Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When Balinor first fled Camelot during the Great Purge, he was a hunted man—a Dragonlord without a home, marked for death by the very kingdom he had once served. The betrayal stung like a festering wound, but exile offered him something that Camelot never had: freedom. He wandered the kingdoms, seeking refuge in places that had not yet fallen under Uther Pendragon’s iron rule. It was in a small, unassuming village called Ealdor that he finally found sanctuary—not in the shelter of walls, but in the warmth of a woman’s heart.

Hunith was unlike anyone Balinor had ever known. She was kind yet fiercely independent, with a quiet strength that made the hardships of village life seem trivial. To Balinor, she was the first breath of fresh air after drowning, the steady light that guided him away from his past. With her, he learned what it meant to build something beyond survival. Their love was not born of fleeting passion but of something deeper—something the Triple Goddess herself seemed to bless.

The Maiden admired their youthful devotion, the way their love defied the boundaries of fear and exile. The Mother saw their fierce protectiveness of one another, a bond forged not just by affection but by the need to endure. And the Crone, the keeper of wisdom, foresaw the path ahead—the trials they would face, the sacrifices they would make, and the legacy their love would leave behind.

For years, Balinor and Hunith carved out a life together. Their home was simple, a modest shack at the village’s edge, where they lived off the land and the love they shared. They spoke in hushed voices at night, dreaming of a future without fear, of raising children who would never know the cruelty of Uther’s reign. And then, one day, those whispered dreams became reality—Hunith was with child.

But joy was fleeting, always stolen too soon. Before their son could be born, rumors swept through the land—Camelot’s knights had crossed the border, scouring neighboring kingdoms in search of the last Dragonlord. There was no time to hesitate. Balinor and Hunith fled together, seeking refuge in the only place left that might offer them sanctuary: the druids.

The druids took them in, recognizing Balinor as one of the last of his kind. It was there, beneath the sacred boughs of their hidden grove, that their son came into the world. The moment Merlin drew his first breath, the air itself seemed to tremble. The firelight flickered unnaturally, shadows curling toward the newborn as if drawn by some unseen force. Even in infancy, the druids saw what lay within him—an ancient power, raw and untamed, pulsing like a second heartbeat beneath his delicate skin.

He was not just a child. He was Emrys.

But Balinor and Hunith, though grateful for the druids’ wisdom, feared what this meant. The world was already cruel to those with magic. What fate would await a boy prophesied to shape the course of history? Desperate to shield him from the weight of destiny, they begged the druids to keep his nature a secret, to let him grow as a child first—a boy before a legend.

For a time, their wish was granted. Merlin’s childhood was one of warmth and wonder, tempered by the ever-present shadow of fear. He learned magic not as a weapon, but as an extension of himself—how to coax the winds to dance, how to heal wounded creatures, how to listen to the whisper of the earth beneath his feet. The druids taught him kindness, compassion, and above all, caution. He was never to reveal his gifts beyond their sanctuary, never to draw the gaze of those who would see him as a threat.

But the world did not grant safety so easily.

Fifteen years into the Purge, a whisper of hope reached the druids—Camelot was offering peace. After years of bloodshed, Uther’s court had sent envoys, promising to end the persecution of magic in exchange for an alliance. Balinor, weary of running, dared to believe. He wanted peace, not just for himself, but for his son. If there was even a chance that Merlin could live without fear, it was worth the risk.

He left with the elders, believing he was walking toward a future where his family could be free. But instead, he walked into a grave.

It was a trap.

Camelot’s so-called peace summit was nothing more than a ruse—a final purge to rid the world of those who still defied Uther’s rule. Balinor never returned.

Merlin was thirteen when the news arrived, but in truth, he had already known.

He had been gathering herbs with his mother when it happened, the late afternoon sun casting long golden rays across the forest floor. Then, without warning, a chill stole through him, sharp and unnatural, like a phantom hand pressing against his chest. The world around him dimmed, fading into an eerie silence. And then, in that endless void, he heard it—a voice he had known all his life, rough and warm like crackling embers.

“My son.”

The words wrapped around him like a whisper on the wind, neither spoken nor imagined, but something in between. He could feel his father’s presence—fading, unraveling. In that moment, he understood. He knew, with a certainty that defied explanation, that Balinor was gone.

And yet, his father’s final gift was not just farewell, but truth. In that space between life and death, Balinor revealed what Merlin had always been meant to know. He was not just another sorcerer. He was not just a boy born with magic.

He was Emrys—the one destined to shape the future of Albion. The one who would guide the Once and Future King. The one who would restore magic to the land.

When Merlin returned to himself, the herbs lay forgotten in the dirt. His mother called his name, worry in her voice, but he could not answer. His world had shifted, his childhood shattered in a single breath.

He had lost his father.

And he had gained a destiny.

“I’m leaving for Camelot.”

That declaration seemed to jolt his mother back to reality. “No!” she exclaimed, running towards him. “Absolutely not. My love, I have just lost your father; I cannot bear to lose you as well.” He didn’t want to break her heart, but he couldn’t ignore the destiny that awaited him.

“I have to—”

“My heart, you are still a young boy, naive to the ways of the world. How do you expect to survive until you find your king? How will you even find him?” That question gave Merlin pause. How was he planning to locate the king? He hadn’t even known he was part of the prophecy; how could he find the other half of it?

“Stay here,” his mother pleaded. “Just for a few more years, while we figure out this prophecy together.” She cradled his face in her hands. “I will not lose both my heart and my soul in one day.”

The salt of his tears mingled with hers, and he wiped them away. “Okay,” he whispered. “I’ll stay.”

Chapter Text

Arthur Pendragon was nearly five and ten summers old when his father, King Uther, and his council resolved to kill the final Dragonlord once and for all. Word had reached them that the man had been spotted living among a peaceful druid village on the outskirts of Camelot’s borders. Arthur knew there was no such thing as a peaceful group of magic users. His father had drilled that lesson into him since childhood—magic was corruption incarnate, a force that could turn even the kindest heart to darkness. And Arthur had always believed him. Wholeheartedly.

Or, at least, he tried to.

Morgana, his father’s ward, had started questioning such teachings as of late. At seventeen, she was more outspoken than ever, no longer content to sit in silence as Uther made his decrees. Just that morning, she had argued passionately in the council chamber that the Dragonlord and his people had done nothing to provoke Camelot’s wrath. That they should be left alone. That hunting them down was an act of cruelty, not justice.

Her defiance had earned her a swift rebuke and a ban from future council meetings.

Arthur knew better than to question his father out loud. But that didn’t stop the thoughts from creeping in. Morgana might—maybe—have had a point. There hadn’t been any dragon attacks since the Great Purge began, nor had there been any credible signs of rebellion from the druids. If they were as dangerous as Uther claimed, if magic was truly the uncontrollable evil Arthur had been taught it was, then why hadn’t they fought back? Why hadn’t the druids raised their own armies, or turned their spells against Camelot?

Still, Uther’s conviction was unwavering, and Arthur had always trusted his father’s wisdom. But when the council devised their latest plan—to lure the Dragonlord and the druid elders into Camelot under the guise of peace, only to slaughter them—Arthur couldn't shake his unease. If sorcerers were destined to fall to darkness, wasn’t it dangerous to invite them within the castle walls? Especially the Dragonlord, whose power was said to be unmatched? Why not continue sending patrols to hunt them down before they had the chance to regroup and flee again? If they had never lost a knight to a druid raid, surely they weren’t as threatening as Uther made them out to be. Right?

He had voiced these concerns to his father after the meeting.

“You have been blessed in this life to have never known a world ruled by those with magic,” Uther explained, his voice edged with steel. “You will understand our urgency as you get older and have your own run-ins with them.”

Arthur had bowed his head. “Of course.”

When he exited the chamber, he found Morgana waiting for him, arms folded, chin lifted in defiance.

“Escort me back to my room,” she said airily, looping her arm through his. Then, in a hushed voice, she added, “And tell me everything.”

Arthur sighed, already regretting stopping to speak with her. “Morgana, you really shouldn’t concern yourself with these matters.”

She shot him a glare sharp enough to cut through armor. “Arthur.”

He hesitated but knew better than to test her patience.

Reluctantly, he muttered, “They are planning to invite the Dragonlord and other druid leaders to a peace summit.”

Morgana’s eyes brightened with hope. “That’s—” She stopped herself, dropping her voice even lower. “That’s amazing! I never thought Uther would allow such a thing. He’s always been so blinded by his fear of magic.”

Arthur swallowed, shifting uncomfortably. “Morgana…”

Her smile faded. “Arthur,” she warned.

“It’s a trap,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “They’re luring them here to kill them.”

Morgana stilled, her fingers tightening around his arm. Her expression was unreadable at first, but then her jaw clenched, her lips pressing into a thin line. Arthur could see it—the moment her hope withered and turned to something colder, sharper. Disgust.

“And you’re just going to let this happen?” she demanded, her voice a whisper of fury.

Arthur looked away. He didn’t want to meet her eyes, didn’t want to see the disappointment there. “Sorcerers are dangerous, Morgana. You know that. And while I don’t know if these methods are… exactly honorable,” he faltered, “it’s what the council has deemed necessary. We must trust their wisdom.”

Morgana inhaled sharply, her grip on his arm turning vice-like. “Then you are a coward,” she spat, voice laced with venom. “And no better than your father.”

Arthur flinched as if struck. He could feel his pulse in his throat, his heart pounding in his ears. He wanted to argue, to tell her she was wrong—that he wasn’t a coward, that he was only trying to do what was expected of him. But the words wouldn’t come. Because deep down, he feared she might be right.

—

Arthur watched the druids enter Camelot, their expressions wary yet filled with hope. They moved with quiet dignity, dressed in simple robes adorned with nature’s colors, their eyes scanning the grand courtyard as if searching for proof that this peace offering was genuine. Among them, a man with long black hair stepped forward, his presence commanding yet gentle. He reached out, extending his hand toward Uther Pendragon—a symbol of trust, of a future unburdened by bloodshed.

Arthur saw his father hesitate for only the briefest moment before his face hardened into a mask of resolve. Then, with a slight movement of his hand, the trap was sprung.

The clang of iron echoed sharply as knights surged forward, surrounding the druids in a ring of gleaming steel. Shackles snapped shut around their wrists, their trust met with cold betrayal. Gasps of disbelief and scattered cries filled the air, yet not a single spell was uttered. No desperate incantation to flee, no call upon the elements to strike back—just quiet resignation and the weight of understanding settling over them like a heavy fog.

Arthur had not meant to witness this. He was supposed to be elsewhere, occupied with menial tasks befitting a prince not yet trusted with the weight of true responsibility. Polishing armor, overseeing the stables—anything but this. Yet, here he stood, unseen in the shadows of a high window, his breath shallow as he watched his father execute the deception with perfect precision.

Then, something unexpected happened. One of the druids, an older man with a lined face and wise, sorrowful eyes, turned and looked directly at him.

Arthur's instincts screamed at him to move, to retreat into the safety of obscurity. But his body refused. He remained frozen as the druid leaned close to the long-haired man, whispering something. The black-haired man's gaze followed, his eyes locking onto Arthur’s.

Arthur braced himself for hatred. He expected loathing, fear, perhaps even the seething resentment of the condemned. But instead, he saw something that sent a shiver through his core.

Hope.

It made no sense. If they knew who he was—the son of Uther Pendragon, the boy who would one day inherit the legacy of slaughter his father had begun—why would they look upon him with anything but despair? He should have been a symbol of everything they despised, everything that had led them here in chains. And yet, in those steady, knowing eyes, there was something else entirely.

Arthur’s fingers curled against the cold stone of the window ledge, his heart pounding. He had spent his whole life believing the world was simple. That magic was a poison, and those who wielded it were doomed to darkness. But for the first time, doubt crept in, unsettling and unwelcome.

He watched as the black-haired man, the last of the Dragonlords, straightened his shoulders, bound hands resting at his sides, unshaken. The knights yanked at the chains, forcing him forward toward the dungeons. Even as he was led away, his gaze never wavered from Arthur’s, as if he were silently urging the young prince to remember this moment. To remember that things were never as simple as they seemed.

Arthur exhaled shakily, stepping back at last, his father’s triumphant voice ringing through the courtyard. He felt sick.

Perhaps Morgana had been right all along.

—

Arthur spent the rest of the day haunted by the man's eyes. They followed him through every motion—through the grueling hours of training, through the rhythmic scraping of armor polish, through the quiet solitude of preparing for bed. He could not shake the way they had looked at him. Not with hatred, nor fear, but with something far more unsettling. Hope.

Why?

He was dressed in fine clothes, bearing the insignia of Camelot, son of the very king who had condemned them. He was their enemy, and yet they looked at him as though he was their salvation.

The questions burned in his chest, refusing to be ignored. He needed answers.

So he went.

Sneaking into the dungeons should have been difficult, but it wasn’t. The guards were more concerned with keeping prisoners in than stopping anyone from getting in. He moved with careful steps, the torchlight flickering against damp stone as he descended into the depths of the castle. The air grew heavy with the scent of mildew and something more acrid—fear, desperation, resignation.

As he passed each cell, he felt their eyes on him. The druids did not cower, nor did they curse him. Instead, they watched him with quiet reverence, as if they were gazing upon something sacred.

“It is you.”

The voice came from the last cell, rich and steady despite the grim surroundings. From the darkness, the man stepped forward, his long black hair falling over his shoulders, his brilliant blue eyes luminous in the dim torchlight.

Arthur hesitated. His breath caught in his throat, an unfamiliar unease curling in his gut.

“How is it you know me?” he demanded, his voice sharper than he intended.

The man tilted his head, regarding him with quiet amusement. “I do not,” he admitted. “But I have been waiting for you. As we all have.”

The certainty in his voice sent a shiver down Arthur’s spine.

“I don’t understand.” He took an involuntary step back. “I’m not here to free you.”

The man sighed, as if he expected this. “What is your name, boy?”

Arthur hesitated. He shouldn’t be speaking to him. Shouldn’t be down here at all. But something about this man—his calm certainty, the strange familiarity in his gaze—compelled him to answer.

“Arthur,” he said. Then, because some foolish, instinctive part of him wanted to see the man’s reaction, he added, “Arthur Pendragon.”

The man inhaled sharply. His expression flickered—grief, shock, something deeper. He closed his eyes briefly, steadying himself before opening them again.

“Truly?” he whispered, almost to himself. “The son of Uther.”

Arthur bristled, shoulders squaring. “Yes. And that should tell you that you’re wasting your time if you think I’ll betray him.”

The man studied him for a long moment before offering a small, wistful smile. “I have a son myself,” he said, his voice softer now. “Perhaps a little younger than you.”

Arthur frowned. “What does that have to do with anything?”

The man’s smile did not waver. “You must be kind to him when you meet. You are two sides of the same coin.”

Arthur’s heart thumped unevenly in his chest. “I don’t know what that means.”

“You will.”

Something in the quiet confidence of his words unsettled Arthur more than any spell or curse could have. He turned to leave, eager to escape whatever strange hold this man had over him. But just as he reached the steps, another voice stopped him.

“You will be a great king, you know.”

Arthur turned. The speaker was a young woman with hair like fire and eyes as green as the forests beyond Camelot’s walls. She smiled at him, not with arrogance, not with deceit, but with quiet certainty.

For the first time in his life, Arthur was at a loss for words.

He left.

But their voices followed him.

Their certainty.

Their hope.

And the weight of something he was not yet ready to understand.

—

Arthur was only supposed to watch the first execution. One execution, then he could leave, go about his duties, pretend this was just another day in Camelot.

Morgana was meant to be here too, standing beside him as a show of support for his father’s reign. But she had refused. She always found ways to avoid these things, slipping through Uther’s grasp like a shadow. Arthur, however, had no such luxury. His presence was not requested—it was expected.

So he stood there, spine stiff, face blank, watching as the first prisoner was forced to their knees before the executioner’s block.

It was a girl. Young—perhaps no older than Morgana.

Arthur did not know what it was about her that made his father decide she should be the first to die. Maybe it was her youth, the way she looked up at the crowd with something too close to defiance. Maybe Uther thought he was being merciful, sparing her the horrors of imprisonment, killing her before magic could fully take root in her soul.

Or maybe it didn’t matter.

The axe came down.

Arthur flinched.

Blood sprayed across the executioner’s boots, pooling dark and viscous on the stone. He squeezed his eyes shut for half a second—just long enough to compose himself, to chase away the sick twist in his stomach.

He told himself this was right. This was necessary. These people were dangerous, a threat to Camelot, to its people. His father had said so, had drilled it into him for as long as he could remember.

But no matter how many times he repeated it in his mind, it did nothing to quiet the hollow ache in his chest.

When he opened his eyes again, Uther was staring at him.

Disappointment flickered in the king’s gaze, cold and sharp. Arthur felt it like a blade against his skin. He bowed his head, preparing to step away, but before he could move, Uther’s hand came down on his shoulder, firm and unmoving.

He was not allowed to leave.

With a wave of Uther’s hand, the girl’s remains were dragged away, and the next druid was brought forward. Arthur swallowed, forcing his face into the same stony mask his father wore so effortlessly.

There were five executions that first day. Three more the next.

Arthur learned not to flinch.

—

Arthur continued to visit the druids in the dungeons. Every night, when the castle halls fell quiet and only the flickering torches lit his way, he slipped past the guards.

It had been over a week since they were captured. A week since he had first spoken to the man with long black hair and piercing blue eyes. The Dragonlord.

Balinor.

He still lived, though barely. His face was gaunt, his hands marked with bruises where the chains bit into his skin. Uther was determined to break him, to force him to give up the names of powerful sorcerers still lurking in Albion. But Balinor did not break. He endured. And somehow, impossibly, he still smiled when Arthur appeared before his cell.

Tonight was no different.

Arthur sat cross-legged on the cold stone floor, hands clasped, his cloak wrapped tightly around him to ward off the damp chill. Balinor, despite his injuries, still carried himself with the quiet dignity of a man who knew something Arthur did not.

Something Arthur desperately wanted to understand.

“Why do you look at me like that?” Arthur asked at last.

Balinor tilted his head. “Like what?”

“Like you’re—” Arthur hesitated, shifting uncomfortably. “Like you’re certain of something.”

Balinor’s smile was small, knowing. “Because I am.”

Arthur frowned. “What?”

“That you will be a great king.”

Arthur inhaled sharply, the words striking something deep within him. He had heard those same words before, whispered by the young druid girl before her execution. He had tried to forget them.

His fingers curled into fists. “How can you say that when you are sentenced to die by my father’s hand?”

Balinor did not flinch. “Because truth is not bound by circumstance.”

Arthur had no response to that.

Instead, he shifted, leaning back against the damp stone wall, watching as Balinor’s gaze drifted toward the torchlight dancing on the ceiling.

“Have you heard of Fionn Mac Cumhail?” the Dragonlord asked suddenly.

Arthur sighed. This was how most of their nights went—his questions met with stories instead of answers. He never knew whether to find it frustrating or strangely comforting.

“No,” Arthur admitted. “Who was he?”

Balinor’s voice took on a rhythmic cadence, the kind of tone used by storytellers around campfires, weaving legend into life.

“He was a great warrior,” he began, “skilled with any weapon he took up, though he favored the sword and spear. He was blessed with knowledge, but he was also fair, just, and true. Yet, he was not born that way. He had many teachers. Finegas, a wise poet, trained him in the arts and sciences, and it was Finegas who gave him the Salmon of Knowledge to cook.”

Arthur raised a skeptical eyebrow. “A salmon?”

Balinor chuckled. “A salmon. And wouldn’t you know it, the boy burned his thumb while turning it over the fire. Instinctively, he put his thumb in his mouth, and from that moment on, he was granted great wisdom. Any time he chewed his thumb, he could see beyond the present, into fate itself.”

Arthur snorted. “So, what you’re telling me is that this legendary warrior sucked his thumb?”

Balinor’s grin widened. “I suppose that is one way to put it.”

Arthur shook his head. “How did he become such a great warrior, then?”

“Before Finegas gave him knowledge, he was trained by two warriors—Bodhmall and her wife, Liath Luachra.”

Arthur blinked. “Her wife?”

Balinor nodded as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Aye. The two women raised Fionn in secret, keeping him safe from those who wished him harm. But they did more than protect him. They taught him to swim, to fight, to survive. They shaped him into the man he was meant to be.”

Arthur’s mind reeled, stuck on that single word— wife. It was… unheard of.

Balinor, either oblivious to his shock or deliberately ignoring it, continued, “You see, Finegas gave Fionn wisdom. Bodhmall and Liath gave him strength. He had many people to shape him, to guide him, but in the end, the choices he made were his own. He was always fair, just, and true.”

Arthur stared at him for a long moment.

Something inside him twisted painfully.

“So,” he said quietly, “you think you can shape me? Turn me against my father?”

Balinor shook his head. “No, my boy. I am only here to give you knowledge, as your father is here to train you. Whether you choose to listen to either of us—or anyone else, for that matter—is entirely up to you.”

Arthur swallowed. The flickering torchlight cast long shadows across the stone, making the space between them feel smaller, heavier.

He hesitated, then leaned forward, voice barely above a whisper.

“I’ve always wanted to learn how to swim.”

Balinor’s face softened with something like amusement, something like sorrow. He exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking his head.

“My son will teach you,” he murmured, as if speaking of a certainty yet to come.

—

Balinor burned the next day.

Arthur stood stiff, his hands clenched at his sides, his knuckles white. The scent of charred flesh and smoke filled the air, acrid and suffocating, but he did not flinch. He did not allow himself to. His father stood tall beside him, his expression unreadable, a mask of cold authority. The assembled knights and courtiers watched in silence, some with grim approval, others with veiled discomfort.

Arthur forced himself to look, to witness the flames consume the man who had spoken to him as if he were more than a prince—who had looked at him not with fear, nor expectation, but with certainty. You will be a great king.

The words echoed in his mind like a curse.

When it was over, when the ashes settled and the crowd began to disperse, Arthur turned on his heel and walked away. He did not wait for his father’s acknowledgment. He did not care if he was meant to train, to spar, to fulfill his duties as crown prince. His breath was coming too fast, his chest tightening as if the fire still roared inside of him.

Then he ran.

He did not know where he was going—only that he had to move, had to escape. The castle walls felt suffocating, the weight of his father’s rule pressing down on him like iron. He sprinted through the lower town, past the bewildered stares of peasants, into the trees beyond. The forest swallowed him whole, cool and dark, but he did not stop. He ran until his lungs burned, until his legs ached, until the pounding of his heart drowned out the memory of Balinor’s final words.

A root caught his foot.

Arthur barely had time to gasp before he hit the ground hard, the impact jarring through his body. His face struck the earth, pain blooming in his nose like a sudden explosion of heat. He lay there for a moment, dazed, before slowly pushing himself up.

Blood dripped from his nose onto the dirt below. He blinked at it, disoriented, watching as the crimson splattered against the earth. Then, a tear fell, mixing with the blood.

Arthur’s breath hitched.

Before he knew it, a sob tore from his throat, raw and choked. He pressed a shaking hand to his face, as if that could hold back the grief clawing its way out of him. But the more he tried to contain it, the harder it came. He clenched his jaw, his fingers digging into the dirt, trying to swallow it down.

You are the son of Uther Pendragon.

You do not weep for a druid. You do not weep for a sorcerer.

But Balinor had not been just a sorcerer. He had been a father.

Arthur let out another shuddering sob, because he had not even asked about the man’s son. He had not learned the boy’s name, the child Balinor had left behind, the one who would never know what became of him. A son who had lost a father—because of his own father—because of Uther.

Because of him .

The thought broke something inside him.

“Sire?”

Arthur startled violently, whipping around, his instincts honed enough to reach for his dagger—only to find Gaius standing a few feet away, his gaze heavy with something like understanding.

The old physician was holding a small bundle of herbs, clearly in the middle of foraging, but Arthur could see the moment he took in the sight of him—mud-streaked, bloody, tear-stained. Gaius sighed, long and weary, before extending a hand.

“Come here, my boy.”

Arthur stiffened. He should order him to leave. Should get up and pretend none of this had happened. But something about the words—about the quiet, steady presence of the man before him—made his throat tighten even further.

He swallowed hard and pushed himself up, his limbs sluggish.

“You will tell no one of this.” His voice was hoarse, more to himself than to Gaius.

“Of course,” Gaius said simply. Then he stepped forward and gently cupped Arthur’s chin, tilting his head to examine his nose. Arthur tensed, but the touch was careful, clinical.

“It’s broken,” the physician murmured. “Not the worst break I’ve seen, but it will be painful.”

Arthur huffed a weak, bitter laugh. “Good. I deserve it.”

Gaius paused, his expression unreadable, before dropping his hand. “Come. I have a tincture for pain in my chambers.” He turned toward the castle, speaking over his shoulder. “Apply pressure to the sides of your nose, just above the nostrils. It will help with the bleeding.”

Arthur hesitated, then did as he was told. The motion felt grounding, something to focus on besides the raw ache in his chest.

Without another word, he followed Gaius back to Camelot.

—

Of course they were spotted.

Arthur should have known his absence would cause alarm. He had vanished without explanation, stormed off without so much as a word to his knights or his father. He had been reckless. Foolish .

And now he would have to answer for it.

Shouts rang through the trees as armored figures emerged from the foliage, their torches casting flickering light through the darkness. The guards looked frantic, relief evident on their faces the moment they spotted him. One knight hurried forward, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

“Your Highness! Are you all right?”

Arthur barely had time to open his mouth before another guard took off running—back toward the castle. Back to tell Uther. His stomach clenched.

Before he could respond, Gaius stepped forward, his expression one of exasperation and deep offense.

“Is he all right?” the old physician scoffed. “He’s a hero !”

The word alone was enough to bring everyone up short.

A hero ?

Even Arthur blinked, momentarily forgetting the ache in his broken nose.

The knight closest to them hesitated, his brows furrowing. “A hero?” he echoed warily.

“Yes, a hero,” Gaius huffed, crossing his arms as if affronted by the very question. “I asked His Highness to accompany me to gather rare medicinal herbs—I insisted , I might add, as some of these plants require careful handling. And in the process, we were set upon by a bandit.”

Arthur fought the urge to cough.

The knight’s face twisted in confusion. “A bandit? Attacked you?”

“Yes! Right here, in the woods,” Gaius continued, warming to the tale. “Clearly, the rogue recognized my importance to the royal court and sought to ransom me for a hefty sum.” He sniffed. “Fortunately, the prince was there. He fought off the scoundrel with great bravery.”

Arthur gulped.

Another guard exchanged a skeptical glance with his companion. “A lone bandit attacked you —whilst gathering herbs?”

“Well, it was one that we saw,” Gaius amended, waving a dismissive hand. “Who’s to say there weren’t more lurking about? These forests are dangerous, after all. Now, if you don’t mind—our hero has a broken nose, and I would very much like to patch him up before he starts leaking all over the castle floors.”

The knight hesitated, but ultimately inclined his head. “Of course, my apologies.”

Gaius didn’t wait for further discussion. He adjusted his satchel and strode purposefully toward the castle, leaving Arthur to scramble after him. He let the guards fall a few paces behind before leaning in.

“Thank you,” Arthur murmured under his breath.

Gaius didn’t look at him, but a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “It is I who should be thanking you ,” he said lightly. Then, with a wink, he added, “After all, not every day does a prince save an old man from a bandit, hmm?”

Arthur huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. His nose throbbed, his heart still a mess of emotions, but for the first time in a while… he felt a little lighter.

Chapter Text

“Are you entirely sure that you’re ready?”

Hunith’s voice was gentle, but there was an edge to it—one that made Merlin pause as he secured the last of his supplies. He turned toward her, lips curling into a small, mischievous smile.

“If you’re asking if I’ve finished packing, I have enough provisions to last two weeks. More than enough to get me to Camelot.”

“Merlin.”

The way she said his name made him laugh.

“I know, I know —I’ll keep my eyes peeled for pixies,” he teased, shaking his head.

“Merlin.”

This time, there was no humor in her voice.

He sighed, his expression softening. “Mama, I am seven and ten winters old. You, and everyone else, have prepared me as much as you possibly can.” He took a step back, spreading his arms to show off his new attire. “Look at me! No one will even be able to tell I’m a druid.”

It was true. They had made the journey back to the village where his parents had once lived, just to find him proper clothing—clothes that would help him blend in. Gone were the soft, earth-toned robes of the druids. Instead, he now wore a sturdy brown jacket over a deep blue tunic, a color that still felt strange to him, having spent his life in various hues of green. His mother had even gotten him a new pair of trousers, rather than simply extending his old ones with spare fabric.

Hunith shook her head fondly and reached up to cup his face in her hands. “Do you have the letter I gave you for Gaius?”

Merlin nodded. “Of course, Mama.”

Gaius—her older brother—had lived in Camelot for most of his life. Though he had dabbled in magic in his youth, he had found his true calling in medicine, eventually becoming the court physician. He was taking Merlin in under the pretense of training an apprentice, a necessary deception in a kingdom where magic was outlawed.

The sun had barely risen, its golden light spilling over the treetops, casting long shadows across the camp. It was a beautiful morning, crisp and cool, but the weight in Merlin’s chest made it hard to appreciate.

This place—these people—were his family.

Even those not bound to him by blood had become his brothers and sisters, his aunts and uncles. As he walked through the camp, they greeted him with warm smiles, clasped his shoulder in encouragement, whispered words of caution and pride. They all knew what he was walking into. Knew the dangers of Camelot. But they also knew the kind of man he was destined to become.

He hadn’t even made it to the edge of camp before the children found him.

They came in a wave of tiny hands and pleading voices, clinging to his jacket, tugging at his sleeves, begging him to stay.

“Do you have to go?”

“Stay just one more day, Merlin, please?”

Gently, he wrapped Eira in his arms. “I may be leaving, but I will come back one day. And until then, I will carry you, all of you in my heart.”

Eira sniffled, nodding against his shoulder. She was only six summers old, she couldn't even remember the sister she'd lost years ago, and now Merlin was leaving her. He was the closest thing she had to a brother now, and he was leaving her. He squeezed her again.

With a determined glance toward the other children, she pulled a folded cloth from her pocket and held it out to him.

“We got something for you, Merlin.”

Merlin hesitated for only a second before taking it. It was a scarf, dyed a deep red—a rare color among druids. Red was a warning, a mark of danger, of knights and bloodshed.

“We thought it would help you blend in,” she said softly, beginning to tie it around his neck.

He smiled, running his fingers over the fabric. “Where did you get this?”

Aodh, a boy about his age, chuckled. “During the last ambush, we saw a knight trip and rip his cape on a fallen tree. Once they left, I found it among the debris.”

Merlin ruffled the boy’s hair with a grin. “I’m sure it will help me greatly.”

He stood then, exhaling slowly as he turned toward the village leader. Camma extended an arm, and he clasped it firmly.

“You are growing into a fine young man, Emrys,” she said. “Remember all that we have taught you, and may the spirits guide your path.”

Merlin swallowed thickly, nodding. “Thank you—for everything. I will never forget it.”

His vision blurred as tears welled in his eyes, and this time, he made no effort to stop them.

Then, at last, he turned to his mother.

She was already crying.

Without hesitation, he pulled her into a fierce embrace, feeling how small she was against him. He was taller than her now, something he hadn’t noticed until this moment.

“My little bird is leaving the nest,” she whispered, voice thick with emotion. Then, with a watery laugh, “You will write.”

Merlin chuckled against her shoulder. “As often as I’m able.”

“Good. Because if you don’t, I will march right into that city and drag you back here myself.”

He laughed, stepping back to press a kiss to her cheek.

Then, with one final glance at the faces of those he loved most, he turned and began the long journey toward Camelot.

He had only made it a few steps when—

“ Merlin! ”

He stopped, blinking as he turned back. Everyone was staring at him, some biting their lips, others barely suppressing their laughter.

Hunith sighed, shaking her head with amusement.

“You’re going the wrong way, dearest.”

—

Merlin’s fingers gripped the map tightly, the parchment creasing under the pressure as he tried to make sense of the unfamiliar symbols and twisting streets. His heart hammered in his chest, the weight of the journey pressing on his shoulders. The trip had only lasted a few days, but they had stretched on endlessly, each moment longer than the last. He had never known such isolation before. Back in his village, there had always been someone by his side—someone to share the burden, someone to help shoulder the responsibility. Now, as he stood on the outskirts of Camelot, he felt the absence of that companionship more acutely than he had ever imagined. The silence was deafening.

Merlin’s first steps into the city were met with a cacophony that filled his ears. The noise was overwhelming, dizzying even, as if the whole world was alive and moving at once. Shouts from vendors hawking their goods blended with the laughter and chatter of townsfolk, all rushing through the streets. The smell of unfamiliar foods and strange spices hung thick in the air, swirling around him, making his head spin. His senses were bombarded, each one competing for his attention.

The city was massive, its streets a far cry from the familiar dirt paths of his village. Everything here was so... alive, so bustling. People passed him by without a second glance, their hurried pace never faltering. The faces around him were a blur—strangers, all of them—each one caught in their own world, their own lives. He tried to stop a few of them, to ask for directions, but they barely seemed to notice him. Too busy, too focused on whatever urgent matters they were attending to. It was a stark contrast to the peaceful, tight-knit community he had known. Back home, people would stop to help, even if only for a moment, to check on each other. But here, no one had time for him.

Despite the chaos, the city was undeniably beautiful. The landscape was stark, a sea of gray stone that stretched endlessly in all directions. There were no rolling hills or lush forests here, no familiar trees to climb or rivers to wade in. Instead, towering walls rose up before him, their sheer height almost impossible to fathom. The streets were lined with shops, their signs swinging in the breeze, and banners of red and gold fluttered above, proudly displaying the royal crest of Camelot—a golden dragon, fierce and untamed. The air was thick with the scent of stone and sweat, and the sounds of the city echoed in his chest, vibrating with life.

Merlin adjusted the weight of his bag on his shoulders and decided to follow the crowd. It seemed the best way to avoid standing out, to blend in with the throng of people who were all walking with purpose, each on their own journey. He let himself be swept along, carried by the current of humanity, until he found himself in a large square. The area was crowded, but there was an unusual stillness in the air, a sense of anticipation. A platform stood in the center, raised above the masses, and at its base, two knights stood, holding a young man between them.

