pieces of the land’s essence. Relics like that weren’t rare; they were dangerous in the wrong hands.

  “And the glowing?” Dinadan asked after a moment. “Does it always glow?”

  Aidric hesitated. “No. It started when... when I ran into you.”

  Dinadan stopped walking, turning to face the boy.

  “When you ran into me?”

  Aidric nodded, his grip on the chest tightening. “It’s connected to you. The magic in your blood calls to the power within it. I felt it. And it hasn’t stopped since.”

  Dinadan reached into his tunic and pulled out the shard, its faint warmth pulsing against his palm. Aidric stared at it, his eyes wide.

  “You’re saying this little thing is linked to whatever’s in there?” Dinadan asked, holding up the shard.

  “I don’t know,” Aidric admitted, his voice just above a whisper. “But it feels... the same.”

  Dinadan studied the shard, its pulsing light echoing in his hand. Taliesin’s words came back to him: Y Tir speaks your name. This boy, this chest, this shard—none of it was a coincidence.

  “Well, that’s troubling,” Dinadan muttered, tucking the shard back into his tunic. They continued walking, the path growing steeper as the hills rolled higher around them. The air grew cooler, the breeze carrying hints of heather and wildflowers.

  Aidric didn’t answer, but Dinadan caught the faintest twitch of his lips.

  “You’ve got guts, lad. I’ll give you that,” Dinadan said, smiling. “But guts don’t count for much if you’re walking into trouble with your eyes closed. And trust me, the Henge isn’t the friendliest place right now. If the elders are gathering, you can bet every faction with a grievance will be sniffing around. Your box? It’ll put a target on your back big enough to see from Caer Llion.”

  Aidric’s steps slowed, his knuckles white on the chest’s edges. “I didn’t ask you to come with me,” he said.

  “No,” Dinadan said, his tone softening. “But you need someone to watch your back. Whether you want to admit it or not.”

  They walked in silence again, Aidric’s stiff posture relaxing as the miles passed.

  “I didn’t thank you. For helping me.”

  Dinadan grinned. “You didn’t need to. But I’ll take it. You’re welcome, lad.”

  By the time the sun sank low on the horizon, painting the hills in hues of gold and violet, Dinadan had made up his mind. Aidric’s fragmented story, guarded and incomplete as it was, had told him enough: the boy was running, bruised, exhausted, and carrying a chest far heavier than its weight in wood and iron. Leaving him to fend for himself wasn’t an option—not for Dinadan, at least, though whether his decision came from curiosity or sheer idiocy was still up for debate.

  The day’s travel had worn hard on Aidric. His steps were slower now, his grip on the chest less fierce but still protective, and his shoulders slumped with fatigue. When Dinadan caught the boy flinching as he adjusted his grip, the choice was no longer his to debate. Aidric wouldn’t last another night on the cold, unyielding ground.

  When the first glimmer of firelight appeared in the valley below, Dinadan pulled Bracken’s reins, halting the mule. He glanced back at Aidric, who trudged forward a few more steps before stopping, his head drooping like a flower too heavy for its stalk.

  “Change of plans,” Dinadan announced, his tone light but leaving no room for argument.

  Aidric blinked up at him, frowning. “What do you mean?”

  Dinadan gestured toward the distant glow of the inn’s lanterns, flickering like stars through the trees. “You’re half-dead on your feet, lad, and your ribs aren’t going to thank you for sleeping on the ground tonight. There’s an inn down there. Warm cider, maybe a fire, and if we’re lucky, a bed. Or at least a bench softer than dirt.”

  Aidric hesitated, his fingers tightening on the chest. “I’m fine,” he muttered, though his voice lacked the conviction to back it.

  Dinadan raised a skeptical brow, letting silence hang for a beat before he snorted. “You’re not fine, and we both know it. Stubbornness is admirable, but it won’t keep you breathing. Rest will. Now, unless you want me to throw you over Bracken like a sack of grain—and I’ll make it as undignified as possible—we’re heading to that inn.”

  Aidric opened his mouth, perhaps to argue, but closed it again after a moment. A quiet nod was his only reply.

  “Good lad,” Dinadan said with a grin, giving Bracken a nudge to start moving again. “And just so we’re clear,” he added over his shoulder, “I’ll see you to the Henge. You don’t have to explain everything now, but if trouble comes knocking—and let’s face it, it will—I’ll need to know enough to keep us both alive. Agreed?”

  Aidric hesitated again but nodded. His grip on the chest loosened, though the shadows in his eyes lingered.

  Dinadan sighed, more to himself than the boy. “And if you’re wondering why I’m sticking my neck out for you, it’s not out of gallantry or wisdom. It’s because I’m an idiot—or maybe just curious. Either way, you’re stuck with me.”

  That earned him the faintest flicker of a smile, so brief he almost thought he imagined it. Dinadan warmed with a small surge of satisfaction as the firelight ahead grew brighter, its warm glow promising the comfort the boy needed.