Merlin’s curiosity stirred, and he craned his neck to see what was happening. The sound of drums echoed, deep and heavy, adding to the sense of dread that hung over the scene. The crowd fell silent as the figures on the platform were revealed. The young man looked terrified, his eyes darting back and forth as he was pushed forward by the guards. Beside him stood a man in a dark hood, his presence ominous.

Then, a voice boomed from above, a voice that sent a chill down Merlin’s spine.

“Let this serve as a lesson to all,” the deep voice rumbled.

Merlin turned his head, searching the crowd for the source. It was a man, draped in the finest clothes he had ever seen, his regal red cape flowing behind him like a banner of power. His face was stern, his eyes cold with authority. He wore a crown of gold upon his head, a symbol of his unchallenged rule.

“This man, Thomas James Collins, is adjudged guilty of conspiring to use enchantments and magic. And pursuant to the laws of Camelot, I, Uther Pendragon, have decreed that such practices are banned, on penalty of death.”

Merlin’s heart stopped. No.

He swallowed hard, trying to steady himself, but his hands were trembling. His mind raced, unable to process the gravity of the situation. A man—a man who had simply dared to use magic—was about to be executed in front of the entire city. And there was nothing he could do. Nothing.

“I pride myself as a fair and just king,” Uther continued, his voice carrying over the crowd, “but for the crime of sorcery, there is but one sentence I can pass.”

Merlin's stomach churned, and his breath caught in his throat. He could see the man kneeling on the block, his hands bound before him. His eyes were wide with fear, his body trembling, but there was no escape.

With a signal from Uther, the hooded man raised his ax high, its blade glinting menacingly in the sunlight. The drums played on, the sound echoing like the heartbeat of the city, driving the moment forward with cruel inevitability.

Merlin closed his eyes, his body frozen in place. He wanted to scream, to shout out, to stop this madness—but he knew he couldn’t. Not unless he wanted to join the man at the block. The magic inside him surged, a force that urged him to act, to defy the laws of Camelot, to save him. But what good would it do? What could he possibly do in the face of this unyielding power?

The ax fell.

Merlin squeezed his eyes shut even tighter, his fists clenching at his sides. The sound of the ax striking the block echoed in his mind, drowning out the rest of the world. And for a moment, he couldn’t breathe. The air around him felt thick, suffocating.

It was done.

He had arrived in Camelot, and already the weight of the world had come crashing down upon him. His journey had only just begun, and already he was faced with the horrors of the world he was destined to fight against. But how? How could he possibly hope to change anything when the very heart of Camelot—its king—was so steadfast in his cruelty?

Merlin opened his eyes, his vision blurred by unshed tears, and as the crowd began to disperse, he stood alone in the square, a lone figure in a sea of strangers, silently bearing witness to the cost of Camelot’s laws.

—

Merlin hesitated for a moment, summoning the courage to approach the knight who was standing near the courtyard gate. He had come to Camelot in search of his uncle, but asking for help in a city so vast and unfamiliar made him feel like an intruder. His breath quickened as he thought about the knights who had once chased him through the woods, swords drawn, their cold eyes filled with relentless determination. He could almost hear the cries of his family, of the friends he'd lost, as they were ruthlessly hunted. His throat tightened at the memory.

“Are you alright, lad?” The knight’s voice was gruff but not unkind. Merlin blinked, snapping back to reality.

“I, um... I’m looking for Gaius,” Merlin stammered, trying to mask the tremor in his voice.

The knight raised an eyebrow but nodded, offering a slight smile. “Right. You’ll want to go down this hallway, up two flights of stairs, then take a right. First door on the left.”

Merlin tried to muster a smile, his mouth feeling dry as sand. “Thank you, Sir.”

The knight watched him for a moment longer, perhaps sensing his unease, but didn’t say anything. He turned back to his post, leaving Merlin to navigate the labyrinthine halls of Camelot.

The directions were simple enough, but with each step he took, Merlin felt a growing sense of isolation. The city felt both foreign and intimidating. The walls of Camelot towered over him, the noise of the bustling crowds surrounding him, and the sheer scale of the stone streets made him feel like an ant in a kingdom of giants.

When he finally reached the door the knight had described, he hesitated, feeling a pang of anxiety. He took a deep breath, mustering what little confidence he had left, and entered without knocking.

Inside was chaos—a jumble of shelves lined with bottles of various sizes, herbs dangling from the ceiling, and books scattered across tables. The scent of strange potions and something earthy filled the air, making Merlin’s head spin. In the middle of the room, a potion bubbled ominously over an open flame, sending tendrils of steam into the air.

“Hello?” Merlin called out, his voice echoing through the room. He craned his neck to look for any sign of life.

From above, he saw a man with long white hair standing near the upper balcony of the room, his back turned. As Merlin called again, the man turned abruptly, only to lose his balance. The wooden railing beneath him gave way, and with a yelp, the man tumbled backward.

A surge of panic shot through Merlin, but before he could even think, his magic surged up in response. He didn't even know how, but instinctively, he slowed the man’s fall in midair. His heart pounded in his chest, and his hands shook as he glanced around. Without thinking, he directed the man’s descent toward a bed that was positioned nearby, releasing his hold just before the man made contact. The bed creaked as the man hit it, cracking under the weight, but at least he seemed to land more softly than he otherwise would have.

The old man groaned, then sprang up with a glare that could have cut through stone. “What did you just do?” His voice was sharp and demanding.

“I... I didn’t—” Merlin froze, trying to find the right words. “I didn’t mean to.”

“Then what was that?” The man’s eyes narrowed, and he took a step forward. “Tell me, who taught you magic?”

Merlin’s heart raced. This wasn’t how he had imagined meeting his uncle. He fumbled for an answer, his mind spinning. “I don’t— I didn’t learn it. I don’t—”

The man crossed his arms, scrutinizing him. “You can’t just do that. I know magic when I see it. Who are you?”

Merlin's nerves were on edge. “I’m—” He fumbled for his bag and retrieved a letter he had tucked away earlier, still unsure if this was truly the right place. He handed it over, though his hands were shaking.

The man took the letter, grumbling as he squinted at it. “I don’t have my glasses,” he muttered to himself before glancing up at Merlin. “You look like you’re about to fall apart, boy.”

Merlin gave a nervous chuckle, though his stomach twisted. “I’m... I’m Merlin.”

The man’s face lit up instantly, his earlier sternness melting away. “Hunith’s son? Well, now, that makes sense.” He smiled, a warmth in his gaze that made Merlin feel a little less lost. “But you're not supposed to be here until Wednesday.”

Merlin blinked, confused. “It... It is Wednesday.”

The man blinked, then laughed. “Ah! Of course, of course. All right then.” He turned and pointed toward a door at the back of the room. “You best put your things in there.”

Merlin hesitated before heading toward the door, the unease still lingering in his chest. He paused as he reached for the handle, turning back toward the man. “You... you won’t say anything about what happened?” he asked softly, his voice trembling with uncertainty.

The man met his gaze with a reassuring smile. “No. I won’t say anything.”

Merlin exhaled a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding and smiled in return. Before he could open the door, the man’s voice stopped him.

“Merlin,” he called, his tone sincere, “I should thank you. Not just for saving me, but... for being here.” He paused, and there was something in his voice that made Merlin feel a little more at home, like perhaps Camelot wasn't as intimidating as he had thought.

Merlin nodded, not sure what else to say. “I’m just glad you’re all right.”

He finally stepped into the room, the weight of the day’s events crashing down on him. It wasn’t exactly the warm welcome he had hoped for, but at least for now, he had a place to stay. And perhaps, just perhaps, Camelot wouldn’t be quite as lonely as he had feared.

—

Merlin sat on the edge of the bed, the soft sheets beneath him feeling foreign, almost surreal. He'd never had anything this comfortable, and never had he imagined it would be this luxurious. Back in the camps, he'd slept on the hard earth, blankets bunched uncomfortably beneath him, the sound of wind and the crackle of distant fires lulling him to sleep. He and his mother had shared a cramped tent, the two of them huddled together for warmth as they tried to forget the dangers of the world outside. Here, though, the bed felt like it could swallow him whole, the softness of the mattress a strange comfort. He had never known such ease—never known that this was even possible. It was a little overwhelming.

His fingers traced the edge of the blanket, as if touching something so fine could somehow bring him closer to the life he’d never dared dream of. He had no idea what the future held here in Camelot, but for now, it felt like a dream—a world he was still learning to navigate.

A distant sound drifted through the walls—laughter, music, the low murmur of conversation. It was the kind of noise he'd heard in his old village, but it had always been distant, muffled by the dense trees and heavy silence of the forest. Here, in Camelot, it was alive. He could feel the pulse of the city in the air, the vibrancy of its people carrying on the cool breeze. His heart stirred at the unfamiliarity of it all. He couldn’t remember the last time he'd felt... safe.

The noise from outside grew louder, so he walked over to the small window and pushed open the wooden shutters. His breath caught in his throat as he looked out at the scene unfolding beneath him.

The city lay bathed in the glow of the full moon, its silver light spilling over the cobbled streets, painting everything in soft, ethereal hues. People moved through the streets in pairs, some walking hand in hand, others laughing as they passed by shops and houses that glowed warmly from within, fires flickering behind every window. The city was alive, and there was a hum of joy and togetherness in the air.

For a brief moment, he let himself imagine what it might have been like, growing up here, with a family, with a future that wasn’t defined by hiding and running. He could picture himself walking alongside someone, talking late into the evening, not looking over his shoulder. Perhaps this city was the beginning of something more for him. The thought made his chest tighten, both with excitement and fear. What did a life like this even look like for someone like him?

He let out a slow breath, his eyes tracing the paths of the people below. There was something beautiful about it, the way the moonlight caught the edges of the buildings, the warm light spilling out from windows like small flames in the darkness. Everything was so... whole . The simple things—the laughter, the warmth of the homes, the soft glow of lanterns swaying in the breeze—it was enough to make him forget, just for a moment, the years of hardship he'd endured.

"If I had a view like this every night," Merlin whispered to himself, his voice almost lost in the wind, "maybe it wouldn’t be so bad."

He leaned against the windowsill, the cool air brushing against his skin, and for the first time since arriving, he felt something like peace settle over him. Maybe Camelot wouldn't be so different from the life he had once known. Maybe—just maybe—it could be a place where he could finally belong.

—

My dear Gaius,

I write to you with a heart full of fear and a soul weighed down by uncertainty. I feel as if I am losing my grip on the world, and I do not know where to turn. It is the nature of every mother to see something extraordinary in her child, and yet, I would give my very life if it were not so in my case. My son, Merlin, has been marked for something greater than any of us could have foreseen—and I fear the cost of it.

I have carried the burden of this knowledge in silence, not daring to confide in anyone. I have not trusted the messengers, the ones who might carry my words, for I cannot shake the fear that they would betray us, that they would read the contents of my heart and deliver us straight into the hands of those who seek to destroy us.

Merlin, my sweet boy, is not just a child; he is the one the druids speak of with reverence. They call him Emrys, a name I dare not utter aloud for fear of what it may bring. He is our hope, the spark that could ignite a fire to change the fate of our people. And yet, as the weight of his destiny grows heavier, so too does the weight on my heart. He feels the call of something far beyond us, beyond anything we can comprehend, and he is determined to find it, to fulfill the destiny that has been woven into the very fabric of his being. I fear that in doing so, he will slip further and further away from me, from the safety of the world we’ve built around him.

I cannot help but see the shadows that follow him, the dangers that loom at every step, and it fills me with dread. This world—this cruel, unforgiving world—is no place for one so young, so innocent. He needs someone to guide him, someone to help him make sense of it all, someone who can be there when the weight of his burden becomes too much to bear. He needs you, Gaius. He needs a hand to hold, a voice to steady him when the road grows dark and uncertain.

I beg you, from the deepest part of my soul, if you understand a mother’s love for her son—if you understand the terror that courses through a mother’s veins when she watches her child step into a future she cannot protect him from—please, keep him safe. I cannot be there for him as I should be, and though it tears me apart to admit it, I must trust you, a man of wisdom, of strength, to look after him when I cannot.

I know you will understand. You have always been there for us, and I know you will not let my son walk this perilous path alone. Help him, Gaius, and may the goddess shine her light on you both in the trials that lie ahead.

With love and endless gratitude,
Hunith

—

He was up with the sun, though he barely slept. Staring at the ceiling in his unfamiliar room, trying to will himself to sleep, proved fruitless. In the end, Merlin had shifted the pillow to the end of the bed and settled himself in such a way that he could look out the window, hoping the sight of the night sky would calm his thoughts. But sleep had evaded him, and now, as the first light of dawn streamed through the cracks of the window, he realized he had almost forgotten he wasn’t in the druid camp anymore.

But he couldn’t dwell on the past. Camelot was his new home, and this was where his destiny lay, whether he liked it or not. The weight of it pressed down on him, but he was determined to make the most of it. He had a future here, and though it was uncertain, he would rise to meet whatever came his way.

Still, before that, there was something else he had to do. He had to help Gaius. After all, he was technically Gaius’s apprentice now, wasn’t he? A little strange, given how new the arrangement felt. But he had his duties, and he would do them.

After a brief but useful rundown from Gaius about where to go and what to do, Merlin set off into the city to make the morning deliveries. It wasn’t as easy as he thought it would be. Gaius had a lot of regulars, people who trusted him with their health and ailments, so there were plenty of deliveries to make. Merlin found himself lost more than once, wandering down unfamiliar streets, searching for the right homes. It wasn’t until well after lunchtime that he had finished his rounds, the last of the packages finally delivered.

By then, his stomach was growling in protest, and he made his way back toward the castle. The food here, the food that Gaius had introduced him to, was nothing like the rough meals he had scavenged in the wilderness. That morning, Gaius had served him something called porridge. The texture was strange, but it was warm and filling, and for once in his life, Merlin had eaten something that didn’t taste of dust and hardship. He wondered what lunch would bring.

As he rounded a corner, his thoughts were interrupted by a loud commotion ahead. A group of knights was training in the courtyard, and judging by the sounds of laughter and insults, they were certainly not just practicing their swordplay.

One knight in particular stood out. He was younger than the rest, a good few years younger than even the youngest of the knights, but there was something about him that drew Merlin’s attention. The boy was striking—his hair was golden, gleaming in the sun as if it were woven from strands of sunlight itself. His eyes were bright blue, the color of the clearest summer sky. He looked like the day had taken human form, and Merlin couldn’t help but stare.

The young knight turned to the others, a cocky grin spreading across his face. "Where’s the target?" he asked, his voice filled with arrogance.

A servant pointed to a target, and the young knight tilted his head, a wicked smile curling at the corners of his lips. "It’s facing us into the sun," he said with a shrug.

"But it’s not bright," the servant hesitated, confused.

The knight’s grin widened. "Bit like you then," he quipped, and the others burst into laughter.

Merlin tensed, his hands clenching into fists. Knights weren’t exactly revered among the druids, and for good reason. They were protectors of Camelot, sworn to uphold the king’s laws, but all too often, they turned a blind eye to the suffering of the people they were meant to defend. He had heard of their cruelty, their harsh treatment of those with magic. And here was this young knight, mocking a servant—someone who was just trying to do his job.

Merlin’s stomach churned. How could someone who looked so beautiful on the outside be so ugly inside?

"Put the target down over there," the knight commanded, his tone dripping with superiority.

The servant obeyed, but as soon as the target was in position, the young knight smirked again. "Watch this," he said, winding up and throwing a knife at the target the servant had just set.

The knife hit dead center. A perfect bullseye.

"Hey!" the servant yelped, startled by the close call.

The knights laughed, clearly entertained. "Don’t stop!" one of them shouted.

Without missing a beat, the young knight threw another knife. This time, it wasn’t aimed at the target. The knife whizzed dangerously close to the servant, narrowly missing him.

The knights roared with laughter, egging the young knight on as he threw knife after knife. The servant dodged and ducked, helpless against the assault. Merlin felt a knot tighten in his chest.

It wasn’t right. It was cruel and pointless, and no one was doing anything to stop it.

Merlin knew he should just walk away. It was none of his business. But he couldn’t just stand there and watch.

He took a deep breath, forcing a casual smile, and called out, "Hey, come on now, that’s enough."

The young knight turned his gaze on him, his grin widening. "What?" he drawled, clearly enjoying the attention.

"You’ve had your fun, my friend," Merlin said, trying to sound more confident than he felt.

The young knight didn’t respond at first. Instead, he began to walk toward Merlin, his eyes glinting with challenge. Merlin forced himself not to step back.

"Do I know you?" the knight asked, his voice low and teasing.

"No," Merlin replied firmly, shaking his head.

"And yet you called me friend?" The knight’s grin twisted into something sharper, more dangerous.

Merlin smiled again, determined to show no fear. "That was my mistake."

The young knight raised an eyebrow. "I should think so."

Merlin’s bravado faltered slightly, but he pressed on. "Yeah, I could never have a friend who could be such an ass."

It was too much. But there was no turning back now. Merlin started to walk away, trying to maintain his composure.

"Or I one who could be so stupid," the knight called after him, his voice dripping with mockery. "Tell me," he continued, taking a few steps closer, "Do you know how to walk on your knees?"

Merlin froze. His heart skipped a beat. He swallowed hard. "No," he muttered, trying to remain calm.

"Would you like me to help you?" the knight mocked, his hand resting dangerously close to his sword.

Merlin’s stomach turned. "I wouldn’t if I were you."

The knight’s smirk widened, amusement dancing in his eyes. "Why? What are you going to do to me?" he taunted, clearly trying to provoke him.

"You have no idea," Merlin said, though his voice shook just slightly.

The knight chuckled, clearly entertained by the challenge. "Be my guest."

Merlin could feel the eyes of the crowd on him. He couldn’t use magic. Not here, not in front of all these people. The consequences would be too great. He was on his own.

The knight took another step forward, practically daring Merlin to act. Merlin hesitated for only a moment before swinging his fist, hoping for some form of release.

The knight was faster, stronger. He caught Merlin’s wrist in a vice-like grip, twisting it behind his back with ease.

Merlin’s heart raced. "I’ll have you thrown in jail for that," the knight sneered.

"Who do you think you are, the king?" Merlin snapped, trying to hold his ground, even as the knight’s hold on him tightened.

The young knight’s laughter echoed in the air. "No," he said, his voice dripping with arrogance. "I’m his son."

—

Merlin had spent what felt like hours staring at the cold, unforgiving stone walls of his cell. The harshness of his surroundings was nothing new. It was all too familiar—the bars, the bare straw mat, the dim light from the small barred window. He wondered, not for the first time, if his father had once been locked in a place like this. If so, it hadn't been for anything like the reckless words and foolish bravery that had landed Merlin here.

He huffed in frustration, banging his fist on the stone floor. Was this really how it was all going to be? How long before he made a mistake so monumental it would be his last? The last place he'd thought he would end up was Camelot, and here he was, imprisoned in the very heart of the city that had witnessed so many of his kind's downfall.

Merlin’s breath hitched as a wave of hopelessness washed over him. He hadn’t even been in Camelot a full day, and already he’d messed everything up. He had wanted to do right. He had wanted to help. But all he'd managed to do was antagonize a knight, draw unwanted attention to himself, and now he was in a filthy cell, tangled in thoughts of failure.

The weight of it all seemed to crush him. He sank back onto the straw, his eyes blurred with the sting of unshed tears. What would his father think? His father, the greatest Warlock of his time, had been a legend. And here Merlin was, throwing away every chance he had of living up to that legacy.

A strangled sob escaped him before he could stop it, and he quickly pressed his hands to his face to hide the tears. It was all too much. Everything was happening so fast. His mind was racing, but nothing made sense. He felt small, insignificant, like a child lost in a world he couldn't control.

Then, suddenly, the door to the cell rattled open with force.

“Open this cell, now!” came a booming voice that Merlin would recognize anywhere.

Gaius.

The door swung wide, and his uncle strode in, face a mask of barely contained anger, though there was a softness in his eyes when they landed on Merlin. The moment Gaius laid eyes on him, his expression softened, and without a word, he moved toward the boy.

“My boy,” Gaius murmured, as if he were seeing Merlin for the first time, his voice laced with a tenderness that soothed Merlin's frayed nerves. “Are you alright?”

“I’m—I’m screwing up already,” Merlin gasped between breaths, too ashamed to look his uncle in the eye. “I’ve only just arrived, and I’m already making everything worse.”

“No.” Gaius’s voice was firm, steady, pulling Merlin back from the edge. “You were trying to do the right thing. You made an honest mistake, but there is nothing wrong with trying to do good.”

Merlin could barely comprehend the comfort in Gaius’s words. It felt like a lifeline, something to cling to as the world around him threatened to close in. But despite the soothing tone, Merlin couldn’t help but feel the weight of his own failure. The tears that had barely started to subside came rushing back, this time with a force that made it impossible to stop.

He crumpled onto the cold stone floor, sobbing uncontrollably into his uncle’s robes. Gaius, without hesitation, pulled him close, holding him tightly, one hand smoothing through Merlin’s hair as if he could chase away the boy's fears with nothing more than the strength of his touch.

“There, there,” Gaius murmured, his voice soft as a lullaby. “It’s alright, Merlin. Just breathe. Slow, deep breaths, my boy. Come on, now.”

Merlin tried to steady his breathing, but it felt impossible. His chest heaved, his throat tight with emotion. He was a warlock, the son of a legendary mage, and here he was, weak and vulnerable, undone by something so trivial. He could feel his pride slipping away with every sob.

“Breathe, Merlin,” Gaius coaxed again. “That’s it. Slow and steady. In and out.”

Gradually, the panic began to subside. His chest didn’t feel quite so tight. His breaths slowed, the erratic gasps becoming steady inhales and exhales. The tears, once uncontrollable, eventually slowed to a trickle, and though the room still felt heavy, the overwhelming pressure inside him seemed to lift, if only a little.

For a moment, Merlin stayed pressed against his uncle, unsure of where he ended and Gaius began. The older man’s strength grounded him, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Merlin allowed himself to lean on someone else.

When Merlin finally pulled back, his face flushed with shame, he looked around the cell, suddenly acutely aware of his surroundings. The guards stood by, their faces a mixture of pity and discomfort. They were hardly to blame—Merlin had made a spectacle of himself, after all.

“I’m sorry about that,” he said quietly, trying to wipe away the lingering trace of tears from his face with his sleeve. A weak laugh escaped him, but it was forced. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“There’s no shame in it, Merlin,” Gaius said gently, his eyes soft but steady. “The pressure can weigh on even the strongest of men. We all have our moments of weakness. It’s how we rise from them that matters.”

Merlin gave a sheepish smile, realizing that, despite his complete breakdown, Gaius wasn’t angry with him.

“Now,” Gaius continued, rising to his feet and extending a hand to help Merlin up, “let’s get you out of here. I think it’s high time you were free of this place.”

Merlin accepted the hand, allowing his uncle to pull him to his feet. As they walked out of the cell, Merlin couldn’t help but feel the weight of his uncle’s words lingering in his mind. There was still a long road ahead of him, but for the first time in a while, he felt like maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t entirely alone on it.

—

Arthur paced back and forth in the quiet of the training courtyard, his thoughts swirling like the wind around him. He had been a knight for over a year now, but despite the armor, despite the title, there was always a part of him that felt like an outsider, looking in. The knights treated him like the prince he was—respectful, yes, but distant. They didn’t see him as one of them. They didn’t laugh with him, fight beside him in the same way. It made Arthur feel like an imposter in his own skin, a far cry from the camaraderie he desperately craved.

So, he had thought that perhaps a little harmless fun—at a servant’s expense—would break the ice.

Was that so wrong?

…Maybe.

Throwing sharp blades at someone who was just doing their job wasn’t exactly his finest moment. But how was he supposed to know the boy would step in? And how was he supposed to know he’d stand his ground like that ? That had been the real surprise.

Most servants cowered. Most knew better than to challenge a knight, let alone the prince . This one, though? He had fire.

Arthur should have admired that. And, if he were being honest with himself, he did .

Which made it all the worse that he’d had him thrown in the dungeons.

Arthur groaned inwardly. What is wrong with me?

He had to make this right.

He would apologize.

Or, at least, he would have—if he could find him. But someone had let him out already.

Fine. If he ran into him, he’d say something.

That opportunity came sooner than expected.

was walking across the courtyard, arms full of something, head down. But Arthur wasn’t alone—his knights were with him. Watching. Expecting.

He had to be careful.

A knight, the prince , could not be seen apologizing to a commoner. His father would have his head for it.

So instead, he called out with a smirk, “How’s your knee-walking coming along?”

A bad start. The knights chuckled, but Merlin didn’t so much as flinch, continuing to walk.

Arthur tried again.

“Oh, come on, don’t run away!”

That made him stop.

Success.

“From you?”

Or maybe not.

Arthur arched a brow. “Oh, thank God, I thought you were deaf as well as dumb.”

Merlin shook his head. Arthur tilted his, observing him properly for the first time.

He was odd-looking. His cheekbones jutted out, his frame almost worryingly thin, as though he hadn’t had a proper meal in weeks. And those ears—he could probably hear a conversation across the castle with those things.

And yet, at the same time, there was something about him—something compelling . His black hair, however messily cut, framed a face that might have been handsome under better circumstances. His eyes—light blue, too light—seemed almost unnatural, like trapped lightning in a night sky.

Arthur shook the thought away.

Merlin, oblivious to the scrutiny, gave him a flat look. “Look, I told you you were an ass. I just didn’t realize you were a royal one.”

Arthur stiffened. In front of everyone? He darted a glance at his knights, their expressions ranging from amused to slightly horrified.

“Oh, what are you going to do?” Merlin went on. “Get your daddy’s men to protect you?”

A few of the knights laughed.

Arthur laughed too—he had to.

“I could take you apart with one blow,” he countered.

Merlin grinned. “I could take you apart with less than that.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes.

A challenge.

He couldn’t back down from a challenge.

“Are you sure about that?” He gestured to the courtyard. “Come on, then.”

Merlin shrugged off his jacket. Arthur nearly recoiled.

God, he’s even thinner than I thought.

He looked like a strong wind might knock him over.

Arthur couldn’t let his concern show.

Instead, he grabbed a Morning Star from a nearby knight and tossed it at him.

Merlin fumbled it. Arthur laughed.

Spinning his own weapon in his hands with practiced ease, he smirked. “I should warn you—I’ve been training to kill since birth.”

Merlin’s eyes gleamed with something unreadable. “And how long have you been training to be a prat?”

Laughter.

Arthur’s grip tightened.

“You can’t address me like that.”

Merlin tilted his head in mock consideration. “Sorry. How long have you been training to be a prat, my lord ?”

That was it.

Arthur feigned an easy chuckle for his audience before lunging.

Merlin darted back, nimble despite his scrawny frame, but Arthur had years of training on his side. He advanced, driving him into the market stalls, knocking over baskets of fruit, barrels of grain.

Merlin was fast, but he wasn’t a fighter. He didn’t even try to fight back.

Cowardly.

Or maybe—Arthur hesitated for a fraction of a second— smart .

Then he saw it.

A flicker of gold in those too-light eyes.

Arthur barely had time to register what he was seeing before his Morning Star tangled in a mess of farming tools, nearly yanking him off balance.

Merlin ran. Arthur gave chase.

Another flicker. Another stumble—this time, Arthur’s shin caught hard against a wooden stool. He barely held back a curse.

The boy was using magic.

Arthur saw red, but was also filled with a strange bit of glee.

He swung with renewed force, knocking over crates, sending market goods flying. He didn’t feel like he had to hold back as much if the boy did in fact have his own way of fighting back.

The boy ducked behind a stall.

Arthur moved to follow—only for his foot to catch on a rope.

He hit the ground, hard.

And when he looked up, the boy was standing over him, wielding the Morning Star like a child playing at knights.

“Do you give up?”

Arthur’s blood boiled. Give up?

This nobody —this sorcerer —thought he could win?

Arthur’s gaze flicked past him, to the gathering crowd. People were cheering. For the boy.

Arthur gritted his teeth, rolling back to his feet. He wasn’t losing to a commoner , his pride taking over .

Grabbing the nearest weapon—a broom—he struck, knocking him off balance.

Within seconds, the fight was over.

Arthur smirked down at him, mockingly sweeping dust into his face.

Two knights came forward, hauling the boy to his feet.

Arthur hesitated.

He should turn him in.

He should.

But—what had he really done? A few tricks to keep himself from getting hurt? To avoid a fight he never wanted?

Arthur exhaled.

“Wait.”

The knights paused.

Arthur studied Merlin’s face—dusty, bruised, indignant. But not afraid.

A fool. But a brave one.

“Let him go.” Arthur shook his head, turning away. “He may be an idiot, but he’s a brave one.”

He stared at him, confused.

Arthur ignored it.

He had no idea why he did what he just did, but he couldn’t bring himself to regret it.

—

Gaius came to see him later that day.

Arthur was in his chambers, seated on the floor with his armor spread out before him. His latest punishment—polishing his own armor—was meant to be humiliating, but in truth, he found the repetitive motion somewhat relaxing. The mindless task gave him time to think, though he would never admit it to his father.

The knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts. He straightened, pushing aside his breastplate as he stood.

“Enter.”

His face brightened slightly when he saw Gaius step inside. Arthur had always been fond of the old physician—he was one of the few people in Camelot who didn't treat him like some untouchable prince or a soldier in training. Gaius was wise, fair, and had been looking out for him in his own quiet way for as long as Arthur could remember.

“I saw you in town today after my fight.” Arthur grinned, wiping his hands on a cloth. “Did you see me put that pest in his place?” He laughed, expecting Gaius to join in.

But Gaius’ expression was solemn.

“That is what I am here to talk to you about, Sire.”

Arthur’s stomach twisted. That tone usually meant he had done something wrong. But surely not this time—he had been defending his honor! Even Uther hadn't seemed to mind when the situation was explained.

He swallowed. “Is there something wrong, Gaius?”

The old man studied him for a long moment before inhaling deeply. “I understand that the boy needed to be punished—especially since this is not his first offense against you—but I would ask that you go easy on him.” Gaius paused, then added carefully, “ Merlin is my apprentice… and my nephew.”

Arthur hesitated, but after a beat barked a laugh. “That’s funny, Gaius. You almost had me going for a moment.”

Gaius merely raised an eyebrow. He wasn’t joking.

Arthur’s smirk faltered. “Oh. Um… of course, Gaius.” He straightened, clearing his throat. “You have my word.”

“I appreciate that, Sire. Thank you.” The tension in Gaius' shoulders eased slightly. “I want you to know that I do not blame you. Even in the short time I have known him, I have observed that the boy must learn when to hold his tongue.”

Arthur huffed a laugh, relieved that Gaius wasn’t too angry with him.

“It is quite alright, my boy. In fact, since I saw to it that he was released from the dungeons early, I have another punishment in mind.”

Arthur grinned. “I’m sure whatever you come up with will be more than suitable.” But then, remembering that Merlin was Gaius’ family, he softened. “I am sorry, Gaius. If I had known he was your nephew, I wouldn’t have let things go so far.”

Arthur crossed his arms, tilting his head as he studied the physician. “You never told me you had any siblings.”

Gaius let out a chuckle, though there was a weight behind it. “A much younger sister. I have not seen her in many years.” His smile faded, his gaze drifting for a moment before he brought it back to Arthur. “Besides her, Merlin is all I have left of my family.”

Arthur felt an unexpected pang of guilt. He had always thought of Gaius as a man dedicated to Camelot, his life entwined with the castle and its people. But to hear him speak of family—of loss—Arthur realized how little he truly knew about the man who had watched over him for years.

Arthur straightened, rubbing the back of his neck. “Then I really must apologize. I—I may have been a little too harsh.”

Gaius smiled faintly. “That is kind of you to say, Sire.”

Arthur smirked. “Not too kind. He was insufferable.”

Gaius sighed, shaking his head with an amused exasperation. “Yes, well, I suspect that will not change anytime soon.”

—

And so, the next day, Arthur went in search of him—this Merlin.

It turned out he didn’t have to look far. He found him in Gaius’ chambers, though he supposed they were Merlin’s now too. The boy was hunched over a table, flipping through one of Gaius’ many books, his fingers absently drumming against the wooden surface. He looked up at the sound of footsteps, and the moment he saw Arthur, his whole body stiffened.

The flicker of panic in his expression caught Arthur off guard. Had he truly frightened him that much during their fight? The idea made something twist in his stomach, though he ignored it.

“Hello,” Arthur said, crossing his arms.

Merlin turned fully, his posture wary. “What do you want?”

Arthur arched an unimpressed eyebrow, doing his best impression of Gaius.

Merlin rolled his eyes, the tension in his shoulders loosening just a fraction. “What do you want, prat?”

Arthur scoffed. This boy truly didn’t care who he was. It was infuriating. It was...refreshing.

He stepped forward and shut the door behind him.

That made Merlin tense all over again. “Is there anyone else here?” Arthur asked.

Merlin’s eyes darted to the door, then back to him. “I will scream, and someone will come running.”

Arthur exhaled sharply. “What? No, that’s not—” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “God, this is hard.”

Merlin looked entirely unimpressed.

“I just wanted to apologize.”

The words hung awkwardly in the air. Merlin tilted his head, clearly waiting for something more.

Arthur sighed. “I didn’t know you were Gaius’ nephew. I never meant to disrespect him like that—he’s a good man.”

A beat of silence.

Merlin raised an eyebrow. “Are you going to apologize to me, then?”

Arthur frowned. “I just did.”

Merlin rocked his head side to side. “Hmm... sounded more like an apology to Gaius, and he’s not even here.”

Arthur groaned. “Are you always this infuriating?”

Merlin smirked. “Only when in the presence of a royal ass, it seems.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes. “Excuse me?”

“Nothing.”

“No, I saw your big mouth moving. You haven’t had a problem speaking your mind so far, don’t stop now.”

Merlin hesitated, then squared his shoulders. “I said I knew knights were horrible. So thank you for proving me right.”

Arthur felt his temper flare before he could stop it. “Speak ill of my brothers again, and you’ll find yourself in a worse way than the stocks.”

Merlin’s eyes flashed with something unreadable, but he didn’t say another word. Instead, he turned sharply and stormed out, the door slamming behind him.

Arthur exhaled, long and slow, and sank into one of Gaius’ chairs.

Crap.

He dropped his head into his hands. That wasn’t an apology. He had come here to make things right, and instead, he’d lost his temper—again. Why was he like this? So much like his father in all the ways he hated, and so unlike him in all the ways he feared.

Balinor would be ashamed of him.

The thought stung. Arthur thought of him often, wondered what stories he would have shared if they had just a little more time. What other words of wisdom he would have given.

Arthur let out a slow breath, staring at the table. His thoughts drifted back to Merlin’s magic. He had threatened the boy—again—and yet Merlin had not lashed out, had not harmed him, had not done anything but stand his ground with words. If he truly meant to use magic for harm, wouldn’t he have done it by now?

Perhaps he was waiting. Perhaps he was biding his time, planning something worse.

But... Arthur doubted it.

Merlin was related to Gaius, after all, and Gaius trusted him. Then again, maybe Gaius didn’t know. Should he tell him? But that would be outing the boy. And if Gaius reported it to his father—Arthur swallowed—there would be no saving him. Gaius was loyal to the king, and Arthur was too, but he also didn’t want to see any more innocent people hurt.

That was why, when his knights were sent on druid ambushes, Arthur always made plenty of noise, giving the druids as much time as possible to run. They were a peaceful people, he knew that now. The only spells they ever cast were ones to help themselves get away—never to harm. Even when their own lives were at stake.

Arthur wondered if Merlin was a druid. That would explain his fighting strategy—if one could call it that. That being nonexistent.

It would also explain his hatred of knights.

If he had been attacked by them his entire childhood, then no wonder he despised them. Arthur would, too.

He exhaled sharply. He had to find out. He had to understand.

And to do that, he needed Merlin to trust him.

Arthur straightened in his chair.

He needed a way to spend more time with him. But how?

—

Merlin found himself back in the stocks—again.

His arms and neck locked uncomfortably in the wooden contraption. He had thought that a night in the dungeons was punishment enough, but apparently, Camelot had other ideas. Or perhaps Arthur had simply changed his mind about feeling sorry and reverted to being the insufferable prat Merlin had first met.

Every so often, Gaius would pass by on his errands, casting Merlin a sympathetic glance that quickly turned into laughter. The physician nearly doubled over, chuckling so hard he had to lean against a nearby stall for support. Merlin suspected Gaius had a hand in this particular punishment as well.

The stocks were positioned in the bustling heart of Camelot’s marketplace, a lively contrast to Merlin’s current predicament. Vendors called out to potential customers, their colorful stalls brimming with produce, fabrics, and trinkets. The vibrant hues of the market clashed starkly with the dull, weathered wood of the stocks, reminding Merlin of the disparity between the bustling life around him and his own humiliating position.

The air was thick with the scent of fresh bread and roasted meats mingling with the pungent stench of the rotting fruit that had been hurled at him. Children weaved between the stalls, their laughter echoing as they played chase. Nearby, nobles haggled alongside peasants, their lives intersecting for the briefest moments. Merlin watched it all, his mind racing with thoughts of revenge and plans for when his freedom was returned.

His reprieve from the barrage of rotten fruit came when a girl approached. Her kind eyes and warm smile stood out amidst the indifferent faces of the crowd.

“I’m Guinevere, but most people call me Gwen,” she introduced herself, offering him a hand despite his predicament. “I’m the Lady Morgana’s maid.”

Merlin awkwardly maneuvered his hand to shake hers. “Right, well, I’m Merlin. Although, most people just call me ‘idiot.’”

She laughed, a bright, melodic sound that made the indignity of his situation a little more bearable. “No, no, no. I saw what you did. You were brave.”

He shook his head at her praise, feeling the heat of embarrassment rise in his cheeks. “It was stupid.”

“Well, I’m glad you were released. You weren’t going to beat him.”

Merlin’s lips twitched into a defiant smirk. “Oh, I could beat him.”

She raised an eyebrow, giving him a skeptical but gentle look. “You think so? Because you don’t look like one of those big, muscly types.”

Never mind, Merlin thought, his smirk fading. “Thanks for that.”

Gwen’s eyes widened, panic flashing across her face. “No! No, that’s not what I meant. I’m sure you’re stronger than you look.” Her cheeks flushed as she looked down, kicking at the dirt. “It’s just... Arthur’s one of those rough, tough, save-the-world types, and, well...”

“Well, what?” Merlin prompted, half-amused.

She bit her lip, glancing back up at him. “You don’t look like that.”

Merlin glanced around conspiratorially, then leaned forward as much as the stocks would allow. “I’m in disguise,” he whispered.

Her laughter was a balm, a small beacon of light in an otherwise dismal day. The way she looked at him—with genuine admiration—made him feel seen in a way he rarely experienced.

“Well,” she said, still smiling, “it’s great that you stood up to him.”

“You think so?”

Gwen nodded earnestly. “Arthur can be a bully sometimes. Everyone thought you were a real hero.”

A flicker of pride warmed Merlin’s chest. Hero. The word resonated with the stories he’d heard about his destiny—of a king to protect, of a world to change. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah,” she affirmed, her eyes twinkling.

But before Merlin could say more, the crowd returned, armed with fresh fruit for their impromptu target practice. He sighed dramatically. “Excuse me, Guinevere, my fans are waiting.”

Her laughter trailed after her as she ran off, leaving Merlin grinning despite himself.

As the fruit began to fly again, Merlin’s thoughts wandered back to the prince—Arthur. He was supposed to protect Camelot, yet he abused his power, targeting those who couldn’t fight back. Merlin’s resolve hardened. He would find his king—the true king—and ensure that Arthur never saw the throne.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting Camelot in hues of gold and crimson, the crowd thinned. Merchants packed away their wares, children were called home, and the market gradually emptied, leaving Merlin to his thoughts. The simplicity of his old life with the druids tugged at his heart, but he knew that path was closed to him now.

His search for his destiny started here, in Camelot, no matter how difficult or humiliating it became.

Just as he began to lose himself in his musings, a familiar figure appeared before him. Arthur, his arms crossed and that insufferable smirk on his face, stood alone.

“Enjoying yourself, Merlin?”

Merlin rolled his eyes. “Oh, immensely. Highlight of my day, really.”

Arthur chuckled, the sound warm and surprisingly genuine. “Good to know. Maybe next time you’ll think twice before making a fool of yourself.”

Merlin snorted. “Maybe next time you’ll think twice before acting like a prat.”

Arthur’s smirk wavered, replaced by a thoughtful expression. “You know, Merlin, for a peasant, you’ve got quite the mouth on you.”

They locked eyes, the silence between them heavy with unspoken words. And then, to Merlin’s utter astonishment, Arthur laughed—a deep, hearty laugh that filled the empty marketplace. If Gwen’s laugh was like a gentle sunbeam, Arthur’s was the sun itself, bright and full of life.

Before Merlin could fully process it, Arthur signaled to a nearby guard. The heavy weight of the stocks lifted, and Merlin staggered out, rubbing his sore wrists.

He glanced back to thank Arthur, to say something, anything—but the prince had already vanished into the encroaching twilight, leaving Merlin alone once more.

—

That night, after he was finally released from the stocks, Merlin attempted to sleep once more on his new bed. The small, wooden thing in Gaius’ chambers was still unfamiliar, and the blankets offering little comfort. He tossed and turned, his mind racing with the events of the day—the humiliation, the cold splattering of rotten vegetables against his skin, the fleeting looks of sympathy from Gwen, the exasperated but fond scolding from Gaius.

He had barely begun to drift into an uneasy sleep when a voice, deep and resonant, echoed in his mind.

“Merlin…”

His eyes flew open, his pulse hammering in his ears. He sat up, breath quick and shallow. The voice was unlike any he had heard before—powerful, ancient, and filled with an uncanny certainty. Whoever it was, they knew his name. That alone set him on edge.

Merlin hesitated, glancing toward Gaius' cot where the old physician lay asleep as he left his room, his chest rising and falling steadily. He swallowed hard, the weight of the castle walls pressing down on him, enclosing him in the secrets they held. The king’s words from his first day in Camelot surfaced in his memory:

“Twenty years since we captured the Great Dragon.”

He turned to leave, then paused, looking back at Gaius. With a wave of his hand, the physician’s blankets tucked themselves more securely around him. Satisfied, Merlin slipped out, treading carefully past furniture and loose floorboards.

The castle at night was a different world. The lively, bustling corridors of the day transformed into silent, eerie passageways where only the torches lining the walls offered any semblance of warmth. Merlin moved cautiously, his bare feet barely making a sound against the cold stone. The voice continued to call him, faint but insistent, pulling him forward.

He ducked behind columns and doorways, avoiding the occasional patrol, his heart lurching in his chest whenever armored footsteps approached. Every step deeper into the castle felt heavier, more forbidden. He didn’t belong here—not in these dim corridors, not in these ancient halls where power pulsed beneath the very stones.

Eventually, he reached a pair of towering iron doors. Cold air seeped from the cracks, carrying the scent of damp earth and something else—something older, wilder. The voice was strongest here, a presence curling in his mind like smoke.

Taking a steadying breath, he pushed the doors open.

A spiral staircase stretched downward into darkness, its steps slick with moisture. He hesitated only a moment before descending, taking a torch, the light barely illuminating the twisting path ahead.

The deeper he went, the heavier the air became, charged with something indescribable. When he reached the bottom, the cavern opened before him, vast and magnificent. The ceiling stretched high above, lost in the shadows, and the walls glistened with dampness.

Then, from above, a deep, rumbling chuckle sent a shiver down Merlin’s spine.

“Where are you?” he called, his voice echoing against the stone.

A gust of wind swept through the cavern as something enormous shifted in the darkness. Then, with a mighty beat of wings, a colossal dragon descended from the heights, landing heavily upon a rocky outcrop. The great beast’s scales gleamed like molten gold in the torchlight, and a thick iron chain bound one of its massive legs, anchoring it to the ground.

“I’m here,” the dragon said, its voice resonating through the cavern.

Merlin stared, unable to tear his gaze away. The sheer presence of the creature was overwhelming. It was ancient, powerful—far beyond anything he had ever imagined. For a moment, both dragon and warlock simply regarded one another, as if each were coming to terms with the reality of the other’s existence.

“How small you are,” the dragon mused at last, a note of amusement in its voice. “For such a great destiny.”

A slow grin spread across Merlin’s face, disbelief and exhilaration warring within him. “I knew it,” he whispered, then louder, “I knew that if I just came to Camelot, I would find my destiny!”

The dragon’s laughter rumbled through the cavern like distant thunder. “Yes, young warlock. Your destiny is closer than you think.”

Merlin stepped forward, his torch held high. “So,” he called, trying to steady his breath, “do you know who he is? My king?”

The dragon bared its teeth in a grin, sharp and gleaming. “Arthur Pendragon is the Once and Future King. He will unite the land of Albion.”

Merlin froze. He must have misheard. “What?”

The dragon’s eyes gleamed with knowing. “Arthur faces many threats, from friend and foe alike. Without you, he will never succeed. Without you, there will be no Albion.”

Merlin let out a short, incredulous laugh. “No. No, you’ve got the wrong Arthur.” He shook his head, pacing now, the weight of the dragon’s words pressing down on him. “You mean the arrogant prat? The bully? The son of the tyrant who murdered my father?” He scoffed. “If anyone wants to kill him, they can go right ahead. In fact, I’ll give them a hand.”

Sure, Arthur had claimed he wanted to apologize. Sure, he’d had Merlin released from the stocks. But he hadn’t really apologized, had he? And someone had to let him out eventually—Arthur had just been the first to take credit for it. The prince was too proud, too stubborn to ever truly say he was sorry to a peasant.

The dragon merely laughed again, the sound filled with something deeper than amusement—something patient, almost expectant. “None of us can choose our destiny, Merlin. And none of us can escape it.”

Merlin clenched his jaw. “No. No way. There must be another Arthur because this one’s an idiot.”

The dragon’s golden eyes gleamed. “Perhaps it is your destiny to change that.”

With a powerful beat of its wings, the dragon launched itself back toward the upper reaches of the cavern, its chains rattling ominously. Merlin watched it go, his mind spinning, his pulse still hammering.

He could have called it back. As a Dragonlord’s son, and a Dragonlord himself when his father passed, the beast would have obeyed him. But what good would that have done? Destiny was destiny.

And apparently, his was tied to Arthur Pendragon.

He groaned, running a hand down his face. “Great.”

—

Merlin barely got any more sleep. When he returned to his room, he tossed his blanket onto the floor and collapsed onto the mattress, staring at the ceiling as his mind raced. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the dragon’s piercing gaze, heard its booming voice declaring his destiny.

Arthur is the Once and Future King.

It was absurd. Completely ridiculous. The same Arthur who had thrown knives at a servant, had him thrown in the stocks, and had yet to issue an actual apology? That Arthur? The idea that Merlin was supposed to help him unite Albion made about as much sense as Gaius suddenly sprouting wings and flying around the castle.

And yet…

The dragon had spoken with such certainty, as if everything was already set in stone.

Eventually, exhaustion won out, and Merlin drifted into a fitful sleep, but it was hardly restful. His dreams were muddled—glimpses of fire, shadows moving in the dark, Arthur’s face shifting between sneering arrogance and something softer, something uncertain.

Then—

“Oi! Have you seen the state of this room?”

Merlin jolted awake with a startled yelp as Gaius’ voice rang through his chambers like an alarm bell. He squinted blearily as the old physician stood over him, arms crossed, surveying the disaster zone that was his room.

“I—” Merlin croaked, his throat dry. He rubbed his eyes and blinked at the scattered blankets, the overturned stool, and the half-empty water jug lying on its side. He groaned and flopped back onto his pillow. “It just… happens.”

“By magic?” Gaius asked, arching a knowing eyebrow.

“Yeah.”

“Well,” Gaius said, unimpressed. “You can clean it up without magic.”

Before Merlin could protest, a shirt smacked him square in the face. He peeled it off with a sigh as Gaius continued.

“Then I want you to fetch me some herbs—henbane, wormwood, and sorrel.”

Merlin grumbled but nodded, sitting up and running a hand through his tangled hair. His body ached from yesterday’s ordeal with the stocks, and now, he had to deal with chores on top of an existential crisis.

Gaius, however, wasn’t finished. He held up a small glass vial. “And deliver this to Lady Morgana. The poor girl is suffering from nightmares.”

That caught Merlin’s attention. Morgana. He had only seen her from a distance so far, but she was one of the most talked-about figures in Camelot. Beautiful, proud, and unafraid to speak her mind—even to the king himself. She had a reputation for challenging Uther, particularly on his views of magic.

Merlin frowned. Nightmares? He had them, too. Maybe not the same kind, but still, he knew what it was like to be haunted by something beyond his control.

Before he could ask anything more, Gaius tossed another piece of clothing at him.

“Get moving.”

Merlin let out an exaggerated groan but started cleaning up. It wasn’t just that he was used to Gaius’ grumbling now—it was comforting, in a way. The old man’s fussing and orders were a reminder that despite whatever grand destiny awaited him, he was still just Merlin. And for now, that was enough.

—

Merlin had started to navigate the castle with a little more ease now that he’d been in Camelot for a few days. But even so, the grand halls, towering stone archways, and seemingly endless corridors still left him feeling like a rat in an elaborate maze. And now, for the first time, he had to venture into the royal wing—a part of the castle he had never set foot in before. He had to stop a passing servant to ask for directions, trying to ignore the skeptical glance she gave him before she pointed him in the right direction.

The deeper he went, the more the atmosphere seemed to change. The royal chambers were quieter, grander, the air heavy with the lingering scent of expensive perfumes and polished wood. There was an elegance here, a stillness that felt vastly different from the bustling servant quarters or the lively marketplace.

Finally, he reached the door he had been looking for—Morgana’s chambers. It was slightly ajar, and though he hesitated, he rapped his knuckles lightly against the wood.

“Come in, Gwen,” came a smooth, melodic voice from inside.

Merlin stepped in cautiously, stopping in his tracks when he spotted Lady Morgana sitting before an ornate mirror, brushing out her long dark curls. Even in this simple moment, she radiated effortless grace, her movements poised, her beauty striking. She was unlike any noble he had ever encountered—there was an edge to her, a defiant spark that set her apart from the stiff formality of the court.

“You know,” she mused, running the brush through her hair, “I’ve been thinking about Arthur.”

Merlin stilled. Oh no. Where was this going?

She smirked slightly, as if already anticipating her next words. “I wouldn’t touch him with a lance pole.”

Merlin barely managed to stifle a laugh, pressing his lips together. He could relate to the sentiment. Arthur wasn’t exactly the easiest person to be around—though admittedly, the idea of someone as formidable as Morgana dealing with Arthur’s arrogance was amusing in its own right.

Morgana, seemingly oblivious to his presence, stood and walked behind a dressing screen.

“Pass me that dress, will you, Gwen?”

The amusement vanished from Merlin’s face in an instant. His stomach dropped.

Wait. What?

He frantically glanced around. Gwen? Where was Gwen? Oh—right. Gwen wasn’t here. Morgana thought he was Gwen.

Suppressing the rising panic, he spotted the dress draped over a chair. He snatched it up hastily and, without a word, passed it over the top of the screen, praying she wouldn’t turn around.

“I mean, the man’s a complete jester,” Morgana continued, her voice taking on a teasing lilt. “Just because I’m the king’s ward doesn’t mean I have to accompany him to the feast, does it?”

Merlin froze. Was that rhetorical? Was he supposed to answer?

He swallowed. “…No?” he squeaked.

What in all of Albion was he doing?

“If he wants me to go, then he should invite me,” Morgana declared. “And he hasn’t . So do you know what that means?”

Merlin, at a complete loss, could only manage another pathetic, “No?” in the same high-pitched tone.

Morgana let out a dramatic sigh. “It means I’m going by myself.”

Merlin exhaled in relief, shifting on his feet, ready to make a hasty retreat. But then—

“I need some help with this fastening.”

Nope. Nope, nope, nope. Time to leave.

“Gwen?” Morgana prompted.

Merlin barely had time to panic before salvation arrived in the form of the actual Gwen, stepping through the doorway behind him.

“I’m here,” she said, her voice laced with amusement.

Merlin turned to her with a mixture of relief and gratitude, thrusting the small vial of medicine into her hands like it was a lifeline. Gwen arched a brow at him, clearly holding back a laugh, but said nothing.

“Thanks,” he muttered under his breath before slipping past her and bolting for the door.

As he made his escape, Morgana’s voice drifted after him. “So, it’s either I wear this little tease, or give them a night they’ll really remember.”

Merlin nearly tripped over his own feet in his haste to get away, shaking his head in exasperation.

Camelot was exhausting. He had only been here a short time, but already, every day seemed to be an adventure—sometimes dangerous, sometimes humiliating, and occasionally downright bizarre. But, oddly enough, he found himself smiling as he made his way back down the hall.

For all its trials, for all its surprises… Camelot was starting to feel a little more like home.

—

That night marked the grand feast, the crowning event of the days-long festival. The Great Hall of Camelot gleamed under the glow of countless torches and chandeliers, the air thick with the scent of roasted meats, honeyed fruits, and spiced wine. Laughter and chatter echoed against the stone walls, but Merlin felt no inclination to celebrate. This feast honored the Great Purge—an event that had led to the slaughter of hundreds, if not thousands, of magic-users. To him, this was no cause for revelry, but rather a grim reminder of the countless lives lost, including the father he barely got the chance to truley know.

Yet, despite his misgivings, Gaius had signed him up to serve at the event, insisting it would help him acclimate to castle life. Merlin highly doubted it. The only thing this night would do was remind him that he didn’t belong in a place like this. He had already found himself in trouble with Arthur Pendragon once, and the last thing he needed was another reason for the arrogant prince to look down on him.

Speaking of whom…

As Merlin followed Gaius into the hall, his gaze immediately landed on Arthur, surrounded by a group of knights. They were laughing, roughhousing like boys who had never known hardship. Arthur, the golden prince of Camelot, basked in their admiration, his confidence unwavering. Merlin clenched his jaw. How could someone like that be the great king of legend? How could the fate of Albion rest on the shoulders of a spoiled, self-important noble who had never known a day of true struggle?

The thought was infuriating.

The Great Hall was a spectacle of wealth and grandeur, with tables stretching the length of the room, each piled high with lavish dishes. Servants moved deftly between nobles, refilling goblets and presenting trays of delicacies. The aromas made Merlin’s stomach grumble, and as they passed a tray of sweetmeats, he instinctively reached for one—only for Gaius to smack his hand away.

“Merlin,” the physician chided, his voice low but firm. “You are here to work.”

“Aye,” Merlin muttered, rubbing his hand like a scolded child.

As he wove his way through the hall, he couldn’t help but overhear whispers trailing in his wake. Servants and nobles alike murmured about his earlier encounter with Arthur, speculating on how a mere peasant had come so close to besting the prince. Merlin wasn’t sure if they admired his audacity or expected him to end up in the stocks again by morning, but either way, the attention was oddly satisfying.

Then Morgana entered.

The entire hall seemed to pause.

Dressed in crimson and gold, she was a vision of regal beauty, her dark curls framing her sharp, knowing eyes. Her presence commanded attention, and even Merlin had to admit she looked breathtaking.

“She looks incredible, doesn’t she?” Gwen’s voice broke through his thoughts.

“Huh?” Merlin blinked, tearing his gaze away. “Oh. Yeah, sure.”

Gwen smiled wistfully, watching Morgana glide through the room. “Some people are just born to be queens.”

Merlin nearly choked. The idea of Morgana marrying Arthur was enough to make him gag. “No!”

Gwen glanced at him, amused. “You don’t think so?”

“I—” Merlin hesitated, struggling for a delicate way to phrase his absolute horror at the idea. “She deserves better.”

Gwen chuckled. “Well, I hope she finds someone worthy. Not that I’d want to be her. Who’d want to marry Arthur?” She laughed, but there was a hint of fondness in her voice.

Merlin smirked. “Oh, come on, Gwen. I thought you liked those real rough, tough, save-the-world kind of men.”

Gwen turned slightly pink. “No, I prefer much more ordinary men.” Then she glanced at him and quickly added, “Not you! Obviously. I mean—not that there’s anything wrong with you, but—” She floundered, gesturing vaguely.

Merlin grinned. “Thanks, Gwen. Very flattering.”

They shared an awkward silence before he grabbed a tray and moved off to serve. He barely had time to take a breath before he noticed Arthur striding toward him, looking rather determined—though whether it was to berate or recruit him for some new torment, Merlin had no idea.

Fortunately, the horns sounded before Arthur could reach him. The hall fell silent as the orchestra struck up a majestic tune, and all eyes turned to the royal table where Uther stood.

“We have enjoyed twenty years of peace and prosperity,” Uther declared, his voice carrying through the hall. “It has brought the kingdom and myself many joys. But few compare to the honor of introducing Lady Helen of Mora.”

Applause rang out as a woman stepped onto a small stage near the royal table. She was adorned in a gown of shimmering gold, her presence exuding an unnatural grace. Yet beneath the illusion of beauty, Merlin sensed it—magic. Thick and layered, like a veil hiding her true self.

Then she began to sing.

Her voice was ethereal, hauntingly beautiful. But Merlin recognized an enchantment when he heard one. This was a spell.

Around the hall, heads began to droop. Nobles slumped in their chairs, servants swayed on their feet. Even Arthur, who'd moved to be seated beside his father, blinked sluggishly before his head dipped backward.

Merlin clamped his hands over his ears, heart pounding. His gaze snapped back to Lady Helen—no, the imposter beneath the illusion. Her steps were slow and deliberate as she neared the royal table, her eyes locked onto Arthur. Then, from her sleeve, she drew a dagger.

Merlin’s mind raced. He needed to act. Now.

His eyes darted upward. Lady Helen stood directly beneath a massive chandelier. Focusing his magic, he sent a pulse of energy through the chain.

The metal groaned, then snapped.

The chandelier crashed atop her to the ground with a deafening boom, disrupting the spell. Lady Helen fell, her illusion breaking, revealing an older woman. Gasps echoed as the nobles roused, shaking off the spell’s effects.

But 'Lady Helen' wasn’t finished. With a final, desperate cry, she hurled her dagger at Arthur before dropping her head for the final time.

Without thinking, Merlin reacted. A burst of energy slowed the knife midair. He lunged, tackling Arthur just as the dagger embedded itself into the back of his chair.

Silence followed.

Arthur blinked up at him in stunned disbelief. Merlin awkwardly stood and offered a hand. Arthur took it, eyes still wide as Uther approached, his expression unreadable.

“You saved my son’s life,” Uther said, his voice thick with emotion. “A debt must be repaid.”

Merlin hesitated. “Oh, well—”

“Don’t be modest,” Uther insisted. “You shall be rewarded.”

Merlin grinned. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad—

“You shall be Prince Arthur’s manservant.”

Merlin’s face fell.

“What?” Arthur barked.

The hall erupted in applause, drowning out any protests. Merlin and Arthur exchanged incredulous looks, both grimacing before scoffing and turning away.

So much for a reward.

—

That night, beneath the dim glow of candlelight, Merlin sat at his small wooden desk, ink staining his fingertips as he wrote to his mother. The words came slowly.

Mama,

I have found my destiny.

He paused, tapping the quill against the parchment, feeling the weight of those words. He was Arthur Pendragon’s servant. His servant.

Not exactly how he imagined fulfilling his great destiny.

Still, he smiled as he continued writing, telling Hunith about his new role, how he had already saved the prince’s life (though he left out the part where Arthur was a pompous prat about it), and how much he missed her and everyone back home.

A soft knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts.

Gaius stepped inside, his eyes filled with warmth and amusement. “Seems you’re a hero.”

Merlin snorted. “Hard to believe, isn’t it?”

Gaius studied him for a moment, then shook his head. “No. I knew it from the moment I met you.”

Merlin blinked at him, surprised.

“Well,” Gaius continued, “you did save my life, remember?”

Merlin laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Feels like forever ago.”

“In truth, it’s only been a few days,” Gaius said, stepping forward. “And yet, so much has changed.”

He held out a book wrapped in red cloth.

Merlin furrowed his brow but took it carefully, peeling back the fabric. The sight stole his breath.

It was a book of spells.

The cover was crafted from rich brown leather, embossed with intricate golden runes. Time had worn its edges, yet it had been lovingly preserved, passed down through generations. Golden clasps held its secrets shut, waiting for the right hands to open them.

“Gaius…” Merlin’s voice was barely a whisper as he unlatched the clasps, flipping through the pages. Some spells he recognized, but many were foreign, filled with symbols and ancient words he didn’t yet understand. And beyond that—blank pages, waiting to be written upon.

“Where did you get this?” he asked, awe-struck.

“This book was given to me when I was your age,” Gaius said, his voice tinged with nostalgia. “But I have a feeling it will be of more use to you than it ever was to me.”

Merlin ran his fingers across the delicate script, still unable to believe what he was holding. “Gaius, this is… this is a book of magic.”

“Which is why you must keep it hidden.”

Merlin nodded, but the wide grin on his face betrayed his excitement. “I will study every word.”

Gaius chuckled. “It is yours to use as you see fit. For the long journey ahead, and whatever adventures may come.”

Before Merlin could respond, a sharp knock sounded at the front door, followed by a familiar, irritated voice.

“Merlin? Prince Arthur wants to see you right away.”

Merlin groaned. “Of course he does.”

Gaius smirked. “Your destiny is calling.”

Merlin hesitated only a moment before setting the book down gently, as if it were the most precious thing in the world. Then, surprising even himself, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Gaius in a quick but sincere hug.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

Gaius patted his back. “Go on, before Arthur throws a tantrum.”

Merlin pulled away with a grin, grabbing his jacket before heading for the door. As he stepped into the corridor, the cool air of the castle greeted him, along with the distant sounds of Camelot settling into the night. He took a deep breath, glancing around his new home.

For the first time since arriving, he smiled to himself.

He could do this.

Whatever lay ahead—prat princes, hidden magic, and all—he was ready.

Chapter Text

The darkened alleyway in Camelot’s less savory district reeked of damp stone, rotting wood, and the unspoken deals made in the dead of night. Shadows stretched long between flickering torchlight, concealing those who wished to remain unseen.

A hooded figure moved with purpose, his heavy boots muffled against the cobbled ground. He approached a vendor’s stall tucked between the crumbling walls of forgotten buildings, its wares hidden beneath rough-spun cloth. The man did not hesitate.

“I understand you have a shield for me.” His voice was low, a mere whisper against the rustling wind.

The vendor, a wiry man with keen eyes that missed nothing, nodded. Without a word, he gestured for the stranger to follow him into the concealed space behind the stall.

There, beneath a tattered woolen blanket, lay the prize.

The vendor pulled the cloth away, revealing a shield unlike any other. The metal gleamed in the dim light, its surface adorned with an intricate pattern of intertwining serpents, their eyes cold and lifeless. Yet, as the man stepped closer, something within the design seemed to stir—almost as if the creatures were breathing.

A pulse of unnatural energy crackled through the air.

“The finest work of sorcery,” the vendor murmured, his voice barely audible. “With your skill and this shield, victory is assured.”

The man’s gloved hand ghosted over the surface, feeling the faint vibrations beneath his fingertips. “Show me how it works.”

The vendor smirked. “Certainly.”

He muttered an incantation in an ancient, guttural tongue, the words slipping between his lips like a whispered curse. As he reached the final syllable, the air around them thickened, charged with unseen power.

And then—the snakes moved.

Three of them, slithering out from the metal as though they had always been alive, their scales shimmering, their fangs glistening with venom. They coiled and hissed, their black eyes locked onto their surroundings, awaiting instruction.

“When you fight in the tournament,” the vendor explained, his voice carrying an edge of amusement, “pin your opponent beneath the shield, and one of these beauties will strike. A single bite, and they will be paralyzed.”

The stranger took the shield into his own hands, testing the weight, the balance. It was well-crafted, sturdy, yet deceptively light.

“The snakes are now bound to you,” the vendor continued in a hushed whisper. “They will obey only your command.”

The man tilted his head, considering. “They’ll do anything I say?”

A slow, knowing smile spread across the vendor’s face. “Just say the word.”

Silence fell between them.

Then, with a glint of something cruel in his eyes, the man turned to face the vendor.

“Kill him.”

The command was like a blade slicing through the night.

One of the serpents sprang forward with unnatural speed, its fangs sinking into the vendor’s exposed neck before he could even gasp. The man staggered, hands clawing at his throat as the venom worked through him. His body went rigid, his breath hitched—paralyzed.

The stranger watched with a detached sort of satisfaction before stepping over the fallen man, his new weapon secured on his arm.

Without another glance, he disappeared into the darkness, making his way toward the castle.

He had a tournament to win.

—

Merlin dreaded training sessions with the knights. The sheer agony of it. The weight of the cumbersome armor that never quite fit, the strain of holding an oversized shield that felt more like a battering ram than a defensive tool, the inevitable sweat that clung to his skin like a second layer—it all made him question why anyone in their right mind would want to become a knight.

Certainly, there were some perks. Prestige, honor, a good set of muscles—if you liked that sort of thing. But when the reality involved getting battered repeatedly by Camelot’s finest, Merlin was convinced the whole knighthood business was vastly overrated.

“Ready?” Arthur’s voice cut through his thoughts like a well-aimed sword.

“Would it make any difference if I said no?” Merlin quipped, hoping— praying —that Arthur might take pity on him.

Arthur smirked, already adjusting his grip on his sword. “Not really.”

Of course not.

Suppressing a groan, Merlin donned the heavy helmet, which instantly obscured half his vision and made breathing a chore. He clumsily drew his sword from its scabbard, nearly dropping it in the process. This was by far the least glamorous part of being Arthur’s manservant—acting as a living training dummy for the prince to refine his swordsmanship.

Arthur, either completely oblivious to Merlin’s suffering or simply enjoying it far too much, wasted no time before launching into the first strikes.

“Body, shield, body, shield!” Arthur announced, his movements swift and practiced as he guided Merlin on where to block.

Merlin fumbled to keep up, his arms already protesting under the weight of the shield. The force behind Arthur’s strikes sent vibrations up his limbs, and he barely managed to hold his ground.

“Shield, head ,” Arthur called out.

“Wait, wha—?”

CLANG!

Arthur’s sword smacked against his helmet with a resounding clang that reverberated through Merlin’s skull. Stars exploded in his vision.

“Ow!” Merlin staggered backward, his ears ringing.

Arthur chuckled. “Come on, Merlin, you’re not even trying.”

Merlin barely had time to recover before Arthur delivered a swat to his backside with the flat of his blade.

He yelped indignantly. “Oi!”

Arthur grinned. “I need you to focus. I do have a tournament to win, you know.”

“Oh, do you?” Merlin muttered, shifting his stance in the hopes of stabilizing himself.

Arthur continued, merciless as ever. “Once more. Left, right, left—”

Another strike rang against Merlin’s helmet, nearly knocking him off his feet.

“Ow! Arthur!”

Arthur sighed dramatically. “Honestly, I don’t know how you expect to survive in Camelot if you can’t even hold your own in training.”

Merlin groaned. “I’m a servant , not a knight!”

Arthur ignored him, resuming his relentless strikes. This time, Merlin’s already unsteady footing gave way. With a final, disorienting whack , he crashed onto the ground, his helmet rolling a few feet away.

Arthur loomed over him, grinning in satisfaction. “You’re braver than you look. Most servants collapse after the first blow.”

Merlin glared up at him, debating whether getting up was worth the inevitable bruising. “ Is it over? ” he asked, desperation creeping into his voice.

Arthur’s smile widened. “That was just the warm-up .”

Merlin paled as Arthur picked up a morning star, its spiked head gleaming ominously in the sunlight.

“How’s your mace work coming along?” Arthur asked, twirling it with a little too much enthusiasm.

Merlin groaned dramatically, letting his head fall back onto the ground. “I hate my life.”

Lying flat on the training grounds, every muscle aching from Arthur’s so-called lesson , Merlin let his thoughts drift.

He and Arthur were bound by destiny—of that, he was certain. But moments like these made him seriously question what exactly fate had in mind.

Arthur was undoubtedly skilled, his swordplay precise, his reflexes sharp. He had all the makings of a great warrior, a leader forged in battle. And yet, beneath all that bravado, Merlin couldn’t help but wonder.

Would Arthur be a great king ?

Would he rule with justice and wisdom, or would his love of combat and competition consume him? He was the heir to the throne, destined to unite Albion—but what if his arrogance, his need to win , stood in the way?

Merlin had seen glimpses of something more in Arthur, moments where kindness shone through the cracks of his princely arrogance. But was it enough?

Arthur, still boasting about his upcoming tournament, didn’t notice the contemplative look on Merlin’s face.

Merlin sighed inwardly. Destiny or not, Arthur had a long way to go before he became the ruler Camelot needed.

Still.

He pushed himself up, groaning as his muscles protested, knowing full well that Arthur had at least another hour of training in store for him.

If he had to endure being Arthur’s personal punching bag, he’d make sure the prince learned something from it.

Even if it killed him.

—

As Merlin trudged into his and Gaius’ shared chambers, he felt every muscle in his body protesting with each step. The borrowed practice armor weighed on him like a pile of bricks, dragging his exhausted frame down. With a groan, he let it clatter to the floor, each dented piece a sharp reminder of the punishment he had endured at Arthur’s hands. The sound echoed in the chamber, startling a few glass vials on Gaius’ worktable.

Gaius, hunched over a mortar and pestle, barely spared him a glance before chuckling. “Judging by the racket, I take it your first day with Arthur went well?” His voice held a familiar note of dry amusement.

Merlin, too weary to muster his usual wit, collapsed into the nearest chair, rubbing his sore head. “Do you hear clanging?” he muttered, wincing. “Because I do. It’s been ringing in my ears since Arthur bashed my helmet in—repeatedly.”

Gaius shook his head, grabbing a small jar of salve. “I did warn you. Training with Arthur is not for the faint of heart.”

“Then it’s a miracle I’m still alive,” Merlin grumbled. He watched as Gaius dipped his fingers into the ointment and then, without warning, pressed it against the bruises forming on his shoulder. Merlin yelped. “Could you at least pretend to be gentle?”

“If I did, you’d start thinking you had it easy,” Gaius retorted, though he eased the pressure.

Merlin let out a long-suffering sigh, slumping back against the chair. “And if that wasn’t bad enough, I have to learn all about tournament etiquette by morning. Do you know how many rules there are?!” He waved his arms for emphasis but immediately regretted it as pain flared up his shoulders. Groaning, he muttered a quick incantation, and a large tome on Camelot’s traditions lifted from a nearby shelf, floating smoothly toward the table and landing open before him.

He barely had a second to appreciate his clever solution before— smack! —a firm hand rapped the back of his head.

“Oi!” Merlin yelped, glaring at Gaius, who stood over him with a disapproving look.

“What have I told you about using magic so carelessly?” Gaius scolded.

Merlin groaned, rubbing the sore spot. “If I could actually feel my arms, I’d pick up the book myself.”

Gaius narrowed his eyes. “Never mind your arms. What do I do if you get caught?”

That gave Merlin pause. Despite the older man being his uncle, they hadn’t known each other for long—not even a full week. He hadn’t really considered what Gaius would actually do if his secret was exposed.

“What would you do?” Merlin asked, curiosity laced with something more cautious, more vulnerable.

Gaius sighed, his expression softening. “You just make sure it doesn’t happen,” he said, his voice quieter now. “For both of our sakes.”

A beat of silence passed between them before Gaius resumed his work, kneading the tension from Merlin’s stiff muscles. Merlin winced, but he could tell his uncle’s concern ran deeper than his scolding let on.

“I save Arthur from being killed,” Merlin muttered, voice edged with frustration, “and I end up as his servant. How is that fair?” He let his head loll back dramatically. “I don’t like polishing boots, let alone carrying around swords and armor like some glorified pack mule.”

“I’m not sure fairness comes into play,” Gaius remarked, wiping his hands clean with a cloth. “But think of it as an opportunity.”

Merlin gave him a skeptical look.

Gaius merely shrugged. “You’re in a position to protect Arthur. To guide him. Isn’t that part of this great destiny you keep going on about?”

“I don’t have time for destiny,” Merlin grumbled, glaring at the enormous etiquette book. “You should see my list of duties.”

“We all have our duties,” Gaius said simply, moving back to his table. “Even Arthur.”

Merlin scoffed. “Ah, yes. Poor Arthur. It must be so difficult for him, all that glory .” He slumped forward, resting his chin on the open book. “Must be awful having an army of knights ready to do everything for you while you prance around, swinging a sword.”

Gaius shook his head with a knowing look. “He’s the future king, Merlin. People expect a great deal from him. He’s under more pressure than you realize.”

Merlin was about to roll his eyes when Gaius suddenly pressed down on his shoulder with just a bit too much force— crack!

“AHH!” Merlin shot upright, spinning around to glare at him. “That makes two of us.”

Gaius, entirely unbothered, simply patted him on the back.

Merlin groaned in defeat, letting his forehead hit the book with a thud. “I hate everything.”

Gaius chuckled to himself, returning to his work as Merlin resigned himself to his fate—bruised, exhausted, and stuck with an etiquette lesson he had no desire to learn.

He had survived the training session. Now, he just had to survive being Arthur’s servant.

That, somehow, seemed even harder.

—

Merlin navigated the bustling streets of Lower Town, burdened by the weight of Arthur’s armor. The plates clanked awkwardly with each step, drawing curious glances from passersby. He huffed, shifting the load in his arms, wondering for the hundredth time why he had agreed to this. Well, he hadn't agreed, exactly—Arthur had simply ordered him to learn how to properly maintain and assemble armor by the next morning, leaving him with nothing but a vague, smug instruction of "Figure it out."

Which was why he now stood outside Gwen’s house, praying she wouldn’t laugh him straight out the door.

Gwen answered within seconds, her warm smile immediately easing some of his nerves. “Merlin? What on earth—oh.” Her eyes drifted to the mess of chainmail and plate in his arms, then back to his sheepish expression. “Let me guess. Arthur?”

Merlin sighed dramatically. “Who else?”

She chuckled, stepping aside to let him in. “Come on, let’s sort this out before you end up tangled in it.”

Inside, Gwen wasted no time getting to work. She guided Merlin to a sturdy wooden table littered with tools and scraps of metal from her father’s latest projects. Setting the armor down with a relieved groan, he flexed his sore fingers while Gwen methodically sorted through the pieces.

“So, you’ve got voiders on the arms,” she began, picking up one of the chainmail sleeves and expertly fastening it onto Merlin’s arm. “The hauberk goes over your chest,” she continued, grabbing another piece from the table and draping it over his shoulders with practiced ease.

Merlin, meanwhile, was doing his best impression of a training dummy, standing stiffly as Gwen worked. “And I’m guessing you know what to do with the helmet?”

He grinned sheepishly, reaching for the familiar piece. “Yeah, that was the only bit I figured out.”

Gwen laughed, shaking her head. “Well, that’s something, at least.”

As she adjusted the straps, Merlin watched her with growing curiosity. “How is it that you’re so much better at this than me?”

Gwen shrugged modestly. “I am the blacksmith’s daughter. I’ve been around armor and weapons my whole life.” A small chuckle escaped her. “Which is kind of sad when you think about it.”

“No, it’s brilliant!” Merlin said earnestly. “I’d be completely lost without your help.”

Gwen smiled at him, her expression softening. In the short time they had known each other, she had already proven to be a reliable friend. There was a quiet strength about her, a kindness that made even the most daunting tasks seem more manageable. Merlin appreciated that more than he could put into words.

As the instruction went on, he couldn’t help but admire the craftsmanship of the armor. The interwoven rings of chainmail, the polished plates—it was more than just protection. It was a testament to human ingenuity and skill, forged with purpose. Back home among the Druids, armor had been nothing more than a distant concept, something worn by enemies, symbols of oppression and war. Yet now, as Gwen helped him fasten the final straps, he was beginning to see it in a different light.

Still, the weight of the armor was nothing compared to the weight of responsibility settling on his shoulders. The tournament was tomorrow. And it wasn’t just about dressing Arthur properly—it was about being prepared. Being ready . As much as Arthur would scoff at the idea, Merlin knew his role as the prince’s manservant extended beyond fetching goblets and polishing boots. He was there to protect him. To ensure Arthur survived long enough to become the king he was destined to be. Even if Arthur had no idea.

“Merlin?” Gwen’s voice pulled him back from his thoughts. She had finished securing the last piece and was now eyeing him with quiet amusement. “You’re all set.”

He exhaled, rolling his shoulders under the unfamiliar weight. “Feels like I’m trapped in a metal coffin.”

Gwen laughed. “You’ll get used to it. Arthur wears it every day.”

“Yes, but Arthur enjoys throwing himself at things with swords,” Merlin grumbled, earning another laugh from her. He hesitated for a moment, then added more sincerely, “Thanks, Gwen. I really couldn’t have done this without you.”

She smiled, placing a reassuring hand on his arm. “You’ll do fine. And don’t worry about Arthur—he can take care of himself. I’ve never seen anyone as skilled as him.”

Merlin scoffed at that, shaking his head. “You’ve got it all wrong. I couldn’t care less.”

Gwen arched an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Oh, of course not.”

“I don’t !” he insisted, but the way she smirked made it obvious she didn’t believe him. Merlin folded his arms, shifting in the armor with an indignant clank. “Arthur is arrogant, insufferable, and treats me like a servant—” He paused, then sighed.

“Which, to be fair, you are.” A knowing glint in her eye.

Merlin groaned. “Fine. Maybe I slightly care. But only because if he dies, I’ll be out of a job.”

Gwen chuckled. “Of course. No other reason.”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “It’s just…he’s reckless. He doesn’t think things through. Someone has to watch his back.”

“And that someone is you?” Gwen asked gently.

Merlin hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. I guess it is.”

Gwen squeezed his arm before stepping back. “Well, in that case, you’d better be prepared. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”

Merlin huffed. “Tell me about it.”

As he made his way toward the door, still weighed down by armor but feeling strangely lighter, he realized that, for all his complaints, he wouldn’t change a thing. Because, like it or not, Arthur was his responsibility. And destiny or not, he wasn’t going to let him down

—.

Merlin was slowly getting used to the odd collection of tasks that came with being the prince’s manservant. Some of them were downright torturous—being a practice dummy for Arthur's training sessions was a prime example—but others weren’t so bad. One of the easier ones was preparing Arthur for bed.

It was a simple enough routine: lay out fresh clothes, draw a bath, undress the prince, dress the prince. Why Arthur couldn’t manage any of it himself was a mystery, but it was just one of those strange royal customs Merlin had resigned himself to accepting.

As Merlin worked on undoing the ties of Arthur’s shirt, the prince suddenly wrinkled his nose. “Merlin, you smell atrocious.”

Merlin let out a tired laugh. “You did make me wear twenty pounds of armor and then beat the snot out of me today.”

“Yes,” Arthur agreed, rolling his eyes. “But did you not bathe after? As I did?”

“I washed up, yes.”

Arthur eyed him skeptically. “Then why on earth do you still—” He abruptly stopped, his gaze narrowing as realization dawned. “You’re wearing the same clothes.”

Merlin suddenly felt a flicker of embarrassment. He’d noticed that most people in Camelot seemed to change their clothes more often than he did, but he only had two shirts. Gaius had been kind enough to get him a nice red one to go with his old blue one, but after mucking out the horses earlier, the red was currently unwearable.

Arthur, still frowning, folded his arms. “Do you own no other clothes?”

Merlin huffed, trying to deflect. “Not everyone can be a pompous prince with an entire wardrobe of unnecessary clothing.”

Arthur gave him a pointed look. “You still can’t talk to me like that.”

Merlin grinned. “And I still don’t care.”

Arthur let out an exasperated sigh, shaking his head. “Hopeless.”

Merlin merely smirked, knowing full well that for all his complaining, Arthur wouldn’t actually punish him. If anything, he looked oddly thoughtful, as if turning something over in his mind. But before Merlin could question it, Arthur motioned for him to keep working.

“Just hurry up and finish getting me ready for bed,” Arthur muttered. “And for the love of Camelot, get yourself some new clothes before I start making you sleep in the stables.”

Merlin rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. He had a feeling this wasn’t the last he’d hear of it.

—

Arthur observed Merlin’s struggles with a mixture of frustration and amusement. It was as if the boy had never seen a suit of armor before, let alone dressed a knight for battle. Arthur clenched his jaw, forcing himself to maintain composure despite the irritation bubbling within him. He didn’t have time for this.

“You do know the tournament starts today?” Arthur remarked pointedly, hoping to spur Merlin into a faster pace.

“Yes, Sire,” Merlin said mockingly, his voice laced with sarcasm as he fumbled with the leather straps of Arthur’s gauntlet.

Arthur sighed, biting back a retort. Merlin was clearly exhausted. Over the past few days, he had been at Arthur’s beck and call, running errands, tending to his armor, and ensuring everything was in place for the tournament. A part of Arthur almost felt guilty for the relentless demands. Almost. As much as he wanted to get along with Merlin, to understand him, to uncover the truth about his magic, the boy was insufferable—disrespectful, impudent, and utterly incapable of keeping his mouth shut.

He had thought Merlin would eventually adjust to his role as a servant, that he would learn how to properly speak and behave in the presence of a prince. But if anything, his attitude was getting worse. It was a constant battle within Arthur—one moment, he wanted to know more about Merlin and the strange power he suspected he wielded. The next, he wanted to throttle him for his insolence.

But now was not the time for such thoughts. The tournament awaited, a crucial test of his skill and prowess as a knight. He needed to focus, to block out distractions.

“Are you nervous?” Merlin’s voice cut through Arthur’s concentration as he fastened the last buckle on Arthur’s armor.

Arthur scoffed. “I don’t get nervous.”

“Really?” Merlin cocked his head to the side, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “I thought everyone got nervous.”

Arthur exhaled sharply. The last thing he needed right now was a philosophical debate with a bumbling servant who couldn’t even tie a knot properly.

“Will you shut up?” Arthur snapped, his temper fraying at the edges.

Merlin wisely retreated, sensing Arthur’s rising frustration. He finished dressing him with a clumsy attempt at fastening the cape, earning a withering scowl from the prince.

Arthur sighed heavily as Merlin handed him his helmet, his annoyance reaching its peak. “Great, yeah. I think you’re all set,” Merlin mumbled, looking more like a lost child than a competent servant.

Arthur’s patience wore thin. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” he demanded, his tone sharp.

Merlin blinked in confusion before realization dawned. “Oh! Your sword.”

Arthur snatched the weapon from Merlin’s grasp, his frustration evident in every movement. Without another word, he turned and strode out of the chambers, his armor clanking with every step. He needed solitude. He needed to clear his mind.

As he made his way to the tournament grounds, his thoughts swirled with the immense expectations placed upon him. This tournament was not just about victory; it was a battleground where he fought not only his opponents but also his own doubts. The weight of his responsibilities bore down on him, a constant reminder that every strike, every movement, carried the future of Camelot.

His father’s voice echoed in his mind, stern and unwavering. You are the future of Camelot, Arthur. You must be strong, unwavering. The pressure was immense. He could not fail. He would not fail.

The noise of the castle faded into the background as he mentally rehearsed his moves, visualizing the precise strikes and parries that would lead him to victory. His training with the knights had been relentless, but these high-pressure situations were the true test of his mettle.

As he entered the tournament grounds, the roar of the crowd and the scent of trampled grass sharpened his focus. Banners fluttered in the wind, and the metallic tang of armor filled the air. The tournament was not just a competition; it was a crucible, a test of his worth as a leader and a warrior.

King Uther rose from his seat, his regal presence commanding silence. “Knights of the realm,” he announced, his voice carrying across the arena, “it is a great honor to welcome you to the tournament at Camelot. Over the next three days, you will put your bravery to the test, your skills as warriors, and, of course, challenge the reigning champion—my son, Prince Arthur.”

Arthur had won the previous year, his first as a knight. He remembered the overwhelming joy, the pride he had seen in his father’s eyes. That moment had been unparalleled. But this year, the stakes felt higher. As reigning champion, the pressure to win was suffocating. Losing would be a humiliation—not just for him, but for his father, for Camelot.

He cast a subtle glance around the arena, spotting Morgana, his fellow knights, and Gaius in the stands. Then, his gaze fell upon Merlin, leaning against the wall near the exit. A surprising sense of calm settled over Arthur at the sight. Perhaps it was because Merlin had saved his life. Or perhaps, deep down, he trusted that if anything went wrong, Merlin would somehow be there.

“Only one can have the honor of being crowned champion,” Uther continued, “and he will receive a prize of a thousand gold pieces.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd at the mention of the sum. It was a grand reward, even by noble standards.

“It is in combat that we learn a knight’s true nature—whether he is indeed a warrior,” Uther’s eyes locked onto Arthur, “or a coward.”

Arthur swallowed hard. The words stung, but they also fueled his determination. He would not be seen as a coward. Not today. Not ever.

“The tournament begins!”

Cheers erupted as the competing knights bowed and cleared the arena. Arthur, the first to compete, remained. His father approached him, resting a firm hand on his shoulder.

“I trust you will make me proud,” Uther said, his voice devoid of warmth. It was not encouragement; it was expectation.

Arthur straightened, nodding. As his father took his seat, Arthur donned his helmet, tuning out everything except the battle ahead. The weight of his sword was familiar in his grip. He breathed deeply, steadying himself.

The fight was fierce. His opponent was strong, but Arthur was faster. They exchanged precise, calculated strikes, each testing the other’s defenses. Arthur's muscles tensed and relaxed in rhythm, every fiber of his being focused. At one point, the knight swung with deadly force, nearly taking Arthur’s head off. But the man had overextended himself, expending too much energy too quickly.

Arthur seized the opening. With swift, decisive strikes, he drove his opponent back. Closing the distance, he slammed an elbow into the knight’s face, sending him sprawling. The man’s helmet tumbled to the ground, his sword clattering beside it.

Arthur removed his own helmet as the crowd erupted into cheers. He scanned the stands, feeling a surge of pride. His father’s approving nod was all the confirmation he needed. He had proven himself once again.

For the first time in a while, amidst the storm of his responsibilities, Arthur felt calm. He was ready for whatever came next.

—

It had been a grueling day, Merlin thought, as he leaned against a wooden post near the tournament grounds, arms crossed. The sun had begun its slow descent, casting long shadows across the training field where the final matches of the day had just concluded. Sweat and dust clung to the knights as they stripped off their armor, some boasting of their victories, others nursing their bruises in silence.

Men from across the kingdoms had come to compete, each bringing their own unique fighting style. Some were tacticians, carefully planning every move; others were brute-force brawlers, relying on sheer power rather than finesse. But out of all the competitors, two knights stood above the rest—Arthur, of course, and a man by the name of Valiant.

Merlin had been watching closely, noting the subtle differences between their styles. Arthur fought with an almost effortless grace, his movements precise and fluid, a balance of attack and defense that made him both unpredictable and deadly. Valiant, on the other hand, was all about brute strength. His strikes were heavy and relentless, overwhelming his opponents with sheer force rather than strategy. It was effective—Merlin had to admit that much—but there was something about the man that unsettled him.

As he watched Valiant leave the arena, victorious once again, Merlin turned to Arthur, unable to hold back his observation. “Knight Valiant looks pretty handy with a sword.”

Arthur scoffed, his lips curling into a smirk. “Shut up, Merlin.”

But before Merlin could press further, Valiant himself approached. His armor was still slightly scuffed from his latest match, but he carried himself with the easy confidence of a man who had never once doubted his own ability.

“May I offer my congratulations on your victories today?” Valiant said smoothly, his voice measured but lacking warmth.

Arthur straightened, his usual air of arrogance tempered by an unexpected stiffness. “Likewise,” he replied coolly.

Valiant rolled his shoulder, stretching out the muscles from his earlier bout. “I hope to see you at the reception this evening.” His gaze lingered on Arthur, and then Merlin for a moment before he turned and walked away, disappearing into the crowd.

Merlin watched him go, his unease growing. There was something about the man—something beyond his brute strength and arrogance—that felt off. He glanced at Arthur, who was still staring after Valiant, his jaw set.

Hoping to break the tension, Merlin tilted his head. “Creep.”

Arthur let out a small chuckle, a smirk ghosting over his lips before he caught himself. The amusement was fleeting, quickly replaced by the familiar mask of indifference. “For tomorrow,” he said, adopting his usual commanding tone, “you need to repair my shield, wash my tunic, clean my boots, sharpen my sword, and polish my chainmail.”

Merlin’s stomach sank. The list of tasks seemed to grow longer by the day. He had barely finished yesterday’s chores before Arthur had tossed another round of demands at him. Did this man ever stop needing things? He wanted to protest, to groan dramatically about the injustice of it all—but one look at Arthur’s smug expression told him that was exactly what the prince wanted.

So instead, Merlin just nodded, fighting back a sigh. “Of course, Your Highness,” he said, his voice dripping with exaggerated obedience.

Arthur raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed.

With an exaggerated bow, Merlin turned on his heel and walked away, already dreading the long night ahead. If Arthur wanted to make his life difficult, fine. But Merlin wasn’t about to make it easy for him, either.

Arthur watched him go, shaking his head. There was something infuriatingly persistent about Merlin—no matter how much he pushed, the idiot always pushed back.

And yet… Arthur couldn’t deny that, for the briefest moment, Merlin’s presence had managed to chase away the unease that Valiant had left behind.

—

Getting all of his tasks done had been surprisingly easy—almost effortless, really. At least, when he was in the privacy of his chambers and free to use magic.

With a flick of his hand, Arthur’s boots scrubbed themselves clean, the grime and dust lifting away as if by an unseen brush. His chainmail gleamed under the candlelight, floating midair as a polishing cloth worked tirelessly over every inch. Even Arthur’s tunic, now freshly washed and drying on its own, had required nothing more than a whispered incantation.

Merlin grinned to himself, leaning back in his chair as he flipped through his newly gifted book of magic. He had already added some spells to it—nothing too advanced yet, but enough to expand his growing arsenal. He liked experimenting, pushing the limits of what he could do. And when he got bored of studying, he simply watched the way the various pieces of armor and weapons glided through the air, all moving with a precision that would have taken hours to accomplish by hand.

It was, quite frankly, fun.

And, let’s be honest, there was no way he would’ve managed all of this without magic. Maybe that had been Arthur’s plan all along—set him up with an impossible workload, wait for him to fail, and then use it as an excuse to fire him. Well, too bad. Merlin had no intention of failing, and he certainly wasn’t about to let some arrogant, spoiled, royal clotpole ruin his destiny.

Just as he was admiring his handiwork, the door swung open without warning.

A beat. “Are you using magic again?” Gaius’s voice rang through the room, sharp with accusation.

Merlin nearly leapt out of his chair, his stomach dropping as he whipped around to face the older man. “No!” he blurted out instinctively.

With a series of loud thuds , every piece of floating armor and clothing plummeted to the floor. Arthur’s boots landed with a heavy clunk , his chainmail crashed onto the wooden planks, and the tunic—still damp—slapped onto the heap in a sad, soggy mess.

Merlin winced.

Gaius exhaled heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. He scanned the mess that had once been a perfectly arranged array of polished armor and cleaned garments, his expression shifting between exasperation and something dangerously close to resignation.

He finally gestured around the room, voice strained. “What’s all this, then?”

Merlin shrugged, feigning innocence. “Just… organizing.”

Gaius fixed him with a look so sharp it could’ve cut through steel. Merlin grinned sheepishly.

For a long moment, it seemed as though Gaius was gathering the energy to launch into one of his usual lectures—one of those long-winded, 'Magic is dangerous, Merlin!' speeches. But then, with a heavy sigh, he simply shook his head.

“I just came to tell you that supper is ready.”

Merlin blinked. No scolding? No threats of dire consequences? He’d been caught using magic—again! He had fully expected at least a half-hour lecture on the importance of caution, followed by dire warnings of what would happen if Uther ever found out. But instead… nothing.

He tilted his head, studying Gaius curiously. Was the old man finally giving up on trying to stop him? Or had he just reached his breaking point?

Either way, Merlin wasn’t about to push his luck.

“Great!” he said quickly, eager to make his escape before Gaius changed his mind. He stepped over the pile of Arthur’s belongings and made for the door, relieved that he’d narrowly avoided yet another lecture.

Besides, Gaius’s cooking was always a treat, and after a long day, he’d take whatever small victories he could get.

—

Arthur was upset.

He was meant to be paying attention in court, acknowledging the knights who had advanced to the next round of the tournament, shaking their hands, offering words of camaraderie—but his mind was elsewhere. He went through the motions, his expression carefully schooled into polite indifference, but in truth, he wasn’t listening. He was too distracted.

Because his useless excuse of a servant was nowhere to be found.

Arthur had made sure to assign Merlin specific chores that should have kept him in one place—either in his chambers or the armory—long enough for Arthur to track him down. He had planned it out, set the stage for a conversation. Not a friendly conversation, of course, but a proper one, one where he could— what ? Speak to him? Question him? Demand an explanation for why he’d been acting so strangely since the tournament began?

Arthur wasn’t even sure anymore. He only knew that Merlin’s absence was infuriating.

Where was he?

He fought the urge to glance around the hall like an impatient child. He wouldn’t give Morgana the satisfaction of noticing his distraction. She was already amused enough, giggling as the knights lined up to kiss her hand. Arthur clenched his jaw as yet another one of his competitors—Sir Edric—took her fingers with an exaggerated bow, earning an approving smile in return.

If Merlin were here, he’d have some ridiculous quip to make. Something about how Edric’s helmet was probably on too tight, or how Morgana should charge a fee for every lovesick fool who lined up to grovel before her. And Arthur, though he’d never admit it, would have struggled not to laugh.

But Merlin wasn’t here.

Arthur forced himself to focus, shifting his attention back to the endless line of knights waiting to be acknowledged. His father, seated beside him, was lavishing praise on each one.

Arthur endured the formalities, offering the expected pleasantries, but his irritation simmered beneath the surface.

Then came Knight Valiant.

Arthur’s stomach twisted as the man stepped forward with that ever-present smirk, the one that never quite reached his cold, calculating eyes.

“Creep,” Merlin had called him, with a wrinkled nose and an exaggerated shudder.

Standing before the man, Arthur couldn’t shake the feeling that his servant’s instincts weren’t entirely unfounded. There was something off about Valiant, something predatory in the way he carried himself.

Uther, however, seemed particularly taken with him.

“You fought exceptionally well in the first round,” the king praised, his voice carrying across the hall. “A particularly aggressive style, well-suited to the battlefield.”

Arthur barely kept his expression neutral. Oh, so Valiant gets a compliment? Uther had hardly spared Arthur more than a nod after his own victory. Not a word about his style, no remark on his skill. Just the usual expectation that he should win, because anything less would be unacceptable.

Arthur swallowed the resentment, filing it away with the rest of his grievances.

“Prince Arthur,” Valiant’s voice cut through his thoughts. “I look forward to our match.”

Arthur met his gaze, schooling his expression into one of polite confidence. “As do I, Knight Valiant. May the best man win.”

Valiant’s smirk deepened. “Indeed.”

Something about the way he said it sent an unpleasant chill down Arthur’s spine. He resisted the urge to frown. There was an unspoken challenge in the knight’s tone, something almost mocking. It only cemented Arthur’s growing suspicion that Valiant wasn’t just an ordinary competitor.

But Arthur had bigger concerns right now.

He barely resisted the urge to scan the crowd again, searching for even a glimpse of Merlin’s ridiculous mop of dark hair. His servant’s absence nagged at him, more than it should have. It wasn’t just frustration anymore.

Arthur needed to find him.

Because, despite all reason, Merlin’s presence—his irritating, infuriating, unpredictable presence—was something Arthur had come to rely on. And without it, everything felt just a little bit… off.

—

Merlin had absolutely used magic to finish his chores.

Arthur didn’t have proof—yet—but he wasn’t an idiot. His armor gleamed as though it had never seen a day of battle, his cape was a flawless crimson without so much as a stray thread, and his boots shone as if they’d just been pulled from the royal armory. No one, especially not Merlin, was that good at polishing.

Arthur crossed his arms and raised a suspicious eyebrow. “You did all this on your own?”

Merlin hesitated, just for a fraction of a second, before nodding far too quickly. “Yes, Sire.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes, studying him. That was a guilty face if he’d ever seen one. The nervous energy, the way Merlin couldn’t quite meet his gaze.

But Arthur let it slide. For now.

“Right.” He exhaled, tilting his head slightly. “Well, let’s see if you can get me into my armor without forgetting half of it.” His voice held its usual teasing lilt, expecting Merlin to groan, roll his eyes, or fire back with some sarcastic comment about how he should try suiting up a spoiled prince for battle.

But nothing came.

Merlin simply nodded, moving with quiet efficiency as he fastened each piece into place. He watched as Merlin secured his gauntlets, his fingers working fast, steady, and far more precise than usual. It wasn’t just that he wasn’t fumbling—he was doing everything too well, moving almost mechanically, like he was lost in thought.

Arthur tested the fit of his armor, rolling his shoulders. “That was… much better.” He tried to keep his tone casual, though his curiosity only grew. “Not that it could’ve gotten any worse.”

Normally, that would have earned him an exaggerated grimace, maybe even a muttered prat under Merlin’s breath. Instead, all Arthur got was a tight-lipped smile.

That was when he knew something was definitely wrong.

He studied his servant more closely. The tension in Merlin’s posture, the way his shoulders remained stiff even after finishing the task—it wasn’t just nerves about the tournament. Arthur had grown accustomed to Merlin’s normal flustered panic, the kind where he scrambled around like a headless chicken before eventually pulling off something half-decent. But this?

Arthur sighed, trying for a more direct approach. “Alright, what’s got you so uptight?”

Merlin hesitated again, fingers twitching at his sides. He kept his gaze down, feigning interest in the buckles of Arthur’s boots. “Just… making sure everything’s perfect for the tournament, Sire.”

Arthur wasn’t convinced. Not even close.

But there wasn’t time to press him on it. The tournament was starting soon, and he needed his head in the game. He gave Merlin a brief nod of approval before turning toward the door, the clanking of his armor echoing as he strode forward.

Then, just as he reached the threshold, he paused.

“Oh, before I forget.” He turned back slightly, almost as an afterthought. “Take the purple shirt on my bed.”

Merlin blinked, caught off guard. “Take it?”

“Yes, Merlin, take it. Make it the third shirt in your collection before you stink up the place.”

The younger man scoffed, his mouth twitching like he wanted to argue but was torn between offense and something softer—something almost pleased. He reached for the shirt, holding it up against his frame as if testing the fit.

Arthur didn’t comment, but the corner of his mouth twitched ever so slightly. Merlin only had a handful of clothes, none of them particularly warm, and despite all of his grumbling about his servant’s general existence, he had made sure to pick something that would suit him. And the purple definitely would, he was still an odd looking boy, but the royal color made him look just that, royal.

Merlin seemed oddly hesitant, as if unsure whether to accept it or question why Arthur was bothering.

Arthur didn’t give him the chance to overthink it. He turned away without another word.

As he made his way down to the tournament grounds, his thoughts shifted back to the competition. The stakes were high, higher than most realized. This wasn’t just about winning— it never was —it was about proving himself, about meeting his father’s impossibly high expectations. About making sure that when he stood before the court, before the knights, before everyone , there was no doubt that he was the rightful champion of Camelot.

And yet, even as those thoughts filled his mind, he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that there was something else—something more important—he should be paying attention to.

Like why his servant, the most infuriatingly expressive person he knew, was suddenly so quiet.

—

"It is my imagination, or are you beginning to enjoy yourself?" Gaius remarked, his voice laced with amusement as he watched from the sidelines of the arena with Merlin.

Merlin scoffed, but the heat rising to his face betrayed him. “Enjoying” wasn’t quite the word he’d use. The tournament was a ridiculous spectacle—an extravagant display of brute strength, clashing steel, and egos bruising as often as bodies. It should have been absurd. It was absurd. And yet…

His gaze flickered back to the field, lingering on the knights as they moved with lethal grace, muscles taut beneath layers of chainmail, bodies gleaming with sweat and exertion. It was impossible not to watch.

Merlin had never truly been drawn to women the way he was to men. It was something he had never given much thought to, growing up among the Druids. There, love had no rigid shape, no shame attached to its form, whether between a man and a woman or two men. It was just another part of life, as natural as breathing. But his mother had warned him that the world beyond their secluded community wasn’t so understanding. In Camelot—like in so many other places—expectations were different, stricter. And so, he kept his expressions neutral, his glances brief, never letting his gaze linger too long.

At least, he tried .

Now, with the tournament in full swing, it was proving particularly difficult.

“It… it isn’t completely awful all the time,” he muttered, struggling to suppress a smile.

Gaius hummed knowingly. “Ah, I see. Purely an academic appreciation of the sport, then?”

Merlin didn’t dignify that with an answer. Instead, he focused on Arthur.

Arthur was a force on the field—quick, sharp, utterly relentless. Every victory he claimed sent a ripple of cheers through the stands, but to Merlin, it was something more. It was a glimpse of what could be—what would be. Watching Arthur fight, defending himself with the same skill he would one day use to defend his people, it was almost possible to believe that the golden age Merlin longed for wasn’t just a dream.

But then Knight Valiant stepped forward, and the air around Merlin turned cold.

He gripped the edge of the wooden railing, nails pressing into the grain. He’d almost let himself forget—almost allowed himself to get swept up in the thrill of the tournament. But the memory came back, sharp and suffocating.

The hissing. The unnatural blink of painted eyes. The sword at his throat.

He had only gone to collect Arthur’s armor, nothing more. But in the quiet of the armory, he had heard something—something that shouldn’t have been there. A sound that belonged in the depths of the forest, not on the shield of a knight. And when he’d looked, he’d seen it.

The snake on Valiant’s shield had moved.

It had watched him.

Before he could even process what that meant, cold steel had pressed against his neck.

Valiant. His sneer. The deadly glint in his eyes.

Merlin had played the fool, babbling some excuse about fetching his master’s armor, and somehow, he had walked away with his head still attached. But the encounter had rattled him more than he cared to admit. For all his frustration with Arthur and the knights, he had begun to feel—against his better judgment—some sense of ease in Camelot. Some fragile sense of belonging. But that moment had shattered the illusion.

Knights were not friends. Knights were the enemy.

The match began, and Merlin swallowed hard. He could hardly hear the clash of weapons over the blood pounding in his ears.

It started like any other fight—steel against steel, the shuffle of boots on sand. But something was wrong. Merlin could feel it, deep in his bones.

Valiant had his opponent pinned beneath his shield, their struggle fierce. The other knight was still fighting—his face exposed, eyes alight with stubborn determination. But then—

Something changed.

The knight's body stiffened. His limbs convulsed for a fraction of a second, and then—nothing.

The fight was over. Valiant had won. But his opponent…

He didn’t get back up.

A sick feeling twisted in Merlin’s gut.

The spectators cheered, oblivious to what had just happened, but Merlin knew. He knew.

“I think he’s badly hurt.”

But Gaius was already moving onto the field.

—

As Merlin returned to the cramped quarters he shared with Gaius, Arthur’s armor clanking softly under his arm, he couldn’t help but notice the knight still lying unconscious on the physician’s patient cot.

“How is he?” Merlin asked, genuine concern lacing every word.

Gaius, who was already examining the fallen knight with a practiced eye, frowned as he ran his fingers gently over the bruised and battered flesh. “It is most odd,” he murmured, his voice low. He pointed to two small, almost imperceptible wounds near the knight’s neck. “See these? They resemble snake bites.”

Merlin’s stomach tightened at the implication. “But he was injured in a swordfight,” he protested, though he couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling creeping over him.

“Yet his symptoms—this slow pulse, the rising fever, even the hint of paralysis—are entirely consistent with poisoning,” Gaius continued, his tone grave. “It’s as if venom has coursed through his veins.”

A chill ran down Merlin’s spine. “Can you heal him?” he asked urgently, his mind already racing through possible remedies. He’d seen the devastating effects of snake venom among his druid kin and knew how swiftly the tide could turn against a victim if left untreated.

Gaius nodded slowly. “If it is indeed a snake bite, I’ll have to extract the venom from the snake that bit him and concoct an antidote. It’s delicate work—and time is not on our side.”

Merlin’s eyes narrowed as he recalled the details from earlier in the day. “He was fighting Knight Valiant,” he stated, determination threading his voice. The memory of that unnerving encounter—of the snake on Valiant’s shield, its eyes seeming to flash with malevolence—made Merlin’s resolve firm. He knew that to find answers, he would have to return to Valiant’s sheild. This time, however, he couldn’t afford to be reckless.

Before Gaius could press further, Merlin had already moved toward the door. “What’s that?” Gaius inquired, noticing his haste. But Merlin was already slipping into the dim corridor, his mind focused on the task ahead.

He decided then to keep his suspicions to himself—at least until he had concrete evidence to back them up. There was no room for needless alarm when lives hung in the balance.

With each step down the stone hallway, Merlin’s thoughts churned with a mix of dread and determination. He would return to Knight Valiant’s shield, get closer this time, and discover exactly what dark magic had been at work. Even if it meant risking exposure, he knew that only by uncovering the truth could he help save the injured knight—and perhaps prevent further misdeeds.

—

Merlin moved silently through the castle’s winding corridors, his heart pounding in his ears as he tracked Knight Valiant’s every step. Determination burned within him—not only to retrieve the snake needed for the antidote but also to gather irrefutable evidence of Valiant’s illicit use of magic. The misuse of magic was an offense Merlin could not ignore, even if it pained him to be the one to expose it. He believed magic was meant for noble purposes: to heal, to protect, to bring about positive change, not to be wielded for personal gain or to inflict harm.

After what seemed like an eternity of careful stalking, Merlin finally saw a shadow moving ahead. Valiant, shield clutched firmly in hand, made his way toward his private chambers. The corridors here were less frequented, dimly lit and quiet, offering the perfect cover for clandestine activities. Merlin pressed himself against the cool stone wall, his eyes scanning every detail as he approached the partially open door to Valiant’s quarters.

Peering through the crack, Merlin’s breath caught in his throat. In the faint glow of a solitary lantern, he saw Valiant casually reaching into his pack. With a barely audible murmur, “Dinner time,” Valiant produced a live mouse and, to Merlin’s astonishment, activated his shield. In an eerie display of magic, the shield stirred to life, and three sinuous snakes materialized, their scales glistening as they darted toward the mouse with unsettling eagerness.

Merlin’s mind raced. This was the proof he needed—a clear demonstration of forbidden magic. 

The sight was both mesmerizing and horrifying. In that split second, his heart thudded so loudly he almost couldn’t breathe, and his foot slipped, causing a small, echoing clatter. His stomach dropped, knowing all too well that any noise might alert Valiant to his presence.

He quickly pressed himself against the wall, fading into the shadows of the corridor, every muscle tense as he listened for any sign of pursuit. When silence returned and he was convinced the coast was clear, he exhaled slowly and retreated with cautious haste. Over the past weeks, he had painstakingly memorized the castle’s labyrinthine layout, identifying secret alcoves and quiet corners that would be his refuge in moments like this.

Once safely back in his own modest chamber, heart still pounding, Merlin sought out Gaius immediately. He needed to relay what he had witnessed—the snakes summoned from Valiant’s shield, the live magic at play—and to seek counsel on what to do next.

—

Merlin paced the chamber as he recounted everything he had seen to Gaius, his voice edged with urgency. Every instinct told him this was something Arthur needed to know. Yet, when he finally voiced the thought, Gaius hesitated.

“Are you certain that’s wise?” the physician asked, his brows knitting together in concern.

Merlin’s frustration flared. “I know magic when I see it, Gaius.”

“Perhaps,” Gaius allowed, studying him carefully. “But do you have any proof?”

Merlin opened his mouth, then stopped short. He had seen it, yes, but he hadn’t taken anything, hadn’t gathered evidence—just his own word against a knight’s. His stomach tightened.

“I thought you believed me,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost accusing.

“I do,” Gaius assured him, his tone gentle but firm. “But belief isn’t the same as proof. Without evidence, it’s your word against a noble’s. And accusing a knight—especially of using magic—without solid proof could land you in trouble. You know how Uther is when it comes to magic.”

Merlin clenched his jaw. “But he’s cheating! And worse, he’s endangering people! One knight’s already been poisoned because of those snakes. How many more will fall before someone does something?”

Gaius exhaled, his expression grim. “I know. But accusations without proof won’t hold weight, not with the king. And Arthur—” He hesitated. “Arthur might trust you more than most, but even he won’t go against his father’s laws without something concrete.”

Merlin ran a hand through his hair in frustration. He knew Gaius was right. He was just a servant, and in Camelot, a servant’s word meant nothing against a knight’s. Even Arthur, as much as he might listen, couldn’t act on nothing but hearsay.

But the thought of doing nothing made Merlin’s stomach churn. He had seen what that shield could do. If he let this go, if he allowed Valiant to continue unchallenged, more knights would fall. Maybe even Arthur himself.

He took a steadying breath, forcing himself to nod, though the agreement felt like swallowing broken glass. “You’re right,” he admitted reluctantly. “I need proof.”

Gaius gave him a small nod of approval, though his eyes still held a trace of worry.

Merlin turned toward the door, determination hardening within him. He might not be able to go to Arthur now, but he wasn’t about to let Valiant’s treachery continue unchecked. He would find a way to expose the knight’s deceit, no matter the risk.

—

As Merlin helped Arthur into his armor, the weight of the upcoming battle pressed down on them both. The clinking of metal filled the chamber as Merlin fastened the last strap, his hands working with practiced ease. Yet his usual sharp remarks were absent, replaced by a tension that Arthur couldn’t quite place.

“You’re telling me you’ve got to fight that ?” Merlin blurted out, his voice laced with disbelief as he glanced toward the training field, where Arthur’s opponent—a towering knight with the build of an ox—was making his final preparations.

Arthur huffed, rolling his shoulders to settle the armor more comfortably. “Yes, and he’s strong as a bear. But, he’s slow,” he added, attempting to brush off Merlin’s concern.

“Ah! And you’re fast,” Merlin acknowledged, though his tone carried more worry than reassurance.

Arthur shot him a look, brow furrowed. Something was off with Merlin today, just like yesterday. He was always a bundle of nerves, but there was something different this time. A hesitation in his movements. A flicker of anxiety in his eyes. Arthur had learned to read Merlin’s moods, even when the idiot thought he was hiding them well.

Before he could press him on it, the roar of the crowd signaled it was time. With one last glance at Merlin, Arthur strode into the arena, his focus shifting to the battle ahead.

The fight was a brutal clash of strength versus strategy. The colossal knight swung his sword with the force of a battering ram, each strike enough to cleave a lesser warrior in two. But Arthur was quicker. He ducked, dodged, and struck with precision, using his speed to chip away at his opponent’s defenses. Blow after blow, he whittled the knight down until, with one final, expertly placed strike, he sent his adversary crashing to the ground.

The crowd erupted into cheers, chanting Arthur’s name, their excitement echoing across the courtyard. Arthur exhaled, a mixture of triumph and relief washing over him. He turned, expecting to see Merlin’s usual grin, the one that always carried a mixture of pride and exasperation— You nearly died, but well done, I suppose.

Instead, he found Merlin standing rigid, his face drained of color, his eyes fixed on something unseen. Not joy. Not pride. But dread.

Arthur’s stomach twisted.

The thrill of victory dimmed as concern took its place. Whatever was bothering Merlin, it wasn’t just nerves. He wasn’t just worried about the fight—this was something bigger.

Merlin was afraid.

And Arthur intended to find out why.

—

Arthur was set to face Valiant in the final round of the tournament. The realization weighed on Merlin like a stone in his gut. He had no doubt about the outcome—not because Arthur wasn’t skilled, but because Valiant wasn’t fighting fairly. The enchanted snakes on his shield would strike the moment Arthur let his guard down, and by the time anyone realized what had happened, it would be too late.

Arthur was going to be killed.

And Merlin—who was supposed to protect him, who was destined to ensure his future as the Once and Future King—was going to fail before he had even begun.

Desperation clawed at him, but Gaius, ever the voice of reason, offered a glimmer of hope.

“There may be a way to stop the fight,” Gaius said, pacing their chambers. “If we could get a snake from the shield, we might extract its venom to heal Sir Ewan. If Ewan regains consciousness, he may be able to confirm what he saw when he was attacked.”

Merlin’s eyes widened. “Then Uther would have no choice but to believe it was magic,” he realized.

“Not from you or me,” Gaius corrected, shaking his head. “Uther would never take the word of a servant or a physician over that of a noble knight. But if Sir Ewan speaks out, the king will have no choice but to listen.”

It was a solid plan—except for one glaring issue.

“How do we get the antidote?” Merlin asked. “I can’t exactly ask Valiant to hand me one of his magic snakes.”

Gaius sighed. “That’s the difficult part.”

Merlin chewed his lip in thought, then a reckless but necessary idea formed. “The knights are at the feast tonight, celebrating the final day of the tournament,” he said slowly. “That means Valiant won’t be in his chambers.”

Gaius arched a brow. “You’re suggesting you break in?”

“If I can sneak in while they’re all distracted, I can get to the shield,” Merlin insisted. “I’ll find a way to get one of the snakes and bring it back here.”

The risk was enormous. If Valiant caught him, Merlin would likely find himself at the business end of a sword—or worse, accused of sorcery himself. But there was no alternative.

Arthur’s life depended on him.

Merlin squared his shoulders, determination settling in his bones.

He was going to do this. He had no choice.

—

The feast had barely begun when Uther turned his attention to Valiant, his voice carrying the unmistakable weight of royal expectation.

“So, Valiant, do you think you stand a chance of defeating my son?”

Arthur barely suppressed a sigh. They had only just sat down, and already his father was voicing his doubts about him.

Valiant, ever the picture of calculated humility, raised his goblet with an easy smile. “Prince Arthur is a formidable warrior, my lord,” he said smoothly. “I only hope to be a worthy opponent.”

The words were polite enough, but the way he said them—the careful lilt of false modesty, the self-assured gleam in his eyes—set Arthur’s teeth on edge. He had faced many opponents in the tournament before, but none had gotten under his skin quite like Valiant.

“You should stay in Camelot after the tournament,” Uther said, as if the decision had already been made. “I could do with more knights like you.”

Arthur tensed. The thought of Valiant lingering in Camelot after the tournament, ingratiating himself further with Uther, was enough to make his grip tighten around his goblet. He already despised the man’s arrogance; the idea of having to endure it on a daily basis was intolerable.

Valiant inclined his head, his smirk deepening ever so slightly. “I would be honored, my lord.”

Arthur forced himself to remain composed, though every fiber of his being rebelled against it.

“I am sure Camelot could benefit from your skills,” Uther continued, oblivious to the way his son’s patience was fraying at the seams.

Arthur swallowed his irritation and forced a polite smile. “Indeed, it would be an honor,” he said through gritted teeth.

His gaze flickered across the room, searching for Merlin.

Where was he when Arthur needed him the most?

Merlin had an uncanny ability to diffuse these situations—whether by making an ill-timed joke, pulling an exaggerated face behind Uther’s back, or simply providing a much-needed distraction. But tonight, he was nowhere to be seen.

Arthur barely heard the rest of the conversation as his annoyance shifted. What in the world was Merlin up to? And why did he have the nagging feeling that whatever it was, it would only lead to trouble?

—

The feast was in full swing. Laughter and the clinking of goblets echoed down the halls—perfect.

Merlin moved quickly through the corridors, his pulse hammering in his ears. The shield wasn’t in the armory, which meant it had to be in Valiant’s chambers. He reached the heavy wooden door and tried the handle. Locked.

"Aliese," he whispered, swiping a hand through the air. The lock clicked open.

Slipping inside, he pulled the door shut behind him and took a steadying breath. The room smelled of polish and leather, the scent of fine armor and arrogance. His eyes scanned the chamber until they landed on the shield, propped against a table.

Merlin hesitated. He needed to get the venom, but he wasn’t about to stick his hand into the shield of enchanted serpents unarmed. He grabbed a sword from the nearby rack and tested its weight, nearly dropping it. It was heavier than expected—much heavier than the wooden practice swords Arthur let him use. No wonder all the knights had such thick arms.

Pushing aside the thought, he carefully tapped the sword against the shield.

A low hiss slithered through the air.

Merlin barely had time to react before a snake began to emerge, its sleek body unfurling from the twisted metal. He swung hard, the sword whistling through the air as it met flesh. The head tumbled to the floor, its body retreating back into the shield with a furious screech.

He didn’t waste a second. Scooping up the severed head, he stuffed it into his satchel and turned to leave—

Footsteps.

His stomach lurched. The door handle twisted.

Merlin’s heart nearly stopped as he froze where he stood, his mind scrambling for an escape. He was going to be caught. He was going to be in so much trouble—

The door swung open.

*****

Valiant stepped inside, shutting the door behind him with a heavy thud. His sharp eyes raked over Merlin, who stood motionless, guilt written all over his face.

“What,” Valiant drawled, “are you doing here?”

Merlin stammered. “I—I got lost.”

For a moment, silence stretched between them. Then Valiant let out a low, amused laugh. It was a cruel sound, the kind that made Merlin’s skin crawl.

“Lost?” he echoed, taking a step forward. “That’s a new one.”

Merlin swallowed hard, willing his heart to slow.

Valiant began unfastening the clasp of his cape but hesitated, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Help me with this, would you?”

Every instinct in Merlin’s body screamed at him to run, but he forced himself to move, fumbling with the ties. His hands were shaking.

“I’ve seen you watching me,” Valiant mused.

Merlin forced out a weak chuckle. “I’ve been watching everyone in the tournament.”

“Aye. Of course you have.”

As Merlin finished, he stepped back, eager to put distance between them. But before he could move, Valiant’s hand shot out, seizing his wrist in an iron grip.

“Drop it.”

Merlin stiffened. “What?”

“The satchel. Drop it.”

His mind raced. If he refused, Valiant would only grow more suspicious. Slowly, reluctantly, he let the bag fall to the floor.

Valiant’s grip didn’t loosen. Instead, his fingers slid up, grasping Merlin’s arm firmly as he pulled him closer.

“I’ve been wondering,” he murmured, his voice lowering. “Are you the kind of servant who provides… extra services?”

Merlin’s stomach turned to ice.

Oh.

“No, sir,” he said carefully, trying to keep his voice steady. “I’m afraid you have the wrong idea.”

Valiant tilted his head, considering him. Then, before Merlin could react, his other hand clamped around the back of his neck.

“It wasn’t a question, boy.”

Panic surged through Merlin’s chest.

He yanked his arm free and took a step back. “Clearly, you misunderstood. I said no.”

The refusal barely left his lips before Valiant struck.

The slap cracked across Merlin’s face, sending him stumbling. His vision blurred with stars, pain flaring hot and sharp along his cheekbone.

“Clearly, you misunderstood,” Valiant spat, grabbing Merlin’s face in a bruising grip. His fingers dug into his jaw, forcing his head back. “Now, let’s see if we can find a use for this mouth.”

Merlin struggled, but Valiant was stronger, forcing him toward his knees. His heart pounded wildly in his chest as he fought against the knight’s grip. His arms trembled with effort, panic rising like bile in his throat—

The door slammed open.

“What is the meaning of this?”

Arthur’s voice was dangerously calm.

Valiant immediately released Merlin, stepping back as if nothing had happened. Merlin barely caught himself, his hands hitting the floor to steady his shaking body.

“I asked your servant to assist me for the night, sire,” Valiant said smoothly. “The clumsy boy fell.”

Merlin looked up at Arthur, his breath still uneven. Shaking his head quickly, he pleaded with his eyes: Don’t believe him.

Arthur didn’t.

His expression remained unreadable as he studied the scene. Then, without looking away from Valiant, he said, “Right.”

Valiant relaxed slightly, but Arthur’s next words made his jaw tighten.

“Well, I require his services for the night, so you’ll have to make do with your own staff.” His voice was light, but there was an edge of steel beneath it.

Arthur gestured for Merlin to rise, his eyes never leaving Valiant’s. The message was clear: Back off.

Merlin didn’t need to be told twice. He scrambled to his feet, keeping his face blank despite the burning sting in his cheek.

Valiant smirked, as if amused by Arthur’s protectiveness, but Arthur didn’t waver.

Without another word, Arthur turned on his heel and strode out of the room. Merlin followed, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

The moment the door shut behind them, the tension coiled in Merlin’s chest finally released. His legs felt unsteady beneath him, his heart still hammering.

*****

—

Arthur couldn’t see straight—rage clouded his vision, red-hot and blinding. His hands clenched into fists at his sides as he strode down the corridor, muscles coiled tight as a bowstring. He had been on his way to look for Merlin when he’d passed Knight Valiant’s chambers.

Then he’d heard shouting.

Then the slap.

Then Valiant’s voice.

The filth that had spilled from the knight’s mouth made Arthur’s stomach churn. And when the door had opened, revealing Merlin on his hands and knees, a bruise already blooming on his cheek, Arthur had barely managed to keep himself from running the bastard through on the spot.

Now, as they walked in tense silence through Camelot’s dim corridors, Arthur forced himself to take a steady breath, his fists still clenched. He turned to look at Merlin, who kept his gaze fixed on the ground, his shoulders tense as though waiting for another blow.

Arthur swallowed hard. “Are you alright?”

Merlin didn’t answer. He just kept walking, his pace measured, but too quick for someone who wasn’t trying to get away.

“Merlin,” Arthur tried again, stepping up beside him.

“I was handling it,” Merlin muttered.

Arthur almost stopped in his tracks. The words were so quiet he nearly missed them, but there was an edge to them—raw, frayed at the seams.

Arthur scoffed. “Right. It certainly seemed like you had the situation under control.”

Merlin’s shoulders went even stiffer. He picked up his pace.

Arthur followed. “Merlin, just tell me what happened. You can talk to me.”

“Leave me alone!” Merlin’s voice cracked, and for the first time, Arthur caught the shimmer in his eyes, the way his lips pressed together as if physically holding back more words.

Arthur exhaled sharply. “No. How can I when you’re in this state? Merlin, your face—”

But before he could finish, they had reached Gaius’ chambers. Merlin yanked open the door, stepping inside without hesitation.

Arthur hesitated in the doorway. He wasn’t sure if he was welcome, but he wasn’t about to leave. Not when Merlin’s hands were shaking, not when there was something in his eyes Arthur couldn’t quite name—something close to fear, but buried deeper.

Merlin ignored him, digging into his satchel with trembling fingers, his movements sharp and erratic. He pulled something out.

Arthur frowned. “What are you—”

Then he saw it.

A severed snake’s head dangled from Merlin’s grip, its lifeless eyes dull, its mouth frozen mid-hiss. Dark blood still dripped from its fangs.

—

“Here.” Merlin shoved the severed snake head into Gaius’ hands, his movements sharp, almost frantic. When he turned back to Arthur, his eyes were shimmering with unshed tears, his face tight with barely contained emotion. “Gaius will treat me. You don’t have to worry about it.”

Arthur barely registered the words. His gaze was locked on the grotesque thing in Gaius’ hands. “What the hell is that?” he demanded.

Merlin let out a sharp breath, exasperated. “A snake head. Now leave. ”

Arthur’s patience, already worn thin, snapped. “You do not give the orders here, Merlin.” He stepped forward, frustration flickering into genuine confusion. “And I can see it’s a snake head, but why the hell do you have it?”

Merlin glanced at Gaius, who frowned, his face quickly shifting from curiosity to deep concern. Arthur didn’t miss the look they exchanged.

Merlin closed his eyes for a second, drawing in a steadying breath as if physically forcing his emotions back down. When he spoke again, his voice was steadier, but laced with urgency.

“Ewan was bitten by a snake from Valiant’s shield when they fought.” He gestured toward the unconscious knight lying motionless in the bed. “You can ask Gaius, you can see the puncture wounds on Ewan’s neck. I had to get the snake’s head so we could use its venom to create an antidote.”

Arthur’s brows furrowed. “Antidote?”

“So that he can wake up and tell the king that Valiant is using magic! ”

The words hung in the air, heavy and damning.

Arthur stood frozen, his mind reeling. “Valiant is… using magic? ” he repeated, though the weight in his voice made it clear the pieces were clicking into place.

Merlin nodded. “I know I’m just a servant. My word doesn’t count for anything.” His voice wavered slightly, but he swallowed it down. “But I wouldn’t lie to you.”

Arthur exhaled sharply, his gaze flicking from Merlin to Ewan, taking in the stillness of the injured knight, the pale hue of his skin. Then he thought of Valiant, of what he had seen—of what could have happened had he not arrived in time.

If Valiant was capable of that , then he was certainly capable of breaking Camelot’s most sacred law.

Arthur’s jaw clenched. “Swear to me what you’re saying is true.”

Merlin met his gaze, unwavering. “I swear it.”

A beat of silence passed before Arthur gave a sharp nod. “Then I believe you.” He turned, pointing first to Merlin. “We are not finished talking about this.” Then to Gaius. “Heal them. Both of them. ”

Without another word, he spun on his heel, storming toward the door.

“Where are you going?” Merlin called after him.

Arthur didn’t turn back. “To alert my father.”

—

Arthur believed him.

Merlin sat with the weight of that realization pressing against his chest—not in fear, but in something startlingly close to relief. Arthur had chosen to trust him , a servant, over a knight. A servant he had barely known for more than a week.

Arthur was nothing like his father.

The thought sent a surge of gratitude through Merlin, mingled with something deeper—something that felt like loyalty, like purpose. Maybe, just maybe, Arthur was worth protecting after all.

He turned to Gaius, who was already grinding the snake’s fangs into a fine powder, his hands steady but his expression tight with concern.

“Gaius—” Merlin began, but the physician had already noticed the darkening bruise on his cheek.

“What happened?” Gaius asked sharply, his usual measured tone edged with worry.

Merlin instinctively touched his face, wincing as his fingers brushed the tender skin. “Oh, um… Valiant caught me.”

Gaius’ hands froze mid-motion. His head snapped up. “ What? ”

Merlin forced a weak smile. “It’s okay—Arthur came in and saved me.” He tried to sound nonchalant, but his voice cracked slightly. “I’m alright, I swear.”

Gaius wasn’t convinced. His keen eyes searched Merlin’s face, reading everything Merlin wasn’t saying.

Merlin swallowed hard, blinking against the sting of tears that threatened to fall again. The past few hours had been a whirlwind of fear, adrenaline, and uncertainty, but now, standing in the safety of Gaius’ chambers, it all threatened to catch up with him.

He took a breath, forcing the lump in his throat down. “You finish up the antidote,” he said, voice quieter now. “Then you can treat me. I just… need to rest for a bit.”

Before Gaius could protest, Merlin turned and disappeared into his room, shutting the door behind him.

The moment he was alone, his composure shattered.

His back hit the door as he let out a shaky breath, his chest tightening under the weight of everything that had happened. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, but it was useless—tears had already escaped, silent but unstoppable.

He thought of the moment Valiant had grabbed him, the cruel weight of the knight’s hand striking his face. He had been helpless, unable to fight back without revealing what he was. And then Arthur had come—furious, unwavering, on his side .

Arthur was different.

Uther would never have believed him. A servant’s word meant nothing to the king. But Arthur had listened . He had trusted him.

Merlin dragged in a deep breath, exhaling slowly as his heart rate steadied. That trust meant something. It wasn’t just a passing kindness—it was a glimpse of the man Arthur was meant to become. And Merlin knew, with newfound certainty, that he had to do everything in his power to help him become that man.

Arthur needed him. And Merlin would protect him, no matter the cost.

He wiped his face and crossed the room, collapsing onto his bed. The exhaustion was overwhelming.

Tomorrow, they would expose Valiant’s treachery.

Tomorrow, Merlin would stand beside Arthur once again.

But for tonight, just for a little while, he allowed himself to rest.

—

Arthur had wasted no time. The moment he left Gaius' chambers the night before, he had gone straight to his father, demanding that the court be assembled at dawn. A crime had been committed—one that struck at the very heart of Camelot’s honor.

Now, as the great hall filled with lords, knights, and noblemen, Arthur stood at the center of it all, his fists clenched at his sides. His anger had not dulled overnight. If anything, it burned hotter.

Beside him, Merlin stood silent, his face now marred by a deep bruise, the angry blotch of blue and purple stark against his pale skin. It was obvious that it hurt, but Merlin, as ever, refused to show even a flicker of discomfort. His spine was straight, his chin lifted. Arthur wasn’t sure if Merlin realized how much that kind of bravery meant—how much he admired it.

But would it be enough?

Arthur glanced at him once more, uncertain if Merlin could truly stand before the court and accuse the very man who had struck him. This wasn’t just about magic; it was about a servant challenging a knight—a dangerous move in Uther’s Camelot.

Merlin must have sensed Arthur’s thoughts because he met his gaze briefly, a silent assurance in his eyes. I can do this.

Arthur nodded subtly just as the doors to the hall swung open, and Valiant entered.

Merlin tensed immediately, but to his credit, he did not step back. He did not lower his gaze. Arthur saw it—the way his fingers twitched at his sides, the way his shoulders squared as if preparing for a blow that might come at any second.

Arthur’s fury burned brighter. He turned his glare to Valiant, watching the knight saunter forward with practiced ease, his expression carefully neutral. But there was something in his eyes—something sharp and calculating. He was already preparing his defense.

Then, the doors at the front of the chamber opened once more, and King Uther strode in, his red cloak billowing behind him as he ascended the steps to his throne.

He sat, surveying the room, before fixing his gaze on Arthur. “Why have you summoned the court?”

Arthur stepped forward, his voice unwavering. “Because a crime has been committed. I believe that Sir Valiant is using a magical shield to cheat in the tournament.”

A murmur rippled through the court, hushed whispers passing between nobles. Accusing a knight of sorcery was no small matter—especially in Uther’s Camelot.

The king’s eyes widened slightly, and he turned sharply to Valiant. “Sir Valiant, what do you have to say to this?”

Valiant let out a scoff, his expression twisting into one of practiced offense. “My lord, this is ridiculous .” His tone dripped with indignation, but there was a controlled edge beneath it—a hint of the predator lurking just beneath his polished veneer. “I have never used magic. This is a grave accusation. Does your son have any evidence to support such an outrageous claim?”

Uther turned back to Arthur, his gaze sharp, scrutinizing. “Do you have evidence?”

Arthur didn’t hesitate. He turned to Merlin, who stepped forward and silently handed the king the severed snake’s head.

Uther took it, turning it over in his hands, his expression unreadable as he examined it. The court had fallen into complete silence, tension thick in the air.

Arthur kept his eyes locked on Valiant. For the first time, the knight’s carefully crafted mask faltered ever so slightly, his jaw tightening, his nostrils flaring just enough for Arthur to notice.

Arthur smirked inwardly. You’re afraid, aren’t you?

Good.

Because this time, Valiant wouldn’t be able to talk his way out of it.

—

“Let me see the shield,” the king reached out.

Merlin shifted beside him, lowering his voice. “Don’t let him get too close.”

Arthur tightened his grip on his sword. “Be careful, my lord.”

From the back of the hall, a familiar voice called out softly, urgent but restrained. “Merlin.” Gaius.

Arthur spared him a glance, but they had no time to lose. “We need Ewan. Find out what’s happening.”

As expected, Valiant launched into another round of feigned outrage, his voice laced with just the right amount of injured pride. “I would never use magic to win a fight. If my shield is enchanted, then prove it here and now.”

Arthur’s jaw clenched. He was right—Valiant wouldn’t risk revealing the shield’s true nature in front of Uther. He had been careful, too careful, to ever allow the magic to be seen by the wrong eyes.

“Then how am I to know what you say is true?” Uther demanded.

“I have a witness,” Arthur said, turning to face the court. “Knight Ewan was bitten by one of the snakes. The venom nearly killed him.” He met Valiant’s gaze head-on, his voice unwavering. “However, he received an antidote. He will confirm that Knight Valiant is using magic.”

The murmurs grew louder. Finally, Arthur was gaining ground.

“Where is this witness?” Uther asked.

Arthur turned toward Merlin and Gaius, only to find them locked in a quiet but intense discussion. Something was wrong. He hurried over, lowering his voice. “Where is Ewan?”

Merlin’s gaze met his, troubled and hesitant. Then, in a voice just loud enough for Arthur to hear, he said, “He’s dead.”

The words crashed over him like a wave of ice.

Arthur’s stomach dropped. Dead.

His father was waiting. The court was waiting. Arthur had no proof.

Panic threatened to rise in his throat, but he forced it down. He had failed. He had failed, and now he was going to look like a fool in front of his entire court.

He could already feel their stares, the weight of their scrutiny pressing down on him. The whispers, the hushed voices of nobles and knights alike, filled the hall with quiet amusement.

Arthur forced himself to look forward. He had spent his life under his father’s expectations, struggling beneath the impossible weight of a name that demanded perfection. A knight’s word was supposed to be his bond. Yet here he stood, relying on the word of a servant against that of a knight.

Valiant smirked, victory already gleaming in his eyes.

Arthur swallowed the bitter taste of defeat. “I am afraid the witness is dead.”

The rage that flared in his father’s eyes made him want to step back.

“So, you have no proof to support these allegations?” Uther’s voice was sharp, each word cutting deep. “Have you seen Valiant using magic?”

“No,” Arthur admitted.

He braced himself for the worst, but still, the disgust in his father’s eyes hit harder than any blade.

“My servant saw the snakes—”

“Your servant?” Uther’s fury ignited. “You bring such accusations against a knight on the word of a servant?”

Arthur lowered his head. “I believe he is telling the truth.”

A scoff. “My lord,” Valiant interjected smoothly, stepping forward with a smug smile. “Am I really to be judged based on the word of a mere boy?”

Arthur tensed. Before he could react, Merlin stepped forward, eyes blazing. “I saw those snakes come alive!”

The court erupted into gasps.

“How dare you speak out of turn?!” Uther roared. “Guards!”

Arthur’s breath caught. “No—”

The guards seized Merlin, gripping his arms as they dragged him back.

Arthur felt helpless. Merlin had only spoken the truth, but truth had no place in this court when it came from a servant’s mouth.

“Father, please,” Arthur tried again, but his voice was lost in the commotion.

Then, just as the guards reached the door, a new voice cut through the noise.

“Wait.”

Uther held up a hand, silencing the room. The guards stopped.

Valiant smiled, ever the gracious victor. “I wouldn’t want the boy punished on my account.” His voice dripped with false magnanimity.

Arthur’s fists clenched.

“You see?” Uther turned to his son. “This is how a true knight behaves. With gallantry and honor.”

Arthur felt the walls closing in. Valiant had won.

“My lord,” Valiant continued, “if your son made these accusations because he is afraid to fight me, I will graciously accept his withdrawal.”

Arthur burned. He would rather die than accept such an insult.

Uther turned to him, voice quieter but heavy with expectation. “Is this true? Do you wish to withdraw from the tournament?”

The court was watching. The weight of his father’s gaze was suffocating.

Arthur straightened. “No,” he said. “I do not wish to withdraw.”

Uther’s gaze hardened. “Then what am I to make of these accusations?”

Arthur looked away. He could not face his father’s disappointment. He could not let himself break. “There has been a misunderstanding,” he forced out. “I withdraw the allegation.”

Valiant’s smirk deepened.

Arthur’s stomach churned with anger. But for now, he had lost. And he knew Valiant would not let him forget it.

—

He could hear Merlin following him, having been released by the guards.

Arthur pushed open the door to his chambers with more force than necessary, the wood groaning under his frustration. He barely made it two steps inside before he turned, his anger bubbling over.

“I believed you. I trusted you,” he spat, his voice sharp enough to cut. “You made me look like a complete fool.”

Merlin stood just inside the doorway, his expression tight with guilt, but not defeat. “I know that it didn’t go exactly to plan—”

Arthur let out a humorless laugh, stepping closer. “Didn’t go to plan?” His voice was thick with disbelief. “My father and the entire royal court think I’m a coward! You humiliated me!”

He wanted to throw something. To break something. To hit something. To scream. To cry.

But then his gaze flickered to the bruise on Merlin’s cheek, a stark reminder of how much the boy had already endured trying to prove the truth. Arthur clenched his jaw and turned away, unwilling to let his anger soften. Not yet.

“We can still expose Valiant,” Merlin pressed, his voice firm with that infuriating resolve of his. If Arthur’s outburst had shaken him, he didn’t show it.

Arthur exhaled sharply. “I no longer require your services.”

There was a pause. Then, a scoff. “You’re sacking me?”

“I need a servant I can trust.”

“You can trust me.”

Arthur met his gaze then, blue eyes locking with blue. “And look where that got me this time.” His voice was quieter now, edged with something rawer; hurt, betrayal.

Merlin swallowed, something flickering behind his eyes—anger, disappointment, regret, Arthur couldn’t tell. But then the boy turned on his heel and stormed out, the door slamming shut behind him.

Arthur barely moved. It felt as though something had been ripped from the room along with Merlin, an absence that left the space feeling hollow. It wasn’t rage that filled him now—it was sorrow.

He sat heavily on the edge of his table, bracing his forearms against his thighs, his head dipping forward as he dragged a hand through his hair. The events of the day replayed in his mind, each moment a fresh wound. He had stood before the court, leveled an accusation at a knight, and had nothing to show for it but his father’s disappointment and his own disgrace.

His fingers curled into fists.

And then there was Merlin. The boy was reckless, insufferable, entirely too bold for a mere servant. But he had also been right. He had risked himself to uncover the truth, had refused to back down even when Arthur had dismissed him, mocked him, thrown him in the stocks. And Arthur, blinded by pride and the need for his father’s approval, had sent him away.

A sharp knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts.

“Go away,” he muttered, not in the mood for company.

The door creaked open anyway.

Arthur sighed. Only one person in the castle had the audacity to ignore him like that.

Morgana stepped inside, her green eyes filled with concern. “Arthur, are you all right?”

He let out a slow breath, straightening but not looking at her. “No,” he admitted, surprising even himself.

She walked further in, graceful as ever, but there was a weight to her steps—like she carried something unsaid. “I saw Merlin storming past. He looked… hurt. ” She tilted her head, watching him. “Did you two fight again?”

Arthur let out a short, humorless laugh. “If you can call it that.”

Morgana arched a brow. “Did he insult you?”

“Yes.”

“Did you insult him?”

Arthur hesitated. “…Yes.”

“Then I’d say it was a fair fight.”

Arthur huffed, shaking his head, but he could feel the tension in his chest loosening just slightly. He finally met her gaze, the walls around him cracking just a little. “I made a fool of myself, Morgana. The court, my father… they all think I’m weak.”

Morgana’s expression softened. She stepped closer, resting a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You’re not weak, Arthur. You did what you thought was right, even when no one else believed you. That takes more courage than standing silently at your father’s side.”

Arthur searched her face for any hint of mockery, of insincerity. There was none.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Morgana smirked. “And for what it’s worth, I quite enjoyed watching you storm out in a huff. It was very dramatic.”

Arthur shot her a glare, though it lacked real heat.

She patted his shoulder. “You’ll fix this. You always do.”

Arthur exhaled through his nose, his mind already turning over what needed to be done. He had to find a way to clear his name. To bring Valiant to justice.

And, perhaps more pressingly, to fix things with Merlin.

He gave Morgana a look, brow raised. “When did you become so wise?”

She smiled, stepping back toward the door. “I’ve always been the smarter one.”

—

Merlin stormed out of Arthur’s chambers, his footsteps echoing sharply against the stone corridors of Camelot. Anger burned in his chest, hot and bitter, but it was not directed at Arthur—not truly. It was the situation, the sheer injustice of it all. He had risked everything to expose Valiant, to protect Arthur, and yet he had been cast aside like nothing more than a foolish servant who had overstepped his bounds.

He barely made it to the end of the corridor before the weight of his failure caught up with him. His pace slowed, then stopped altogether as he pressed his palm against the cold stone wall, letting out a long, shuddering breath. The icy chill of the castle did nothing to temper the fire raging inside him.

How was he supposed to keep Arthur safe if he wasn’t allowed anywhere near him?

Arthur’s anger had been justified—Merlin could admit that much. He had promised proof, certainty, and yet when the moment came, he had nothing but wild accusations and an empty hand. Now Arthur’s reputation was in ruins, his honor dragged through the mud, and all of Camelot—Uther most of all—saw him as a coward.

But none of it changed the truth: Valiant was still out there, his enchanted shield lying in wait, a weapon ready to strike at Arthur the moment he let his guard down. And Merlin—who had sworn to protect him—had been cast out.

Merlin exhaled sharply, pushing himself away from the wall. He wasn’t giving up. He couldn’t. Arthur’s destiny, Camelot’s future, his own purpose—everything was at stake. If Arthur wouldn’t listen to him, if he had shut him out, then there was only one other being who might have the answers he needed.

Without another thought, Merlin turned and made his way towards the hidden passage beneath Camelot, the path only he knew. The winding stairwell twisted downward into darkness, the air growing thick with the scent of damp stone. His footsteps were quick, fueled by frustration and the desperate need for guidance. The torches that lined the walls flickered as he passed, their flames casting jagged shadows along the ancient passage.

As he descended deeper, the air turned colder, laced with an eerie stillness. Water dripped from unseen crevices, the slow, rhythmic sound filling the silence. The narrow tunnel finally opened up into the vast cavern where the Great Dragon lay coiled in the darkness, his massive form barely visible save for the two golden eyes gleaming in the shadows.

Merlin stepped forward, his heart hammering with frustration. He didn’t wait for the dragon to speak.

“A week!” he burst out, his voice echoing in the cavern. “I didn’t even last a week in Arthur’s service before being sacked! And for what? For trying to save his life? For trying to stop him from being killed in front of the entire court?” His breath came fast, ragged with fury and despair. “Now what am I supposed to do? Sure, I still have my job with Gaius, but that only lets me near Arthur when he needs a tonic or a bandage! And even if I do get my job back, it won’t matter—Arthur hates me now! He’ll never listen to me. So how am I supposed to guide him to his destiny, huh?”

He threw his arms up, the sheer helplessness of it all boiling over. “They must have picked the wrong person for this ‘stupid destiny’ because it’s definitely not me! And it’s certainly not Arthur—not with how stubborn and pigheaded he is!”

The dragon let out a deep, rumbling chuckle that reverberated through the cavern, shaking loose dust from the ceiling.

“If only it were so easy to escape one’s destiny,” Kilgharrah said, his voice heavy with knowing amusement.

Merlin clenched his jaw, fists curling at his sides. “How can it be my destiny to protect someone who hates me?” he demanded, his voice raw.

Kilgharrah’s golden eyes gleamed as he lifted his great head, peering down at Merlin with an unreadable expression. “A half cannot truly hate that which makes it whole,” he said, his words slow and deliberate. “Very soon, you shall learn that.”

Merlin let out a sharp, frustrated breath. “I don’t need another riddle!” he snapped. “I need an answer! A real answer!”

The dragon sighed, shifting his massive wings, the movement sending a gust of wind through the cavern. “You know the truth already, young warlock. Your path and Arthur’s are entwined. You cannot run from that any more than you can run from the magic in your veins.”

Merlin swallowed, his throat tight. He wanted to argue, to deny it, to shout that Arthur was too blind to see what was right in front of him. But deep down, beneath the anger and the frustration, he knew Kilgharrah was right.

Arthur didn’t truly hate him. Arthur was hurt, betrayed, humiliated—but he wasn’t lost. Not yet.

Merlin just had to find a way back to him.

Kilgharrah’s wings stretched wide, his powerful form shifting as he prepared to take flight. “This is not the end, Merlin,” he said, his voice carrying through the vast chamber. “It is the beginning.”

As the dragon’s wings beat the air, sending a fierce gust through the cavern, Merlin let out a cry—of frustration, of determination, of something he couldn’t quite name. His voice echoed through the cavern, lost beneath the roar of Kilgharrah taking flight.

And as the dust settled, as silence crept back in, Merlin stood there alone, his thoughts still a storm inside him.

—

“Merlin!”

Gwen’s voice rang out, breathless and urgent.

Merlin paused mid-step at the castle’s entrance, his escape momentarily delayed. He had been planning to slip away for a few hours—just long enough to breathe, to think. The past week had weighed heavily on him, and the walls of Camelot felt like they were closing in. He needed the quiet of the woods, the scent of earth and pine, the rustling of leaves that carried none of the judgment or frustration he had endured.

He had meant to stop by Gaius’s chambers first, hoping to excuse his absence with an errand—some herbs that needed collecting, some task to justify leaving—but the sight of Gwen rushing toward him made him hesitate. Her expression was troubled, her dark eyes wide with concern.

Sighing, Merlin sat down on the stone steps, resting his forearms on his knees as he waited for her to catch up. She collapsed beside him, still panting from her sprint, and took a moment to gather herself before speaking.

“Is it true?” she asked, voice hushed yet urgent. “What you said about Valiant using magic?”

Merlin nodded stiffly. His throat felt tight, his emotions too tangled to put into words.

The weight of it all bore down on him—the sting of Arthur’s rejection, the frustration of being ignored, the fear that Valiant would go unchallenged. He had tried. He had tried to warn them, to show them the truth, and yet it hadn’t been enough. The memory of Arthur’s anger still burned, and the knowledge that his failure had cost him not just his position but Arthur’s trust made it worse.

Gwen’s face mirrored his own turmoil. “What are you going to do?”

Merlin let out a tired, bitter laugh and ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know.”

Gwen placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You have to find a way to prove you were right.”

He let out a slow breath. “How?” he asked, voice hoarse.

She hesitated, her fingers curling slightly against the fabric of his sleeve. “I—I don’t know.”

Merlin exhaled heavily, rubbing his hands over his face. He was so tired. Tired of fighting, tired of failing. The world felt impossibly vast, and he felt impossibly small.

His gaze drifted, unfocused, across the courtyard. The golden hues of the late afternoon sun stretched shadows long across the cobblestones. Knights trained in the distance, their swords clashing in rhythmic bursts. Servants hurried to and fro, their lives continuing as if nothing had changed.

And then—his eyes landed on a statue.

An old, weathered carving of a hunting hound sat in the far corner of the courtyard. It had always been there, its presence so familiar that he rarely spared it a second glance. But now, something about it held him still. A memory tugged at the edges of his mind.

He stared at it, his heart suddenly pounding faster.

That was it.

A flicker of hope, so faint it was almost fragile, sparked to life inside him.

He had an idea.

Merlin straightened, his mind racing. He turned to Gwen, his pulse quickening as the pieces started falling into place.

“I know what to do.”

Gwen’s brows lifted. “What? What is it?”

But Merlin was already rising, his fatigue momentarily forgotten.

“I need to go,” he said, urgency lacing his voice.

Gwen grabbed his wrist, her concern deepening. “Merlin, what are you—”

“I promise , I’ll explain later,” he assured her, offering the first genuine smile he’d had in days. “But I think I can fix this.”

And with that, he took off, sprinting back into the castle.

He still didn’t have all the answers. He still didn’t know if it would work.

But for the first time since this ordeal had begun, he had something .

—

Scouring through his spellbook, he poured over pages filled with ancient text, searching for anything that could breathe life into stone. After what felt like an eternity, he found something promising. It wasn’t quite the same spell that Valiant had likely used, but it might be enough.

Now came the hard part.

With Gwen’s help (and some creative lying about a broken statue needing repairs), they managed to haul the heavy thing up to his chambers using a wheelbarrow—though not without a fair amount of grumbling, several stubbed toes, and one unfortunate moment where they almost dropped it down the stairs.

Once inside, Merlin shut the door, took a deep breath, and got to work.

Standing before the statue, he rolled his shoulders, exhaled, and stretched out his hands.

“Anbiede weorðan!”

Nothing.

Merlin frowned. Adjusted his stance. Cleared his throat.

“Anbiede weorðan!”

Still nothing.

Frowning deeper, he tried a different inflection, putting more force behind the words. Then he tried a gentler tone. A dramatic pause. A flourish of his hands.

The statue remained as lifeless as ever.

Frustration gnawed at him, but Merlin refused to give up. He experimented with everything he could think of—chanting while standing on a chair, kneeling, waving his arms wildly, whispering the spell directly into the dog’s ear as if that might somehow make a difference.

Nothing.

Time dragged on. Shadows stretched long across the walls. His candle burned low.

He was exhausted, drained from hours of failed attempts, but he couldn’t stop now. Not when Arthur’s life could be on the line.

He flopped onto his bed, rubbing his temples. His gaze drifted toward the neatly folded shirt on his table—the one Arthur had given him.

He hadn’t worn it yet. It was one of the nicest things he owned, made of a soft material that felt expensive beneath his fingers, finer than his usual worn tunics and certainly softer than his old neckerchief. He still couldn’t believe Arthur had given it to him. Just like that. No conditions. No teasing. Just… a gift.

A small, thoughtful gift.

Merlin smiled faintly and slipped it on, letting the fabric settle against his skin.

And then, with a renewed sense of determination, he turned back to the statue.

The night stretched on. His voice grew hoarse. His limbs ached.

But just as dawn began to crest over the horizon, spilling golden light into the chamber, he tried one last time.

“Anbiede weorðan!”

For a breathless second, nothing happened.

And then—

A deep, rumbling sound filled the air. Stone cracked. Shifted.

And before Merlin could even react, something wet and warm collided with his face.

A massive, slobbery tongue dragged across his cheek, leaving a trail of drool in its wake.

Merlin gasped, spluttering, stumbling back. But despite the absolutely disgusting amount of dog spit now coating his face, he let out a breathless laugh.

It worked.

The dog blinked up at him, tail thumping against the floor, panting happily as if it hadn’t just spent years frozen in stone.

Merlin wiped his face off, grinning. “You are disgusting. ”

The dog barked, wagging its tail.

Merlin had never been so happy to be covered in slobber in his entire life.

And then— cheering.

His heart stuttered. The tournament.

It had already begun.

“ Oh, hell. ”

Without wasting another second, he bolted for the door, sprinting down the halls as the distant roar of the crowd echoed through the castle.

—

Arthur had no choice. He had to fight.

Even if he believed Merlin— and he did —it didn’t matter. The moment had passed, the accusations dismissed, and now all eyes were on him. If he refused to face Valiant, if he so much as hesitated, the court would see it as weakness. His knights would whisper of fear. His people would doubt his strength. And a prince who could not command respect could never lead his kingdom into battle.

So, he would fight.

And if that meant dying, then so be it. At least no one could call him a coward.

He tightened his grip on his sword, inhaling deeply, forcing his body to still. But in the quiet of his mind, doubt crept in like an unwelcome shadow.

Merlin had tried to warn him. Had stood there, desperate and insistent, pleading for him to listen. And Arthur had dismissed him. Again. Just as his father had.

Now, as he stood on the precipice of a battle he knew he could not win, the weight of that dismissal settled heavy in his chest. He should have listened. He should have trusted him.

A strange, hollow ache gnawed at him. It wasn’t just the fear of dying. It wasn’t just the knowledge that he might have doomed himself with his own arrogance. It was the absence .

Merlin wasn’t here.

It was an absence Arthur felt more keenly than he should have. Like a missing limb. Like an unfinished thought. A piece of himself that had quietly woven into the fabric of his days without him realizing it—until now, when it was gone.

And if this truly was his last fight, he regretted that he would never get the chance to tell Merlin that he had been right.

Arthur ventured out to the arena well before the first hints of dawn brushed the horizon. The world was still, cloaked in darkness, the empty stands looming like silent sentinels above him. If fate had chosen this place for his final stand, then he wanted to commit every detail to memory—the cool bite of morning air, the scent of damp earth and steel, the distant flicker of torches casting wavering shadows across the stone walls. The hush before battle was a rare thing, a fleeting moment of solitude before the storm.

A servant worked diligently nearby, polishing his armor, the rhythmic sound of cloth against metal the only disturbance in the quiet. Arthur barely acknowledged him, lost in his thoughts, his fingers absently tracing the hilt of his sword. He should have been sharpening his focus, steeling himself for what lay ahead. Instead, his mind drifted—to Merlin’s warning, to the look in his friend’s eyes when Arthur had turned away.

The servant suddenly stiffened, and Arthur glanced up, surprised to find Morgana standing before him. Her presence was unexpected, though not unwelcome. With a quiet gesture, he dismissed the servant, who bowed and hurried away.

"Let me," Morgana said softly, stepping forward.

Arthur hesitated for only a moment before allowing her to take over, her deft hands working at the intricate clasps of his armor. There was something familiar in the way she moved, a careful precision that spoke of experience. He remembered when they were children, playing at being knights in the castle halls, dueling with wooden swords and wearing oversized helmets. For a time, Uther had humored them, even commissioning small sets of armor. But that fleeting indulgence had ended the moment Morgana grew older. A lady does not wield a sword, Uther had decreed. It is not her place.

Arthur had never questioned it then. Now, he wasn’t so sure.

Morgana handed him his helmet, lingering just a fraction longer than necessary. Her expression, usually so guarded, was unreadable—but in the dim torchlight, he caught the flicker of concern in her eyes.

"Arthur," she began, hesitating, as if weighing her words. "Be careful."

Something about the way she said it unsettled him. He wanted to reassure her, to offer some easy, confident remark. Instead, he swallowed the lump in his throat and settled for the only thing he could say—the only thing that wouldn’t betray the storm churning inside him.

"I’ll see you at the feast," he replied, his voice steady.

It was a lie, or perhaps a prayer. But Morgana didn’t call him on it. She simply gave a small nod, her fingers grazing the edge of his gauntlet before she stepped away, disappearing into the darkness.

Alone once more, Arthur exhaled, turning his gaze toward the arena. The sun had begun its slow ascent, casting the first slivers of light across the stands.

The waiting was over.

It was time.

Arthur walked onto the field alone.

The weight of the moment settled heavily on his shoulders, pressing down like the cold steel of his armor. Throughout his life, he had often imagined how he might meet his end. As a child, he feared being snatched away by magical creatures, their glowing eyes lurking in the dark corners of his chambers. As he grew older, his fears evolved, becoming a knight had taught him a new fear—the fear of dying without honor, of fading into obscurity as an unworthy son of Camelot.

But today, he would meet his fate on his own terms.

If this was to be his final battle, then he would ensure it was one befitting a prince. He would face his enemy, fight with honor, and expose the man for the traitor he was. If he died, he hoped his father would finally look upon him with something other than disappointment. And if he lived—well, he had not dared to consider that possibility yet.

The arena was deathly still, save for the occasional murmur from the crowd, a mix of anticipation and unease. Some faces held fear for his safety, while others were etched with quiet judgment, their gazes heavy with expectation. The weight of so many eyes upon him should have unsettled him, but Arthur forced himself to focus. He took his position, his stance unwavering as his opponent stepped forward.

Valiant.

The man loomed before him like a specter, his armor gleaming in the early morning light. Even through the slits of his helmet, Arthur could see the cruel glint in his eyes—one that spoke of bloodlust, of victory already claimed in his mind. But what Valiant did not understand was that Arthur matched his hunger, not for blood, but for justice. This man had not only cheated his way through the tournament using magic, but he had also harmed an innocent servant—an act that was beyond unforgivable.

Arthur’s grip tightened on the hilt of his sword, his knuckles white against the leather.

A moment of silence stretched between them, the air between them charged like a gathering storm.

Then, with a sudden lunge, Valiant struck.

Arthur barely had time to react before steel met steel with a deafening clash, the force reverberating through his arms. He staggered back but recovered quickly, countering with a strike of his own. Their swords danced in a brutal rhythm, a deadly exchange of blows where neither could afford a mistake.

Valiant fought like a battering ram—unrelenting, brutal, seeking to crush Arthur beneath sheer force. But Arthur was not a man easily broken. He moved with practiced precision, dodging, weaving, using the other man’s aggression against him. Where Valiant sought to overpower, Arthur outmaneuvered, forcing him to overextend and miss.

A particularly well-placed strike knocked Valiant’s helmet clean off, the metal clattering loudly against the stone. For a moment, Arthur hesitated. Then, in a display of defiance—or perhaps a test of honor—he reached up and unlatched his own helmet, tossing it aside. A murmur rippled through the crowd at the act.

A fair fight. That was what Arthur wanted.

Perhaps, if he treated Valiant with respect, the man would hesitate. Perhaps they could end this match with dignity rather than blood.

But the look in Valiant’s eyes told him otherwise.

There was no respect. No honor. Only a man who had decided long ago that Arthur Pendragon would not leave this field alive.

The fight resumed, and it grew uglier.

At one point, Valiant stomped down on Arthur’s foot, driving his shield into his jaw with a sickening crack. Arthur stumbled back, blinking away the stars that burst across his vision. Valiant grinned, sensing weakness, and moved in for the kill.

Arthur dodged at the last second, rolling to the side as Valiant’s sword slammed into the ground where his chest had been. His shield had been knocked away in the scuffle, and soon, with a well-aimed strike, Valiant sent his sword flying from his grasp.

Disarmed and cornered, Arthur’s chest heaved as he weighed his options. Then his eyes flickered toward the crowd, catching a flash of black hair.

Merlin.

Another witness to his downfall, he thought bitterly. Would his father even mourn him?

Summoning every ounce of strength left in his body, Arthur shoved Valiant back, gaining a few precious seconds. And then, with a slow, sickening hiss, the snakes on Valiant’s shield began to move.

Arthur’s breath caught.

Magic.

The serpents slithered forward, their eyes burning with unnatural light. Gasps echoed through the crowd as realization dawned on them all.

“What are you doing?” Valiant shouted, his expression shifting from triumph to alarm. “I didn’t summon you!”

Arthur’s lips curled into a smirk. He had no doubt who had meddled.

Merlin.

“And now they see you for who you really are,” Arthur called loudly, his voice cutting through the shocked murmurs of the audience.

Valiant recovered quickly. His eyes darkened, his lips twisting into a sneer. “Kill him.”

The serpents lunged.

Arthur backpedaled, his mind racing. He had no weapon, no shield—only his wits.

And then, from the stands, he heard a familiar voice.

“Arthur!”

Morgana.

A blade came sailing through the air. Without thinking, Arthur reached up and caught the hilt, immediately swinging it in one fluid motion. The snakes’ heads tumbled to the ground, their bodies writhing before crumbling into nothing.

She stood in the royal box, her face set with determination. Arthur nodded in silent gratitude before turning back to Valiant.

Now, the crowd had seen the truth. His opponent had been exposed as a fraud. There was no honor left to preserve, no reason to hold back.

Arthur surged forward, his blade meeting flesh. Valiant let out a choked gasp as steel carved through his middle. Arthur caught the older man as he staggered, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps.

“Looks like I’ll be going to the feast after all,” Arthur muttered, though he found he couldn’t look directly into the man’s dying eyes.

He released Valiant, letting him collapse to the dirt.

The crowd erupted, a deafening wave of cheers crashing over him. He barely heard it.

His gaze flicked toward the royal box, where his father sat motionless, unreadable. Did he look proud? Surprised? Arthur couldn’t bring himself to care. He simply turned away, walking toward the exit, the battle already weighing heavy in his bones.

As he passed the crowd, his eyes met Merlin’s.

For a moment, neither spoke. Then Arthur gave his shoulder a rough shove—not out of anger, but out of something else. Something unspoken.

Merlin grinned.

And for the first time that day, Arthur allowed himself to smirk back.

—

“My honorable guests,” King Uther proclaimed, his voice ringing through the grand hall, carrying the authority that had ruled Camelot for years. “I give you Prince Arthur, your champion.”

The words echoed against the towering stone walls, met by thunderous applause. The great hall was bathed in the warm glow of countless candles, the golden goblets and polished silverware gleaming under their flickering light. The scent of roasted meats and spiced wine filled the air, mingling with the low hum of nobles toasting Arthur’s victory.

Arthur entered to the sound of cheers, the weight of the day finally easing from his shoulders. He had not only won the tournament but had also unmasked a traitor, proving his honor and skill before the entire court. It was a victory few could claim, one that should have filled him with satisfaction. And yet, he knew better than to expect a word of praise from his father beyond the perfunctory acknowledgment.

His gaze swept the hall as he made his way through the crowd, offering nods and handshakes to those who reached out in congratulations. When he reached Morgana, he extended a hand to her with an exaggerated flourish. “My lady,” he said, offering her his arm with mock gallantry.

Morgana smirked, placing her hand in his as he guided her toward her seat. “Has your father apologized yet for not believing you?” she asked, her voice just loud enough for him to hear over the music and conversation.

Arthur scoffed. “We both know that will never happen. He’s far too stubborn.”

Morgana chuckled, shaking her head knowingly. “Well, at least everyone else knows you were right. That was quite the tournament final. A thrilling display of swordplay, a dramatic reveal of magic, and—” she paused for effect, her eyes gleaming mischievously, “—a rather glorious moment where a certain prince was saved by a lady.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “I wouldn’t say I needed saving.”

“Oh, wouldn’t you?” Morgana arched a brow. “Because from where I was standing, you were flat on your back with a sword at your throat.”

“I was calculating my next move,” Arthur said, his tone clipped as he pulled out her chair.

Morgana scoffed. “Oh, of course. You calculated that I would throw you a sword.”

Arthur sat down beside her with an air of practiced indifference. “Exactly. All according to plan.”

Morgana let out an incredulous laugh. “You are insufferable.”

“And yet, here you are, still sitting next to me,” Arthur quipped, smirking as he raised his goblet.

Morgana leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a playful whisper. “You know what? I wish Valiant had won. Then I’d be sitting next to someone who could admit when he’s been saved.”

Arthur feigned offense. “Me too. Then I wouldn’t have to listen to you.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

They stared at each other for a moment before both of them smirked, the tension dissolving into familiar banter. Despite their bickering, there was an unspoken understanding between them—an ease built over years of knowing each other too well.

Arthur took a sip of his wine, allowing himself to finally relax. But as his eyes wandered across the room, they landed on a familiar figure standing at the far edge of the hall, near the servants.

Unlike the lords and ladies reveling in the feast, Merlin stood off to the side, half-hidden in the shadows. He wasn’t clapping or drinking; instead, he was watching Arthur with an expression Arthur couldn’t quite decipher.

Arthur frowned slightly. It was strange—after everything that had happened today, after everything Merlin had done to help him, it felt wrong for him to be lingering on the sidelines like this.

With an exasperated sigh, Arthur pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. Morgana gave him a questioning look.

“Where are you going?”

Arthur didn’t answer. He simply grabbed a second goblet of wine and strode toward Merlin, shoving it into his hand before the servant could protest.

“Can you believe Morgana?” Arthur spat, his frustration evident. “She says she saved me. As if I needed help.”

Merlin blinked, staring down at the goblet, then back up at Arthur. Of all the things he had expected tonight, this wasn’t one of them.

He debated whether to respond at all. Arthur had dismissed him, sacked him, and now he was here, drinking wine and complaining like they were best friends. Did he think Merlin had simply forgotten? That all was well between them?

Merlin took a slow sip of the wine, watching Arthur carefully.

Arthur huffed, seemingly unbothered by Merlin’s silence. “I mean, honestly, does she think I’m that incapable? I had everything under control.”

Merlin snorted. “Oh, yes. Flat on your back, disarmed, about to be skewered. Totally under control.”

Arthur shot him a look. “I would’ve thought of something.”

“Sure,” Merlin said, nodding sagely. “Maybe if you asked nicely, Valiant would’ve stabbed himself instead.”

Arthur opened his mouth, then narrowed his eyes, recognizing the teasing lilt in Merlin’s voice. He sighed, swirling the wine in his goblet before speaking again, this time softer.

“I wanted to say…I made a mistake.”

Merlin looked up, caught off guard by the change in tone.

Arthur met his gaze, his expression unusually sincere. “It was unfair to sack you.” A beat passed. “You didn’t deserve that.”

Merlin hadn’t expected an apology. Not really. Arthur wasn’t one to admit when he was wrong—at least, not easily. And yet, here he was, standing in front of him, swallowing his pride.

A slow grin spread across Merlin’s face. “No, don’t worry about it,” he said, shrugging as if it was nothing. “Buy me a drink, and we’ll call it even.”

Arthur’s face twisted in mild panic. “Umm, I can’t really be seen buying drinks for my servant .”

Merlin raised an eyebrow. “Your servant ? You sacked me.”

Arthur hesitated, then smirked. “And now I’m rehiring you.”

Merlin folded his arms. “Oh? Just like that?”

Arthur nodded, taking a long sip of his wine. “My chambers are a complete mess, my clothes need washing, my armor needs repairing, my boots need cleaning, my dogs need exercising, my fireplace needs sweeping, my bed needs changing, and someone needs to muck out my stables.” He took another sip. “And I’m definitely not doing it.”

Merlin exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Oh, lucky me,” he muttered, though he couldn’t help the grin tugging at his lips.

Arthur grinned back, lifting his goblet in a silent toast.

Merlin rolled his eyes but clinked his goblet against Arthur’s anyway. Great to be back.

Chapter Text

Far from Camelot, buried beneath the roots of the earth where sunlight dared not reach, a cave stretched into endless darkness. The air was thick with the scent of damp stone, wax, and something older—something ancient. The dim flicker of candlelight barely held the shadows at bay, their writhing forms shifting like silent specters along the jagged walls.

At the heart of this cavern, a woman stood, her fingers coated in clay, her breath measured and steady. She had labored tirelessly, her work spanning days, molding her creation with an artist’s precision and a sorcerer’s intent. Each curve, each detail, had been sculpted with purpose. In her hands, it was small, unassuming—able to fit within her palm. And yet, she knew the destruction it would bring would be boundless.

Her lips curled in satisfaction.

With reverence, she placed the delicate figure into a vessel of her own making—an egg-shaped container of blackened stone, its surface carved with intricate runes. Symbols of power and vengeance pulsed faintly, as if the spell itself breathed within them. The air around her crackled with restrained energy, the spell hungry, yearning to be unleashed.

She lifted the vessel and turned toward the pool of water before her. Unlike the sluggish drips of moisture seeping from the cave walls, this water was unnaturally still, an inky black mirror untouched by the tremors of the world above. Yet within its depths, unseen currents swirled with purpose, ancient and knowing.

The flames of her candles danced across the water’s surface, casting twisted reflections of her face—twisted, yet true.

She raised her hands above the container, her voice unwavering as she spoke the incantation.

The cave seemed to inhale.

A low hum resonated through the chamber, the air thickening with unseen force. She felt it—the shift, the awakening. Then, the first sound: a heartbeat. Faint, fragile. But it was there.

Her breath caught.

The heartbeat grew stronger, pounding like distant war drums. The runes on the vessel flared to life, a sinister glow emanating from within, illuminating the cracks of the stone like veins filled with molten fire. The pulsing light synchronized with the relentless rhythm of the heartbeat.

It lived.

A slow smile stretched across her lips, her fingers caressing the smooth surface of the vessel as if in silent reassurance. This was it. This was the moment she had waited for. Decades of suffering, of loss, of injustice had led her here. Now, at last, she would have retribution.

With a steady hand, she lowered the vessel into the water.

The instant it touched the surface, the water came alive.

Ripples spread outward in perfect, concentric waves, distorting the woman’s reflection. The pool, once still, now swirled with dark purpose, pulling the vessel into its depths. The cave trembled, as if the very earth recognized the power being set loose upon the world.

Guided by the spell woven into its shell, the vessel drifted effortlessly through the labyrinth of underground rivers. It was drawn forward, slipping through cracks too narrow for anything natural to pass, carried by unseen forces, navigating tunnels long forgotten by man. It traveled deep, relentless in its course, moving toward the destiny carved for it in whispers and ancient magic.

It would not be long now.

Within the egg, the creature stirred, power swelling with each passing moment.

The last ripples stilled. Silence swallowed the cavern whole, thick and absolute.

The woman exhaled, the flickering candlelight reflecting in her sharp, knowing eyes. It was done. Her revenge was set in motion, unstoppable as the tide.

A storm was coming.

And Camelot would drown in its wake.

—

Merlin had seen dead bodies before. He had seen too many.

Knights who had stormed druid camps without mercy, the broken forms of those he once laughed with lying motionless in the dirt, their faces twisted in pain or eerily peaceful. He had learned young that death came without warning, without fairness. Yet, standing here in the dim torchlight of a Camelot street, staring at the lifeless man sprawled before him, it still unsettled him.

The pale skin, the stillness—it all pressed on something buried deep in his chest. A whisper of old grief.

His thoughts drifted to his mother. Hunith hadn’t written of any recent attacks, had told him not to worry. But worry had become a constant companion these days, lurking at the edges of his mind, gnawing at his sense of security.

“Merlin!”

Gaius’s voice cut through his thoughts, grounding him in the present. Merlin blinked, realizing he had been staring.

“Help me turn him over.”

Merlin hesitated before stepping forward. His hands hovered over the body for a brief moment, fingers twitching before he forced himself to act. The dead man’s skin was cold—so terribly cold. A chill shot up Merlin’s spine, and for a fleeting second, he swore he could still hear the heartbeat of the earth beneath his feet, the way it had always pulsed in the druid camps, alive with energy. But there was nothing here. Just stillness.

“Aren’t you scared?” he asked, voice quieter than he meant it to be. “That you’ll catch whatever it is?”

Gaius sighed, rubbing his forehead. His expression was both weary and resolute, the look of a man who had spent too many years tending to Camelot’s sick and dying. “I’m the court physician, Merlin. This is part of my job.” He gestured for him to help again. “Most of the time, there’s nothing to be scared of.”

Merlin swallowed, nodding, and finally helped turn the man over.

The first thing he saw were the eyes.

White. Blank.

A sickness hadn’t done this. No fever stole the color from his irises, no natural illness turned eyes into empty, soulless voids. A shudder passed through Merlin before he could stop it.

“You were saying?” he muttered, glancing at Gaius.

Gaius didn’t answer immediately. His lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze darting to the darkened streets around them. “The people mustn’t see this. They’ll panic.”

Merlin understood. Panic spread like fire in Camelot, and Uther’s first instinct would be to blame sorcery. He acted quickly, yanking a nearby sheet from a merchant’s stall, draping it over the body in one swift motion before any passersby could glance their way.

They had to move.

It wasn’t difficult to find an old cart—one of the many scattered through the lower town. Merlin helped Gaius lift the body onto it, his hands still shaking slightly. He tried to ignore the way the weight of the corpse settled against the wood, how final it felt. They maneuvered through the winding streets, heading toward Gaius’s chambers, careful not to draw attention.

They had nearly reached the square before the castle when a familiar voice stopped them.

“What are you doing?”

Merlin’s head snapped up. Gwen.

She was approaching from the opposite direction, her brown eyes curious, her expression open and kind. In her hands, she held a small bouquet of simple purple and white flowers, their petals trembling slightly in the cool night air.

Too close. She was getting too close.

Merlin stepped between her and the cart before he even thought about it, masking his unease with a casual shrug. “Uh, just moving something,” he said, forcing a grin.

Gwen’s gaze flickered past him toward the cart. “Looks heavy.”

“It’s nothing, really,” he said quickly, trying to shift her attention. His eyes landed on the flowers in her hands. “Someone got you flowers?”

Gwen hesitated, looking down at them.

“Oh—no,” she said, a nervous laugh escaping her. She didn’t explain further, but the way she held them—carefully, close to her chest, as if they were something precious—made Merlin think that, whoever had given them to her, they mattered.

“Would you like one?” she offered suddenly, plucking a purple flower from the bunch. She held it out to him, a shy smile forming. “A purple one. It suits you.” A beat passed, and she blanched. “Not that I’m saying red doesn’t suit you! It’s just—” She gestured vaguely to his tunic, visibly flustered. “You know what I mean.”

Merlin chuckled, the tension in his chest easing just slightly. Gwen was one of the kindest people he had ever met. Always thoughtful, always giving, and always a little worried she wasn’t enough.

He took the flower, tucking it into his old blue neckerchief, a scrap of fabric he’d found that had grown dear to him. Not nearly as fine as the red scarf the druid children had gifted him, but it had its own charm.

“Thanks,” he said, flashing her a smile before turning to go. “See you.”

“Bye!” Gwen called after him, grinning.

As Merlin walked away, the warmth of her simple kindness lingered, even as the chill of the dead man’s white eyes remained burned into his mind.

—

Gwen knocked softly before stepping into Morgana’s chambers, a habit born out of respect rather than necessity. Over the years, their bond had grown beyond that of noblewoman and maidservant—Gwen had come to know the woman behind the title, the one who laughed freely when unburdened and who cared deeply for those around her. It was a privilege she cherished.

The glow of flickering candlelight bathed the chamber in a warm, golden hue, accentuating Morgana’s elegance even in repose. Clad in a flowing nightgown, she looked almost ethereal, though Gwen didn’t fail to notice the tired shadow lingering beneath her striking green eyes. Sleep had been evading her again.

“You look happy,” Morgana remarked, a soft smile touching her lips as she stepped closer.

Gwen felt her own smile widen at the warmth in her voice. “I picked these for you.” She extended the small bundle of flowers—humble, yet vibrant in their simplicity, much like the woman she offered them to.

“Oh, Gwen,” Morgana breathed, taking them delicately between her fingers. Without hesitation, she lifted them to her nose, inhaling their gentle fragrance. “They’re beautiful. Thank you.”

There was something mesmerizing about the way Morgana held them, her graceful fingers caressing the petals with care, as though the flowers were something precious rather than a simple gift plucked from the castle grounds. Even in the dim lighting, her beauty was undeniable. Gwen found herself taking in the details—the soft cascade of Morgana’s dark curls, the elegant curve of her features, the way candlelight danced across her skin.

“Something to cheer you up,” Gwen said quickly, shaking herself from her thoughts. “I know you haven’t been sleeping well.”

Morgana’s gaze lifted from the flowers, settling on Gwen with such warmth that it sent a flutter through her chest. “Well, you cheer me up.”

The words were simple, but spoken with such sincerity that Gwen felt her breath catch. To be looked at like that—to be seen, truly seen—by Morgana was something she would never take for granted.

Clearing her throat, Gwen shifted on her feet, glancing at the flowers as if suddenly remembering their purpose. “Would you like me to put them in water for you?” she asked, eager to busy herself.

Morgana nodded, though there was amusement in her expression. “That would be lovely.”

Gathering the flowers gently, Gwen turned quickly, making for the washbasin with a little more haste than necessary. Her hands trembled slightly as she set about her task, but she told herself it was just nerves, nothing more.

Behind her, Morgana watched with an unreadable expression, her smile lingering.

—

“I’ve never seen anything like this before,” Gaius murmured, his brow deeply furrowed as he examined the lifeless body before him. The usual steadiness in his voice wavered, a rare note of unease slipping through.

Merlin swallowed, trying to ignore the tightness in his chest. “Do you think it could be some type of plague?” he asked. He had heard of plagues before, of course—terrible, relentless things—but the druids had lived in isolation, untouched by the great sicknesses that swept through the lands. This… this felt different.

“No,” Gaius said gravely, glancing up from his inspection. “I fear something like this could never come from nature.”

Merlin shifted, a chill creeping down his spine. “But who has this kind of power?”

That was almost worse than the thought of a plague. Ever since he had arrived in Camelot, magical threats had loomed over the kingdom like an unrelenting storm. Again and again, sorcery had been wielded as a weapon—against the people, against Arthur, against his destiny. Merlin didn’t understand it. Magic was supposed to be good and beautiful, meant to protect and heal, not to spread fear and destruction. Why did so many use it for harm?

“You think it’s caused by magic,” he muttered, more of a statement than a question.

Gaius’s silence was answer enough.

Before he could respond, a familiar voice rang out from the corridor, laced with impatience.

“Merlin!”

Arthur .

Merlin’s head snapped toward the door, his heart kicking up a notch. He darted forward before the prince could step inside, shoving his body against the wooden frame of the doorway as if that alone could keep Arthur out. They still didn’t know what they were dealing with—if this wasn’t a plague, it could be something worse, something insidious. And Arthur, of course, had no concept of caution.

“I’m on my way! Sorry I’m late!” Merlin called hurriedly, forcing an awkward grin onto his face.

Arthur stood just outside, arms crossed, expression flat with barely contained exasperation. “Don’t worry, I’m getting used to it.” His gaze flickered downward, locking onto the small, slightly wilted flower tucked into Merlin’s neckerchief.

Oh. Right.

Merlin fumbled, plucking it free with an awkward laugh. “Oh, uh, Gwen,” he blurted, rubbing the back of his neck. “She gave it to me.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Yes, I figured. No one else would bother.” He turned, already walking away. “Tell Gaius my father wants to see him. Now.”

“Okay,” Merlin breathed, watching Arthur’s retreating form before shutting the door with a heavy sigh.

Gaius, who had been listening, gave a knowing look. “I heard.”

Merlin scoffed, shaking his head. “Why couldn’t he just tell you himself?”

Gaius returned to his grim work, straightening the sheet over the deceased man’s body. “Because that’s the way it is. You’re a servant.”

Merlin’s jaw tightened. He wasn’t just a servant. He wasn’t meant to be. If only Arthur knew—if he understood everything Merlin had done for him already, everything he had risked.

“If he knew who I was, what I’ve done—”

“You’d be a dead servant,” Gaius interrupted, his voice tinged with weary resignation. He turned to face Merlin, his expression softening slightly. “Arthur is loyal to his father, I fear. But he has always had a good heart. Even as a child, I could see it. There’s kindness in him, buried beneath all that duty and expectation.” He exhaled, shaking his head. “I believe that maybe, one day, he could come around. But that day is far off.”

Merlin swallowed hard, his mind conjuring images he had never considered before. Arthur as a child—golden-haired and wide-eyed, before the weight of his birthright had settled on his shoulders. Had he really been kind back then? Or had he always been a bully, even in his youth?

He tried to picture it. A younger Arthur, training in the courtyard, his small hands gripping a sword that was too big for him. Laughing, perhaps, before his father’s stern gaze stole the joy from his face. Maybe there had been a time when Arthur didn’t wield his status like a weapon, before the pressures of royalty had hardened him into the man he was now.

The torchlight flickered, casting long, shifting shadows across the stone walls.

“Right,” Gaius said suddenly, snapping Merlin from his thoughts. “Let’s get this covered up.”

Merlin huffed, crossing his arms. “Hey, I’m not your servant.”

Gaius shot him a look. “No, you’re my dogsboy. Now hurry up.”

—

The body had been laid out on the cold stone floor, the flickering torchlight casting eerie shadows over its sickly blue skin. The dead man's frosted white eyes stared vacantly at the ceiling, as if frozen in the moment of his last breath. A chill clung to the air, not from a dungeons’ natural dampness but something deeper, something unnatural. Even the guards—men who had seen the horrors of battle—shifted uneasily, their hands gripping their swords as if steel could fend off whatever had done this.

King Uther stood a fair distance away, his expression controlled, though his rigid posture betrayed unease. He was a man who ruled through fear and order, and yet here was something beyond his understanding, something he couldn’t simply command to stop.

Gaius crouched beside the body, his aged hands carefully examining the stiffened limbs, his frown deepening. This was worse than he feared. The second case in a day, and there would be more.

“What’s happened to him?” Uther’s voice was steady, but Merlin, standing just behind Gaius, caught the slight tightness in his tone. The king was trying not to act afraid.

“I don’t know, sire.” Gaius kept his voice neutral, but there was a weight behind his words. “This is the second such death I’ve seen today.”

Uther’s jaw clenched. “Why wasn’t I informed immediately?”

“I was attempting to find the cause,” Gaius said, rising to his feet.

“And?” Uther’s gaze flickered between the physician and the corpse, as though demanding an answer that would make sense of the horror before him. “What did you conclude?”

The room was utterly still. The guards awaited orders. Arthur stood at his father’s side, his brows knit in concern, but his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword, as if there were an enemy in the room that might strike at any moment.

Gaius hesitated. “It is too soon to draw conclusions.”

Uther’s lips pressed into a thin line, and finally, he stepped closer. His movements were slow, deliberate, as though reluctant to be near the body. “You are hiding something from me,” he said, his voice dangerously quiet.

Gaius exhaled. “Sire… I have never seen anything like this. The victims die within twenty-four hours, and it is spreading fast.”

The king’s fingers twitched at his side. He turned slightly, catching Arthur’s eye before glancing back down at the corpse. The flickering torches reflected in the dead man’s lifeless pupils, making them seem to shimmer like ice.

“But what is the cause?” Uther demanded.

Gaius’s hesitation was barely noticeable, but it was there. And in that moment of silence, the room seemed to constrict, the weight of unspoken fears pressing down on everyone present. The air itself was thick with dread.

Gaius took a slow breath. “I believe, sire… that the most likely cause is sorcery.”

A muscle in Uther’s jaw twitched. He barely blinked, but the shift in his posture—his squared shoulders, the way his fingers curled slightly into fists—spoke volumes. For the briefest moment, something flickered in his eyes. It was fear, Merlin realized, gone in an instant, buried beneath years of iron control.

Uther reached back blindly, his hand gripping Arthur’s arm, pulling him a step closer. His voice dropped to a whisper, urgent and strained. “You must find who did this.”

Arthur nodded. “I will, Father.”

Uther straightened, his fear swallowed by fury. “Conduct door-to-door searches,” he ordered. “Double the guards on the gates. Increase patrols in the lower town.” He turned sharply to Arthur. “And lend the physician your servant.”

Arthur blinked. “Merlin? But—”

“We need Gaius to find a cure,” Uther cut him off. “He needs all the help we can give him. If Gaius is right, then believe me, the city will be wiped out.” He took a step toward his son, lowering his voice. “This is the kind of magic that undermines our authority, Arthur. It challenges everything we have built. If we do not contain this, people will turn to magic for a cure.” His eyes darkened. “That cannot happen.”

Arthur swallowed, absorbing his father’s words. “Yes, Father.”

Uther nodded once, satisfied, then turned on his heel and stalked from the room, his cape billowing behind him.

The silence he left in his wake was almost deafening.

Arthur let out a slow breath, running a hand over his face before glancing at Merlin. “Well,” he muttered. “You heard him. You’re Gaius’s shadow until this is sorted.”

Merlin wanted to retort, but his gaze drifted back to the corpse. A sickness caused by sorcery. Something dark, something spreading. And now, it was his responsibility to help stop it.

—

Arthur paced the length of his chambers, his boots scuffing against the cold stone floor. The flickering candlelight cast his elongated shadow along the walls, mirroring the restlessness that churned inside him. His father’s fear had been palpable, a rare crack in Uther’s otherwise impenetrable armor. It unsettled Arthur more than he cared to admit.

That was the only word for it—unsettling.

Arthur had seen Uther face countless enemies, had watched him stare down traitors, raiders, even sorcerers without so much as a flicker of doubt. But tonight, in that dimly lit chamber with the lifeless body sprawled before them, his father had not been the unshakable king. He had been afraid. Not just of the plague, but of what it meant. And if Uther, with all his certainty, could be shaken by this—what did that mean for Camelot?

Arthur exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair. The implications were dire. A sickness that struck fast, leaving its victims cold and lifeless before they even had a chance to seek help, would devastate the kingdom. Panic would spread quicker than the disease itself.

But what unsettled Arthur even more was the question that gnawed at him— why?

Why would a sorcerer do this?

He could understand the desire for revenge. Uther had slaughtered magic users without mercy for years. He had wiped out entire families, driven them into hiding, made them fear their own gifts. But this—this was indiscriminate. This wasn't vengeance; it was destruction. Innocents were dying, people who had never lifted a hand against magic. There was no justice in this, only cruelty.

Arthur thought back to the magic users he had met, the memories flickering in his mind like candle flames. The quiet strength of Balinor, the warmth in the red-haired druid girl's smile, the way the druids had cared for their own, lived in harmony with nature. There had been goodness in them, kindness. Magic wasn't inherently evil—he knew that now. And yet, here was proof of the other side, of the very thing his father feared: magic wielded as a weapon, devastating and uncontrollable.

Arthur turned toward the window, pressing his hands against the cool stone ledge as he stared down into the darkened courtyard. The moon bathed the battlements in a pale glow, casting long shadows over the silent city. How do you fight an enemy you can’t see? A knight could wield a sword against a man, but this—this was like striking at the wind. The thought made his fists clench in helpless frustration.

His door suddenly burst open, rattling on its hinges. Merlin stumbled inside, looking as though he had been in too much of a rush to knock.

“I haven’t forgotten about you, don’t worry,” Merlin said, slightly out of breath. “I know I’m meant to be helping Gaius, but we figured it would be a good idea to check on you. On everyone, really. You know, just to make sure you haven’t caught anything. Not that I think you would , of course, because you’re—well, you’re you. But still, better safe than sorry.”

Arthur barely registered the words. Merlin had started rambling again—something he had learned to tune out over time. But watching him now, Arthur found himself thinking about how effortlessly Merlin fit into his life. How, in the short time he had been here, Merlin had become something more than a servant.

Merlin was proof.

Proof that magic could be used for good, that it didn’t have to be the dark, corrupting force his father feared. Ever since he arrived in Camelot, Merlin had done nothing but try to protect people, protect him . He had no thirst for power, no ambitions beyond surviving Uther’s rule and, for some unfathomable reason, putting up with Arthur’s nonsense. Magic had given Merlin power, and yet, he had never sought to wield it over others.

Arthur wondered, not for the first time, when Merlin would trust him enough to tell him the truth.

Merlin was still talking, oblivious to Arthur’s thoughts. “…so you’re either perfectly fine or you’ve just decided to completely ignore me. Which is it?”

Arthur blinked, realizing Merlin had stepped in front of him, watching him with a look of genuine concern.

“I’m fine,” Arthur muttered. “Help me get ready for bed.”

Merlin gave him a skeptical look but said nothing, moving to fetch Arthur’s nightclothes.

Arthur leaned against the window frame, his gaze lingering on the moonlit city below. He’d just have to wait.

If Merlin wasn’t ready to trust him yet, then he would earn that trust.

—

“What are you doing?”

Merlin wrinkled his nose as he stepped into Gaius’s chambers, the sharp scent of herbs and something far less pleasant filling the air. His gaze landed on the old physician, who was hunched over his worktable, carefully swirling the contents of a glass jar. The liquid inside was murky, tinged with an unnatural darkness that made Merlin’s stomach churn.

“I am examining the contents of that man’s stomach,” Gaius replied matter-of-factly, tilting the jar slightly as he observed the reaction.

Merlin grimaced. “That’s disgusting.”

Gaius didn’t even look up. “It’s necessary.”

Merlin leaned in warily, peering at the unsettling mixture. “Will that tell you who did it?” he asked, his curiosity outweighing his queasiness.

Gaius exhaled sharply, setting the jar down with a dull clink against the wooden table. “No,” he admitted. “But it might tell us how it spreads.” His expression darkened as he straightened, rubbing a hand over his weary face. “One thing I do know—this is magic of the darkest kind.”

The words sent a shiver down Merlin’s spine. His throat felt tight as he looked at the jar again, as if expecting to see the magic itself writhing within.

“Why would someone use magic like that?” Merlin murmured, more to himself than to Gaius. He couldn’t understand it. He had only ever known magic to be something beautiful —the soft hum of life in the forest, the warmth of a healing touch, the quiet power that connected the world in ways few could comprehend. The idea that it could do this —that it could be twisted into something so cruel—unsettled him.

Gaius sighed, his tone heavy with the weight of experience. “Magic corrupts. People use it for their own ends.” He said it so simply, so certainly , that it made Merlin’s stomach twist for an entirely different reason.

“But not all magic is bad,” Merlin argued, his voice firmer now. “I know it isn’t.”

For the first time, Gaius looked up from his work. His sharp eyes studied Merlin, as if weighing how much he should say. “Magic is neither good nor bad, Merlin.” His voice softened slightly, but his expression remained grave. “It is only a tool. It is the people who wield it that make it one or the other.”

Merlin swallowed. That made sense, but it didn’t make the knot in his chest loosen.

He barely had time to process it before the door burst open.

—

This was a terrible start to earning Merlin’s trust.

Arthur knew that. But what choice did he have? His father’s orders were absolute. He had been sent to root out the sorcerer responsible for the plague, and that meant searching every home in Camelot, door by door, forcing terrified townsfolk to submit to their authority.

That was how he found himself here, standing at the threshold of the physician’s chambers— Merlin’s chambers.

He led his men inside, forcing his tone to stay even as he addressed the old physician. “I’m sorry, Gaius. We’re searching every room in town.”

Gaius straightened from his work, his expression darkening. “What for?” he demanded, his voice edged with indignation as the knights began rifling through his shelves.

Arthur met his gaze, determined not to waver. “The sorcerer.”

Gaius let out an exasperated sigh. “Well, we’ve nothing to hide. Go on and search.”

The knights wasted no time, opening cabinets, shuffling through scrolls, upending jars, and poking at Gaius’s carefully arranged equipment. Glass clinked, wooden drawers scraped against their frames, and the air filled with the scent of crushed herbs as someone knocked over a satchel of dried leaves.

Arthur stood in the center of the chaos, watching his men work. He found himself eyeing the various objects strewn about Gaius’s worktable—half of them he couldn’t even name. Were they magical or merely medicinal? If there was sorcery here, would he even be able to recognize it?

He turned his attention to a stack of books, flipping through the pages with little interest. “What are these?” he asked.

Gaius barely looked up as he replied, “My life’s work. Dedicated to the understanding of science. You’re quite welcome to read through them if you wish.”

Arthur grimaced at the thought. “I think I’ll pass.”

As he continued surveying the room, his eyes landed on a small, wooden door tucked into the corner.

He pointed. “What’s this room?”

Merlin, who had been uncharacteristically quiet up until now, finally spoke. “It’s mine.”

That intrigued Arthur. He had never been in Merlin’s room before, despite the servant being in his chambers every day. That hardly seemed fair. Merlin had seen Arthur’s belongings, his weapons, even his childhood possessions. Arthur, on the other hand, knew nothing about his servant’s private life.

He really hoped Merlin didn’t own anything magical. Or if he did, that he had the sense to hide it well.

Gaius crossed his arms. “And what exactly do you expect to find in there?”

Arthur kept his tone level. “I’m looking for material or evidence suggesting the use of enchantments.”

He stepped inside before either of them could protest further. The first thing that caught his eye was a book lying open on the floor. It just looked suspicious. Arthur sighed, his frustration mounting. He pushed it under the bed with his foot.

His gaze swept the rest of the small, cramped space. The bed was unmade, the desk was a cluttered mess of parchment and ink, and the shelves were piled high with vials and drying herbs. The sheer disorder of it all made him shake his head.

But then something caught his interest.

The papers scattered on the desk weren’t random notes or meaningless scribbles—they were letters . Actual, structured writing. Arthur’s brow furrowed as he glanced at the ink pot beside them.

Merlin could write?

That wasn’t exactly common for a peasant. It raised more questions than Arthur had time for. How had he learned? Where had he grown up? Had he lived in a village, or had he been raised elsewhere—in a large city perhaps?

Arthur clenched his jaw and turned away before curiosity got the better of him. He wouldn’t read Merlin’s letters. Whatever they were, they were his .

Instead, he turned his attention to a nearby cabinet.

He let out a short laugh and called over his shoulder. “Look what I’ve found!”

Merlin rushed into the room just as Arthur swung open the wardrobe doors. He raised an eyebrow at what he saw—or rather, didn’t see.

The wardrobe was nearly empty .

There was a single shirt hanging inside—one Arthur recognized . He had commissioned it himself, guessing at Merlin’s size when he first appointed him as his servant. He had never thought much of it at the time, but now, seeing it here among so few belongings, something about it unsettled him.

Merlin had so little. Far less than Arthur had imagined.

Arthur shut the wardrobe with a smirk, pushing aside his unease. “I’ve found a place where you can put things. It’s called a cupboard.” He flashed Merlin a teasing grin.

Merlin gave a nervous smile in return, shifting uncomfortably.

Arthur turned back to the desk, giving his servant a chance to further deal with that suspicious book. He didn’t believe for a second that Merlin was the sorcerer behind the plague, but if his men found that book…

Merlin would hang for it.

Without a word, Arthur stepped past one of his knights and stopped him from entering the room. “Nothing back there,” he said casually, blocking the way.

He turned to Gaius before anyone could question it. “How long do you think it will take to find a cure?”

Gaius lifted a single eyebrow. “Depends how many interruptions I get.”

Arthur felt that. For a moment, he wasn’t a prince—he was just a boy again, being scolded for knocking over Gaius’s herbs as a child.

He cleared his throat. “Of course. I’m sorry.”

Turning to his men, he called, “We’re finished here.”

As they filed out of the chambers, Arthur allowed himself one final glance at Merlin. He hoped this intrusion hadn’t left his servant thinking he was exactly like his father.

Because the truth was, Arthur didn’t hate magic—not really.

He only hated what it did to people.

—

“We have to hide that book,” Gaius demanded, his voice low but urgent. He was already moving, shuffling through the mess left behind by the search, setting toppled vials upright, and checking for anything out of place.

“No,” Merlin countered, stepping forward. “We have to use it.”

Gaius snapped his head toward him. “Don’t be stupid.”

“I have a legacy to uphold, Gaius! I’m meant to be more powerful than any other sorcerer who’s ever lived. You keep telling me magic isn’t for playing tricks—then let me do something useful!”

Gaius let out a frustrated breath. “You want to practice magic while the king has his men turning over every home, hunting down sorcerers? Are you mad?” His voice was sharp, but there was an underlying fear there too, an urgency Merlin couldn’t ignore. Gaius began straightening the clutter, hands moving faster than usual, his age-worn face drawn with worry.

Merlin shook his head. “My destiny is to see Arthur take the throne and unite Albion. But how does he get there if he and everyone in this kingdom are dead?” His voice wavered, but his conviction did not. “Even if this wasn’t about Camelot, I would still want to help. Every life is important, Gaius.”

Gaius stopped, his eyes studying Merlin’s face. There was something in his expression—pride, maybe, but it was buried beneath deep concern. “Let us try science first,” he said, his voice softer now, almost pleading. “At least while Uther is on the hunt. Patience is a virtue, Merlin.”

Merlin scoffed. “Oh, right. Sitting around and doing nothing while people die—that’s a virtue?”

“Your time will come,” Gaius insisted, his brow furrowing.

“I could cure them all,” Merlin argued, his voice tight with frustration. His fists clenched at his sides, his magic surging beneath his skin, begging to be used. He didn’t understand why Gaius was so against it. He would be careful. He wouldn’t get caught.

“I know it’s tempting to use the easiest path,” Gaius admitted, his voice quieter now.

“It’s not about what’s easy,” Merlin shot back. “It’s about saving lives.”

Gaius sighed, his shoulders sagging. “It’s no good saving one person if we don’t understand the cause. We have to figure out how this illness is spreading.”

Merlin ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “Arthur is out there right now, searching for the sorcerer.”

“A sorcerer powerful enough to conjure a plague will not be found by knocking on doors,” Gaius said grimly.

A tense silence stretched between them. Being angry with each other wouldn’t help.

Merlin exhaled, forcing himself to steady his thoughts. “So what can we do?” he asked, his voice more measured now.

Gaius met his gaze. “Hope that science finds the answer before this plague claims more lives.”

Merlin nodded, but doubt gnawed at him. Every instinct told him that magic was the only way to stop this, but he didn’t know the spell causing it. If he did, maybe he could reverse it—no need to find the sorcerer at all.

His gaze drifted toward the book.

Time to start reading.

—

The bodies were piling up.

Arthur had spent days searching, questioning, and chasing ghosts, yet the sorcerer remained elusive. And now, he had to face his father and admit his failure.

Each step toward the throne room felt heavier than the last. The grand corridors of Camelot, usually alive with the sounds of courtiers, servants, and knights, were eerily silent. Fear had tightened its grip on the castle, muting the usual hum of daily life. Even the guards stationed along the hall stood stiff and unspeaking, their gazes hollow, their shoulders tense. The weight of death and despair clung to them all.

Arthur’s heart pounded, a steady, rhythmic reminder of his perceived inadequacy. He had searched every alleyway, interrogated every suspect, but the sickness continued to spread. The sorcerer responsible was still out there, and people were still dying.

The grand doors loomed ahead. As he approached, the two guards flanking them pushed them open, their movements slow and weary. Arthur stepped inside.

The throne room was dimly lit, the flickering torchlight casting long shadows against the towering stone walls. The air felt colder than usual, heavy with unspoken dread. At the far end, seated upon his gilded throne, was Uther Pendragon. He sat rigid, his expression one of stern authority, but Arthur could see the tension in his father’s jaw, the tightness around his eyes. He was worried.

Arthur stopped a few paces from the throne, straightening despite the exhaustion weighing on him. “We’ve searched everywhere,” he reported, voice clipped with frustration. “The entire city.” He hesitated, then dipped his head, his voice quieter. “We’ve found nothing.”

Uther rose. “Nothing?”

“I don’t know where else to look.” Arthur shook his head, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

Uther’s face remained impassive, but Arthur could see the flicker of thought behind his eyes, calculations forming, decisions being made. Then, his father turned away. “I want a curfew imposed. No one is to be on the streets after the great bell.”

Arthur hesitated only for a moment before nodding. It made sense. If the sorcerer was lurking in the dark, restricting movement might make them easier to catch. “Understood.”

“And cordon off the lower town.”

Arthur stiffened. His head lifted, eyes narrowing slightly. “Why?”

Uther turned back to him, his expression hard as stone. “Because that’s where most of the victims are.” His voice left no room for debate. “We isolate it. Stop this disease from spreading.”

Arthur’s stomach twisted. “But what about the people who live there?” he asked, his voice softer now, laced with concern. “They’re our people. If we cut them off, we condemn them to—”

“You think I haven’t considered that?” Uther snapped, his voice sharp as a blade. His hands curled over the arms of his throne, his knuckles whitening. “What else can I do, Arthur? Let the sickness spread through the castle? Through the nobility?” He took a step forward, his eyes burning with something deeper than anger—fear. “I have to protect the rest of the city.”

Arthur clenched his jaw. He wanted to argue, wanted to tell his father that condemning the lower town wasn’t the answer. But he knew better. He had learned that lesson before.

He felt the ghost of pain on his cheek, a memory surfacing unbidden.

It had been after he had ‘saved’ Gaius. Arthur had been told to report to his father immediately after leaving the physician’s chambers. He had entered the throne room, heart pounding, a small flicker of hope lingering in his chest—perhaps, this time, his father would be proud of him.

That hope had died the moment Uther spoke.

“What on Earth were you thinking?” His father’s voice had been quiet. Deadly quiet.

Arthur swallowed. “I was helping Gaius. I—”

“What use would you be to him?” The king’s voice rose into a furious roar. “Have you suddenly become an expert in medicine? In plants?”

“He would have died if I weren’t there!” Arthur had argued, his voice shaking but firm.

The slap came faster than he could react. A sharp, stinging pain blossomed across his cheek, and tears stung his eyes before he could stop them. He had stood there, face burning, staring at his father in shock.

Uther loomed over him, his breathing heavy. “Which means you could have died,” he seethed. “You arrogant child!” He inhaled sharply, forcing himself to regain control. Then, in a quieter, colder voice, he said, “Get out of my sight.”

Arthur had left without another word, the sting of his father’s hand lingering long after the pain had faded.

Now, standing in the throne room once more, he shook himself from the memory.

He bowed his head slightly. “I’ll see to it, my lord.”

Then, without another word, he turned and left.

Each step away from the throne room felt heavier than the last.

He hated this.

He hated feeling powerless.

And above all, he hated the creeping fear that his father’s decision might be right.

Because if they didn’t stop this soon… there might not be a kingdom left to save.

—

Merlin sat hunched over his open book, flipping through its brittle pages with mounting frustration. He had searched for what felt like hours, scouring every tome on curses Gaius owned, yet nothing he found explained the horrifying affliction that had struck Camelot. His fingers traced over unfamiliar runes, his mind grasping at fragments of half-remembered spells, but none of them fit.

The victims were dying too quickly. He needed answers.

Before he could turn another page, Gaius’s voice cut through his concentration. “Merlin, come here.”

With a sigh, Merlin shut the book, rubbing his tired eyes as he trudged into the main room of their quarters. Gaius stood by the worktable, his expression thoughtful, yet lined with the weariness of too many sleepless nights. Vials of herbs and dried plants were scattered across the wooden surface, but Merlin could tell from the deep furrow in Gaius’s brow that no remedy had yet been found.

“Tell me,” Gaius said, folding his arms, “what is different about this latest victim?”

Merlin blinked, taken aback. He hadn’t expected a quiz. “Uh… she’s a woman?” he offered hesitantly.

Gaius let out a weary sigh. “Sometimes, I truly wonder whether your magical talents were given to the right person.”

Merlin scowled, feeling mildly insulted. “Well, I’m sorry for not being omniscient, Gaius. Maybe you could just tell me?”

Gaius raised a pointed eyebrow, unimpressed. “Think, Merlin.”

Grinding his teeth, Merlin forced himself to focus. He pictured the latest victim: a well-dressed courtier, her body stiff with unnatural stillness, her lips darkened as if poisoned. The previous victims had all been townsfolk, but this woman—she was different.

“She’s a courtier,” Merlin said slowly, the realization dawning.

Gaius nodded. “And how does that help us?”

Merlin frowned. “I don’t know, how does that help us?” His patience was thinning.

“Courtiers seldom venture into the lower town,” Gaius prompted.

Merlin’s frustration only deepened. He wasn’t in the mood for riddles, especially with lives at stake. “So?”

“So,” Gaius said with a measured calm, “it suggests that the disease is not spread by direct contact.”

That stopped Merlin short. He hadn’t thought of that.

His mind reeled, working through the implications. “And… they probably eat different food,” he said, slowly catching on.

“Good. And?” Gaius pressed, his eyes gleaming with expectation.

Merlin hesitated. “They… they don’t breathe the same air?”

Gaius nodded. “Exactly. Which leaves only one thing they do share.”

Merlin rubbed his temples, his brain aching from the relentless guessing game, but as he thought it over, the answer struck him like a bolt of lightning. His eyes widened. “Water.”

Gaius’s lips curled into a satisfied smile. “Now you’re thinking.”

“You think the disease is in the water?” Merlin asked, his voice tinged with disbelief and intrigue.

“Not just any water,” Gaius corrected. “The city’s main supply.”

Merlin’s stomach dropped. If the wells were contaminated, then the entire population of Camelot was in danger.

“We need to test it,” Gaius said, already moving toward the shelves to gather his tools. He grabbed a bucket and thrust it into Merlin’s hands.

Merlin stared at it. “You’re sending me to fetch water? In the middle of a city-wide panic? With a sorcerer on the loose?”

Gaius gave him a pointed look. “Unless you’ve suddenly found a spell that can summon water from the wells without raising suspicion?”

Merlin huffed but didn’t argue.

As he turned toward the door, Gaius called after him, his voice softer. “And be careful, Merlin.”

Merlin glanced back, he gave a crooked grin. “Aren’t I always?”

Gaius muttered something under his breath—probably an insult—but there was no mistaking the worry in his eyes as Merlin stepped out into the darkened streets of Camelot.

—

Merlin had just reached the well, the rhythmic creak of the pump filling the otherwise quiet square as he worked to fill his bucket. The afternoon sun hung low, casting golden light across the stone streets, but an uneasy stillness clung to Camelot, like the city itself was holding its breath.

Just as he was starting to fill the bucket, movement caught his eye.

Gwen.

She was running.

Her brown skirts billowed behind her, her pace frantic, her breath ragged. She barely seemed to register where she was going—her only focus was forward.

“Gwen!” Merlin called, straightening, but she didn’t stop. Didn’t even look at him.

And then he saw the tears.

They streamed down her face, catching in the sunlight like tiny, glistening drops of sorrow. Her features were twisted in anguish, her expression one of pure devastation. Merlin’s stomach dropped.

Without a second thought, he grabbed his half-filled bucket and hurried after her, his heart pounding.

By the time he caught up, Gwen was already at the physician’s quarters. She burst through the door, her sobs shattering the heavy silence inside.

“Gaius!” she cried, her voice raw with desperation.

Gaius, who had been hunched over his worktable, immediately turned at the sound. His face darkened with concern as he took in the sight of her, breathless and shaking.

“You have the sickness?” he asked, his voice careful, urgent.

Gwen’s entire body trembled as she shook her head, her tear-filled eyes pleading. “My father!” she gasped. “Please, Gaius, he’s all I have!”

Merlin felt his chest constrict.

Tom. Gwen’s father.

Gaius’s face fell, sorrow settling into the deep lines of his features. “Gwen…” he began, but the words faltered. He took a slow breath, his voice weighed down with regret. “I have no cure.”

Gwen stumbled forward, reaching out, grasping his hands in hers. “Please,” she begged, clutching him as if he were her last hope. “I am begging you.”

Gaius swallowed hard, his grip tightening gently around her trembling hands. “I wish there was something… anything,” he said softly, sorrow thick in his voice. “But so far, the remedy is beyond what I can achieve.”

Gwen’s breath hitched. She shook her head, her anguish raw and uncontained.

For a moment, she simply stood there, staring at him as if willing him to take the words back, to tell her there was hope after all. But Gaius didn’t.

Her fingers slipped from his.

And then she turned and fled, her sobs trailing behind her, vanishing into the dim corridors beyond.

Merlin remained frozen in place, the weight of the moment pressing down on his chest like a stone.

He couldn’t let this happen.

He wouldn’t let this happen.

Gwen had been nothing but kind to him from the moment they met. She was warmth, she was goodness—she had a heart that never wavered, even in the face of cruelty and injustice. She had offered him friendship without hesitation, without expectation.

And now she was breaking.

He knew that pain. That hollow, gut-wrenching agony. He had felt it when he lost his own father. 

when the weight of grief settled like an immovable force in his soul, leaving behind an emptiness that could never truly be filled.

He wouldn’t let Gwen suffer the same.

“There must be something we can do,” he said, his voice hoarse with determination.

Gaius exhaled, slow and heavy. “Let’s hope this provides some answers.” He gestured toward the bucket Merlin had brought, already reaching for small glass jars.

Merlin barely heard him.

“But that will be too late for Gwen’s father!” he snapped, his frustration bubbling over, his desperation clawing at his insides.

Gaius stilled. For a moment, he just studied Merlin, a quiet understanding in his weary gaze. “I fear you may be right.”

His voice was calm, but the truth beneath it hit Merlin like a punch to the gut.

Gaius carefully collected a small vial of water, moving methodically despite the gravity of the situation. He reached for a dried flower from his shelf—the same flower Gwen had given Merlin. He lowered it into the jar.

Merlin watched in silence.

Watched as the flower began to wilt.

—

Merlin didn’t sleep that night. Sleep was a luxury he couldn’t afford—not when Gwen’s father was slipping away with each passing hour. Instead, he sat on the cold wooden floor of Gaius’s chambers, his heart pounding as he pried up the loose floorboard beneath his bed. Beneath it lay the old spellbook, its worn leather cover smooth beneath his fingers, the pages filled with secrets long buried by time.

The candle beside him flickered wildly as he turned the brittle parchment, searching, scanning every incantation, every remedy for something—anything—that could help Tom. The night stretched on, his eyes aching from the dim light, but finally, a passage caught his attention. A spell of purging. It was risky, its effects unpredictable, but it was a chance. And he wasn’t about to let Gwen lose her father if he could prevent it.

Carefully, he gathered the necessary herbs and ingredients, wrapping them tightly in a small cloth bundle. Gaius would never approve. If he were caught, Uther would have his head. But none of that mattered. Not now.

A curfew had been imposed across the city, a response to the growing fear surrounding the sickness. If he was caught outside the castle walls, it wouldn’t matter that he was the prince’s manservant—punishment would be swift. He needed to be careful.

Draping his jacket over his nightclothes, he crept through the darkened corridors of the castle. Every flicker of torchlight sent his heart hammering, every distant footstep made his breath catch. He knew the guards' rotations by now, had memorized the moments when their paths overlapped. With precise timing, he slipped through the gates and into the labyrinth of alleyways beyond.

Camelot’s streets were eerily silent. The usual bustle of merchants and blacksmiths, of laughter and conversation, was absent. Only the distant hoot of an owl and the occasional rustling of straw in the wind broke the quiet.

Merlin moved quickly, staying within the shadows, but as he neared Gwen’s home, the sound of approaching footsteps made him freeze. A group of knights were patrolling the streets, torches in hand, their sharp eyes scanning every crevice. They were searching. Looking for those who defied the curfew.

He pressed himself against the rough stone of a nearby building, forcing himself to breathe slowly. The knights were methodical, checking alleyways, prodding straw carts, looking behind doors. If they found him now, there would be no explaining this away.

With a whispered incantation, his eyes flashed gold. A door creaked open just as the knight passed it. The man paused, glancing at it with a frown. Another spell. The door swung back, smacking the knight in the face.

The man stumbled, cursing as he rubbed his forehead. His fellow knights turned at the commotion, muttering amongst themselves, and Merlin seized the opportunity. Moving swiftly, he slipped around the corner and hurried the remaining distance to Gwen’s home.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of herbs, mingling with the faint, sweet fragrance of wildflowers. The small room was dimly lit, the glow of scattered candles casting flickering shadows on the stone walls.

Tom lay motionless in his bed, his face pale, his breathing shallow. Gwen sat beside him on the floor, her head resting against the mattress, her hands curled near his own as if she could will him to stay. Her face was tear-streaked, her exhaustion evident even in sleep.

Merlin swallowed hard. He knew this scene all too well. The quiet helplessness, the unbearable wait for a loved one’s final breath. He had lived it. And he would not let Gwen go through the same.

He moved quickly, his fingers trembling as he tucked the small poultice beneath Tom’s pillow. Then, stepping back, he held out his hand.

The words of the spell left his lips in a hushed whisper, charged with urgency, with desperation. The moment the incantation was complete, a faint, greenish-gold mist seemed to rise from Tom’s body. Merlin stiffened. He had seen magic before—felt it, wielded it—but this was different. This was dark magic, clinging to Tom like a shadow, draining the life from him. It was no ordinary sickness. Magic truely was to blame.

His stomach twisted, but there was no time for fear. The spell had been cast. Now, all he could do was wait.

Slipping outside, he crouched near the window, watching with bated breath.

A moment passed. Then another. And then—

Tom stirred. His fingers twitched against the sheets. Slowly, his eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first, then sharpening as he took in his surroundings. His gaze landed on Gwen, still curled up beside him.

With a shaky hand, he reached down and stroked her hair.

A choked sob broke the silence. Gwen’s eyes snapped open, confusion flashing across her face before realization set in.

“Papa?”

Tom managed a weak smile.

Tears spilled down Gwen’s cheeks as she scrambled onto the bed, wrapping her arms around him, holding onto him as if he might disappear if she let go.

“You’re awake,” she whispered through her sobs, burying her face against his chest. “You’re alive.”

Merlin felt a lump rise in his throat. He had done it. He had saved him.

As the first hints of dawn painted the sky in soft hues of pink and gold, Merlin made his way back to the castle. The town was still, the weight of the night’s events pressing upon him, but for the first time in hours, he felt a sense of peace.

It had been worth it. The risk, the fear, the sleepless night—it had all been worth it.

Because tonight, a father had been returned to his child. And Merlin had ensured that Gwen wouldn’t have to endure the same loss he had.

—

Eighty-five.

That was how many lives the magical plague had claimed so fat. That was how many people Merlin had failed to save. Each death was a silent accusation, a weight pressing down on his chest, relentless and suffocating. He could see their faces in his mind—friends, neighbors, strangers. People he had passed in the market, exchanged smiles with on the streets, each one now reduced to a memory, a ghost lingering in the recesses of his thoughts. Eighty-five souls, lost in the span of days, leaving behind only grief and despair.

He had awoken to the news, to the bitter taste of failure. The morning light filtered through his window, painting his small room in golden hues, a cruel mockery of the darkness that settled in his heart. He sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the stone floor as the number echoed in his mind, each repetition carving deeper into his conscience. Eighty-five.

What good was his power if he couldn't stop this? The thought gnawed at him, a vicious whisper curling around his every doubt. He had spent years honing his magic, pushing himself to master the ancient arts, pouring over Gaius’s tomes by candlelight, practicing spells. And yet, when it truly mattered—when lives depended on him—he had been powerless. The sheer cruelty of it made him feel sick.

Merlin dragged himself to his feet, each movement slow and heavy, as though the very air had thickened with sorrow. He crossed the room to the window, bracing his hands against the wooden frame as he gazed over the city. Camelot was unnervingly quiet. Normally, the streets would be alive with the hum of conversation, merchants calling out their wares, children laughing as they played. But now, there was only an eerie stillness, the weight of fear thick and tangible. The sickness had sunk its claws deep into the heart of the city, and its people lived in the shadow of death.

He clenched his fists, frustration bubbling up like a storm within him. What was the point of all his power, all his knowledge, if he couldn’t protect the very people he had sworn to help? He had promised himself he would use his magic for good, for the betterment and safety of Camelot. But as the bodies piled higher, he found himself questioning whether he was truly capable of fulfilling that promise. He felt lost, helpless.

Pushing aside his turmoil, he followed Gaius to the council chamber. The meeting was already tense when they arrived. The weight of loss clung to the air, and the flickering candlelight did little to ease the grim atmosphere.

“Don’t touch that!” Gaius barked, making everyone startle. Across the room, Arthur, who had been reaching for a small vial containing a submerged flower, quickly retracted his hand.

Gaius exhaled sharply. “I had this in the water for no more than a few hours.”

“Where is the water from?” Uther’s voice was clipped, urgent.

“The pump where people draw their daily supply.”

Arthur’s expression darkened. “Then we have to stop the people from using it.”

“The city cannot survive without water.” Gaius shook his head gravely.

“Then we have to find the sorcerer.” Uther pushed back from his chair and turned toward the window, his posture rigid as though carved from stone.

“I don’t believe they are inside Camelot,” Gaius said carefully.

“Then extend the search to the villages,” Uther commanded, his voice cold and final.

Arthur nodded, but his tone was strained. “We’ve started, but I can’t search the entire kingdom.”

Merlin studied him. Arthur, already weighed down by his duty, now had to contend with the unbearable burden of lives slipping through his fingers. The prince was already shouldering the expectations of his father and the kingdom—every decision scrutinized, every mistake magnified. He had always been a man of action, someone who could fight his battles with a sword, who could stare down an enemy and cut through the problem with steel and determination. But this was different. This was an enemy he couldn’t see, couldn’t fight, and the helplessness of it gnawed at him like rust on a blade.

Merlin saw it in his posture, in the set of his jaw, in the tension brimming beneath his skin. Arthur carried himself with the regality expected of him, shoulders squared, head held high, but Merlin knew better. He had seen the flickers of exhaustion, the way Arthur’s hands curled into fists when he thought no one was watching, the sleepless nights spent pacing, searching for solutions that refused to come. Arthur was trying to be the perfect leader, the perfect knight, the perfect son. But he was only human, despite the legend he was meant to become.

And Merlin, who had sworn to protect him, felt the sting of his own inadequacy. What use was he if he couldn’t lift this burden from Arthur’s shoulders? If he couldn’t find the answer, if he couldn’t stop this plague, then what was he even fighting for?

Uther finally turned, his face a mask of controlled fury. “I will not stand by and watch my people die.” He strode toward his son, his presence commanding the room.

Arthur met his gaze and nodded, his expression unreadable. No protest. No hesitation. Just the silent acceptance of a prince who had long ago learned that duty came before all else.

Without another word, he turned on his heel and left the chamber, his steps echoing in the stone corridors. Merlin hesitated before following. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know how to ease Arthur’s burden, how to lessen the weight pressing down on him. But he did know one thing: there was still one ray of light left in this darkness.

And he needed to see her.

—

He found Gwen in Morgana’s chambers, folding clothes with the practiced ease of someone who had done it a thousand times before. She looked up as he hovered at the doorway, hesitating just beyond the threshold. He knew better than to step inside the chambers of the king’s ward—especially now, after all the trouble he’d already managed to land himself in.

“How’s your father?” he asked, keeping his voice light, though his heart hammered in his chest. “Is he feeling any better?”

For the first time since her father had fallen ill, Gwen smiled—a real, radiant smile that banished the shadows from her face. “Yes! It’s incredible. A miracle, really.”

Relief flooded Merlin, untangling the knot in his stomach. “His skin—” he hesitated, trying to keep his tone casual, “it’s clear? Back to normal?”

“Yes.”

Merlin exhaled, tension he hadn’t even realized he was holding slipping from his shoulders. He hadn’t failed her. “Great,” he said with a nod, already turning to go. There was still so much to do—Arthur, Gaius, his training, the ever-present search for whoever was responsible for this plague.

But Gwen’s voice stopped him. “You don’t seem surprised.”

Merlin froze for a fraction of a second. His questions had been too specific. He cursed himself for the slip-up, for making it obvious he had known before she told him. Time to backpedal.

“No, no, I am! It’s amazing,” he said quickly, pasting on an innocent grin. “A miracle.”

But she wasn’t convinced. Her brows knit together, and she took a step closer. “But how did you know?” Her voice was soft, curious, but there was something searching in her gaze. “I haven’t told anyone yet, but you knew.”

Crap.

Merlin scrambled for an answer, trying to summon his usual quick wit. He needed something believable—something that would steer her away from the truth. Then it came to him.

“Yeah…” He let out a dramatic sigh and stepped forward, lowering his voice as if revealing a great secret. “All right, you got me. I’ll tell you.” He leaned in conspiratorially. “I’m psychic.”

Gwen blinked. Then she laughed. “No, you’re not.”

“I am!” He threw his arms out, as if to emphasize his supposed powers.

She crossed her arms, still grinning. “Prove it. What am I thinking right now?”

He narrowed his eyes at her, furrowing his brow as if deep in concentration. “That I’m not psychic.”

She laughed again, shaking her head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I prefer ‘mysterious,’” he corrected, grinning.

“You’re strange,” she said through her laughter, but there was warmth in it, an affection that made his chest ache in a way he didn’t quite understand. “I don’t mean that in a nasty way! You’re just… funny.”

“I’m really pleased for you, Gwen,” Merlin said, his voice quieter now. “No one deserves to have their father taken away.” Least of all her.

The amusement in her expression melted into something gentler, more searching. “You know, Merlin,” she said after a moment, “I still don’t know all that much about you. Other than how strange you are.” She smiled briefly before tilting her head, her voice taking on a note of quiet sincerity. “If you ever need someone to talk to, I’d be more than happy to listen.”

He hesitated. His father had always told him that he would need people he could trust, people he could confide in. And yet, for so long, secrecy had been his only defense, the only way to stay safe.

But Gwen… Gwen was kind. She was warm. She made him feel—just for a moment—that maybe he wasn’t so alone.

He met her gaze and, for once, let himself be honest.

“I’d like that.”

—

Arthur strode through the lower town, his knights flanking him like a wall of steel. The streets bustled with the usual market chatter—merchants hawking their wares, children weaving between carts, the scent of fresh bread and roasting meat thick in the air. But there was an undercurrent of something else. Whispers followed them, muttered words exchanged behind cupped hands.

They had caught wind of a man who had been sick with the plague, only to miraculously recover. And people did not simply recover from a magic plague. It could only mean one thing.

Magic.

Arthur’s jaw tightened. He could not blame a man for wanting to be cured, for wanting to live. But his father? Uther would see no distinction. If magic had been used, it had to be punished.

They found the man in the forge, his hammer ringing against hot iron, sending sparks cascading onto the dirt floor. His arms, corded with muscle, flexed with each strike, his breath steady. A man in full health.

Arthur stepped forward. “The story is you were sick.”

The blacksmith barely glanced at him, shrugging as he set down his hammer. “Not anymore.”

Arthur studied the man’s face, searching for any sign of deceit, any flicker of hesitation. He found none. “Perhaps it was another ailment,” he suggested carefully. “Something that only seemed like the plague.” Please, for your own sake, agree.

The man gave a short, gruff laugh. “You’re joking. I felt like death itself.” He shook his head. “Didn’t have the strength to stir the air. Could barely lift my head.”

Arthur heard the shift of metal as his men adjusted their grips on their swords. A silent preparation. They were ready to act at the slightest order.

Arthur forced himself to remain calm. “And then?”

“Then it was gone,” the blacksmith said simply. “Like it was never there.” He gestured at himself. “And I feel fitter than I did before.”

Arthur exhaled slowly, thinking. The man seemed genuinely baffled by his own recovery, and if the accounts of his sickness were true, there was no way he had the strength to heal himself. Which meant someone else had done it for him.

“Was anyone with you when it happened?” Arthur asked, his voice steady.

“Just my daughter.” The blacksmith wiped his brow and added absently, “Gwen.”

Arthur stilled.

Guinevere.

Morgana’s maidservant. The girl he had only spoken to in passing.

A sense of unease curled in his chest. He had expected to find some unknown healer, some mysterious figure peddling charms and spells in the dead of night. Not… Gwen.

And now her father had said enough to justify her arrest.

Arthur inhaled sharply. No. Not yet. Not if he could help it. He turned to his men. “Search their house.”

The blacksmith straightened. “Wait, what?”

Arthur did not answer. He didn’t have the words.

They made their way to the small home near the forge, its door slightly ajar. The scent of herbs and fresh bread greeted him, warm and familiar. The hearth smoldered, casting flickering shadows across the wooden beams. Everything was neat, well-kept. There were signs of care everywhere—carefully mended curtains, a small vase of wildflowers on the table. This wasn’t just a house. It was a home.

One Arthur suddenly realized he was intruding upon.

But his moment of hesitation cost him. “Sir,” one of his knights called. Arthur turned just as the man pulled a small bag from beneath a pillow on the bed. He opened it, revealing a poultice wrapped in cloth—glowing faintly with unnatural light.

Magic.

Arthur clenched his teeth. If he had found it first, he could have tucked it away, destroyed it, pretended it hadn’t existed. But now? Now it was out of his hands.

He let out a breath. “We bring her in.”

—

They passed Merlin in the hall, dragging Guinevere toward the throne room like a condemned prisoner marching to her execution. The corridor was dimly lit, the torches casting long, flickering shadows across the cold stone walls. Every clang of armor, every echoing footstep rang like a death knell in Arthur’s ears.

Then he saw Merlin’s face.

The young warlock stood frozen in place, his face pale as though all the blood had drained from it. His blue eyes, usually so full of mischief and light, were wide with horror, darting between Gwen and Arthur with a desperate, silent plea. His lips parted as if to speak, but no words came. Arthur could see his hands tremble at his sides, fingers twitching as if aching to reach out, to do something, anything.

Arthur’s stomach twisted violently, and he had to force himself to keep walking. He swallowed against the rising bile in his throat. He had been sick with guilt before, but now—seeing Merlin like this, the anguish radiating from him—it was unbearable.

Then, unbidden, a memory struck him.

Merlin, just days before, standing before him with an awkward, bashful smile, quickly tucking something behind his back. A flower. A single white bloom. Arthur had teased him, prodding and smirking until Merlin, flustered beyond measure, admitted that Gwen had given it to him. Arthur hadn’t thought much of it at the time, brushing it off as yet another one of Merlin’s oddities.

But now?

Now, the realization hit him like a blade to the gut.

Was there something between them? Were they in love?

The thought sent a fresh wave of nausea through him. Was that what this was? Was he sentencing Merlin’s love to death for the simple act of saving her father?

His throat tightened, and for the first time since this ordeal began, Arthur felt truly afraid. He had done many things in the name of duty, had arrested men, sentenced thieves, fought enemies on the battlefield. But this? This was different. This was personal.

And Merlin—Merlin, who had been nothing but loyal to him, who had stood by him despite everything—was looking at him like he was a monster.

Arthur had to look away.

He couldn’t stand the way Merlin was staring at him, as if pleading for his soul.

Gwen’s cries filled the corridor, each desperate call of "Please, no! Morgana! Merlin!" a dagger to the heart. She struggled against the guards, her voice cracking with terror, but they did not stop. They did not hesitate.

Arthur clenched his fists.

The doors to the throne room loomed ahead, dark and foreboding. Beyond them, judgment awaited. His father awaited. Uther would not waver, not when it came to magic.

Arthur’s mind raced, a frantic blur of thoughts, calculations, possible arguments. There had to be a way. A way to save her. A way to protect her without betraying his father’s laws, without unraveling everything he had spent his life believing.

But he knew, deep down, that there was no perfect solution.

The laws of Camelot were rigid, unyielding. His father’s hatred of magic was absolute. And yet—Arthur could not bring himself to let this happen.

He cast one last glance at Merlin.

Merlin, who had barely moved, his hands clenched at his sides, his expression one of raw, helpless fury and grief. Merlin, who was watching the love of his life being dragged away, powerless to stop it.

Arthur couldn’t fail them both.

He set his jaw, straightened his shoulders, and stepped forward, ready to fight the impossible battle ahead.

—

Morgana was the first to come to Guinevere’s defense the moment they arrived at the throne room. The grand hall was a cold and unforgiving place, its towering stone walls lined with guards and courtiers whose whispers filled the air like the rustling of dry leaves before a storm. The tension was thick, a silent force pressing down on them as Uther sat upon his throne, his expression carved from stone.

Morgana stepped forward without hesitation, her voice sharp and unwavering. “Gwen is no sorceress,” she declared, her words slicing through the murmurs of the court. “Her father recovered. That is all. That is not magic—that is life.”

For a fleeting moment, silence settled over the chamber, a fragile hope that perhaps reason would prevail. But then, one of Uther’s knights stepped forward, producing the damning piece of evidence: the poultice. The sight of it sent another ripple of unease through the crowd. Arthur felt his stomach tighten as the atmosphere shifted—their belief in Gwen’s innocence wavered, tilting toward suspicion and fear.

Gwen, standing in the center of it all, looked stricken. Confusion clouded her eyes as they darted from the poultice to the accusing faces surrounding her. “I— I don’t understand,” she stammered, her voice raw and trembling. “I didn’t do anything… I don’t know anything about sorcery.” Tears welled up in her eyes as she shook her head in disbelief, her hands clutching the fabric of her dress as though trying to ground herself in reality.

Arthur believed her. He knew of Gwen—her kindness, her loyalty, her heart. She wasn’t capable of dark magic. And yet, it wasn’t reason or justice that ruled Camelot when it came to sorcery. It was fear.

Uther’s voice cut through the air, cold and unwavering. “Guinevere, daughter of Tom the Blacksmith, you have been found guilty of using sorcery. The punishment for this crime is death.”

The words sent a chill through Arthur’s spine. The sentence had been passed. The trial had been nothing more than a formality.

“No!” Gwen cried as the guards moved toward her. “Please, I didn’t— I wouldn’t—” Her words broke into sobs as she struggled against their grasp.

Arthur’s heart pounded in his chest. He had watched his father pass judgment before, had seen the merciless efficiency with which he dealt with sorcery, but this—this was different. This was Gwen. This was Merlin’s love. And he was powerless to stop it.

He caught sight of Merlin at the edge of the crowd, his face pale and drawn, his blue eyes wide with something between terror and fury. Arthur had never seen Merlin look so desperate, so openly panicked.

And then it hit him.

Oh, God.

Merlin.

Arthur’s breath caught in his throat. Merlin had been acting strangely since Gwen’s father had fallen ill, sneaking off at odd hours, constantly looking worried.

Arthur suddenly saw it all in a new, terrible light. Merlin was reckless, constantly throwing himself in harm’s way for the sake of others. It was who he was.

Merlin had done it.

Arthur’s mouth went dry. The weight in his stomach was crushing. If he was right, if Merlin had used magic to save Gwen’s father, then he had just condemned the wrong person to die.

Merlin would never stand by and let that happen.

Oh, God. Merlin was going to do something stupid.

Arthur barely registered Morgana’s voice rising in challenge.

“I know Gwen,” she argued, stepping toward the throne. “She is my maidservant. She is no enchantress.” Her conviction rang through the hall, unshaken despite the king’s cold, dismissive stare.

Uther regarded her sharply. “And have you ever seen an enchantress, Morgana?” His voice was laced with warning. “Believe me, they bear no sign, no mark. They walk among us, unseen. They do not need to look evil to be dangerous.”

“I have seen how Gwen works,” Morgana snapped. “Her hands are worn, her nails are broken. If she had magic, why would she spend her days scrubbing floors and washing linens?” She took another step forward, her eyes blazing. “Why would she kneel on a cold stone floor every morning when she could make these things happen with a snap of her fingers? Like an idle king.”

A murmur of shock rippled through the court. Arthur felt his heart lurch.

Uther’s face darkened, his anger barely restrained. “You have no right—”

“But you have the right to condemn an innocent girl?” Morgana’s voice shook now, but she did not falter. “You call this justice?”

“I have a duty to this kingdom.” Uther exhaled sharply, his voice weary but firm. “I take no pleasure in this.”

“Then do not do it,” she pleaded, her voice raw.

Arthur couldn’t stay silent any longer. His blood was roaring in his ears, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

“Morgana is right.”

The words left his mouth before he could think to stop them. A ripple of shock passed through the hall. Uther’s eyes snapped to him, unreadable.

“You hear the word ‘magic,’ and you stop listening,” Arthur continued, forcing his voice to remain steady.

His father’s expression hardened. “You saw it for yourself. She used enchantments.”

Arthur hesitated for only a moment before shaking his head. “And if she did, it was to save her father. That is not the same as spreading a plague. One is an act of love. The other is an act of evil. I do not believe evil is in this girl’s heart.”

Merlin’s face flickered in his mind—Merlin, who had risked everything to help Arthur. Merlin, who had been there, time and time again, saving lives without anyone realizing it.

Magic did not make someone evil.

Uther’s voice was quiet, but it carried through the room. “I have witnessed what witchcraft can do. I have suffered at its hand. I cannot take that chance.”

Arthur swallowed hard, his mind racing. He had to tread carefully.

“I understand that, Father,” he said slowly. “But injustice is evil, too.” He took a deep breath, gathering his courage. “One day, I may be king. And I don’t know what kind of king I will be. But I do know what kind of Camelot I want to see. A kingdom where the punishment fits the crime.”

A heavy silence settled over the throne room.

For a moment, Arthur saw something flicker in his father’s eyes—doubt, hesitation. Hope surged through him.

Uther stood, his expression unreadable.

“I fear you may be right.”

Arthur’s heart leapt—until Uther’s gaze turned cold once more.

“But she has played with fire,” Uther declared. “And she must die by fire.”

The words rang like a death knell.

Arthur’s hope shattered.

Gwen sobbed as the guards pulled her away.

—

“I thought I was doing good,” Merlin murmured, his voice barely carrying in the dim light of Gaius’s chambers. The room felt colder than usual, the heavy stone walls pressing in around him, suffocating in their silence. He sat hunched on the wooden bench by the worktable, his hands clasped together as though he were trying to hold himself together. A single candle flickered between them, its glow weak and fragile, like the hope that had been wrenched from his grasp.

He had never imagined that his actions—his magic—could lead to this. That trying to save one life could condemn another. Gwen was going to die. Not because she had done anything wrong, but because of him . His crime. The thought sank into him like iron chains, each link heavier than the last, pulling him further into the abyss of guilt.

“I thought that curing Gwen’s father would help her,” he admitted, the words tumbling from his lips in a raw, broken whisper. “I thought I was saving a life.” He swallowed against the lump in his throat, but the burning pressure behind his eyes didn’t ease. He refused to cry. Tears wouldn’t change anything. Tears wouldn’t undo the king’s decree or erase the look of fear and betrayal in Gwen’s eyes when she realized her fate had been sealed.

He let out a hollow laugh—one without mirth, without warmth. “It seemed so simple.” But simplicity had been an illusion. A cruel trick played by fate itself.

Gaius exhaled, long and weary, before stepping closer. The candlelight cast deep shadows on his lined face, highlighting the sorrow etched into every crease. “An easy solution is like a light in a storm, Merlin,” he said gently. “Rush for it at your own peril. For it may not always lead you to safe harbor.”

His words were soft, but they carried the weight of experience—of a man who had seen too much, who had lived too long with regret.

Merlin nodded numbly, his head dropping, as if even holding it upright took more strength than he had left. “I see that now.” And he did. The realization carved itself deep into his soul, a lesson he would never forget. He had been careless. Naïve. He had wielded magic with good intentions, but intentions meant nothing when the outcome was suffering.

But even as despair threatened to drown him, something fierce and unrelenting stirred in his chest. A fire that refused to be extinguished. Gwen would not die. Not for him. Not for this.

His fingers curled into fists, nails digging into his palms as the cold fog of hopelessness began to clear, replaced by something stronger.

“I won’t let this happen,” he whispered, his voice no longer shaking, but sharpening like steel. “I won’t let her die.”

Gaius’s gaze flickered with something unreadable—concern, perhaps, or recognition of the same reckless defiance that had led Merlin to Camelot in the first place.

“Merlin—”

“No.” Merlin cut him off, lifting his head, his blue eyes burning with a determination that rivaled the candle’s glow. “Destiny be damned.”

For the first time since the sentence had been passed, he felt something other than helplessness. Gwen had always been kind to him. She had smiled when no one else had. She had shown him warmth in a cold city. And he would not stand by and watch her burn for something he had done.

The quiet in the room seemed to hum with his resolve. The shadows slithered away from him, retreating into the corners, as though even the darkness understood—he would not let this stand. No matter the cost.

—

Merlin had to see her. If this was the last time they would see each other—if fate was that cruel—then he had to see her one last time.

The castle corridors felt colder than ever, each shadow stretching long and mournful beneath the dim torchlight. The weight of impending loss clung to the air, suffocating in its heaviness. Every step he took felt like walking through water, slow and labored, his heart a drumbeat of desperation in his chest.

On the way down, he passed Morgana. She stood rigid, her face pale, but her eyes betrayed her—shimmering with unshed tears, reflecting the same helpless grief that clenched at Merlin’s insides. For a moment, neither of them spoke. They didn’t have to. The silence between them was thick with understanding. Gwen was more than Morgana’s maidservant; she was her friend, her sister in all but blood. The bond they shared defied the rigid constraints of Camelot’s hierarchy, a testament to the kind of person Gwen was—loyal, kind, unwavering in her love for those around her.

And they wanted to kill her.

Merlin forced himself to move.

The dungeon was dark, the air damp and thick with the stench of stone and despair. The sound of dripping water echoed softly, each drop a cruel reminder of how time was slipping away. His fingers curled into fists at his sides as he approached the cell.

Gwen sat against the cold brick wall, her hands shackled in heavy iron cuffs. The sight of them made something twist violently in Merlin’s chest. The weight of them looked unbearable, the chains meant to suppress magic—as if she were a sorceress, as if she posed any danger at all.

But Camelot had never needed proof to be cruel.

She looked small in that moment, fragile beneath the flickering torchlight. And yet, even here, facing what could be her last night alive, she was composed. Strong.

Merlin swallowed hard.

She looked up at the sound of his footsteps, surprise flickering across her face before a small, tired smile tugged at her lips.

“Gwen.” His voice barely carried, hoarse with regret, thick with determination.

Her smile remained, quiet and knowing. “Thank you.”

Merlin frowned. “What for?”

“For coming to see me.”

His throat tightened. How could she be thanking him? He was the reason she was here.

“I’m sorry.” The words left him in a whisper, too weak, too hollow for the weight they were meant to carry.

Gwen shook her head, the motion slow but certain. “It’s not your fault.” Her voice was soft, gentle. She had always been like that—always offering comfort even when she was the one who needed it most.

But Merlin knew better.

“It is.” He stepped closer, wrapping his fingers around the iron bars, his knuckles turning white. “I thought I was helping. I thought—I never meant for this to happen.”

Gwen studied him, her face full of confusion, then, slowly, understanding. She exhaled softly and offered him the smallest, most bittersweet smile. “Thank—”

“Don’t.” His voice was sharper than he intended, raw with emotion. “Don’t pretend like this doesn’t matter. Like you’re just—accepting it.”

She sighed, glancing down at her shackled wrists. Her fingers traced the cold metal absently, her expression unreadable. “There’s no point crying about it, Merlin. The decision has been made.”

His breath hitched. “That doesn’t mean I have to accept it.”

For the first time, something flickered in her eyes. A sliver of confusion, quickly replaced by understanding. “Please, just one thing.”

Merlin leaned in, desperate to hold onto whatever she was about to say. “Anything.”

Her voice wavered as she whispered, “Remember me.”

The words slammed into him, stealing the air from his lungs. He felt like he had been struck, like something inside him was fracturing.

Merlin swallowed against the lump in his throat, his entire body trembling with the force of his emotions. “You are not going to die.” His voice was fierce, unyielding, as if saying it aloud could make it true. “Not for me. Not for something I did.”

She opened her mouth as if to say something, but whatever it was—whatever last reassurance she was about to offer—Merlin couldn’t hear it.

He turned away before she could see the way his composure cracked. Before he could let himself drown in the horror of this moment.

The pain of knowing her fate was unbearable, but he couldn’t afford to break down now.

Because he would not accept this.

Because he would not let her die.

Not Gwen.

Not for him.

—

Merlin was an idiot.

Arthur sat stiffly in his chair, only half-listening as the council droned on about the plague that had gripped Camelot. His father’s advisors debated the usual solutions—quarantine, purging the wells, and, of course, executing the accused witch. The air in the chamber was thick with unease, but Arthur could only focus on the empty space behind Gaius.

Gaius, ever the voice of reason, finally spoke, his tone measured yet firm. “Majesty, I believe there is another way to cleanse the water without resorting to—”

The doors to the chamber burst open with a crash.

Arthur turned sharply, as did the rest of the council, just in time to see Merlin storm inside. His face was pale, his blue eyes blazing with reckless determination.

“It was me!” Merlin’s voice rang through the chamber, shattering the tense quiet. “I used magic to cure Gwen’s father! She is innocent—I’m the sorcerer!”

The room erupted in gasps. Uther’s face darkened with pure fury.

Arthur shot to his feet. “Merlin, you—”

Gaius stood as well, his horror evident. “Merlin, are you mad?”

“I cannot let her die for me,” Merlin insisted, his voice trembling yet unwavering. He turned to Uther, pleading yet resolute. “I place myself at your mercy.”

The council was stunned into silence. Even Arthur, who had seen Merlin pull off some spectacular feats of stupidity, was at a loss. This wasn’t just foolish. This was suicidal.

Uther wasted no time. His command cut through the silence like a blade. “Seize him.”

The guards moved instantly, closing in on Merlin before Arthur could fully process what was happening. He barely had time to react before Merlin was being forced to his knees, rough hands gripping his arms.

Panic flared in Arthur’s chest. “Father, wait!”

Uther barely spared him a glance. “He has confessed to sorcery. The law is clear.”

Arthur clenched his fists. He could hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. “And yet the law also requires proof,” he countered, forcing his voice to remain level. “Do you truly believe Merlin capable of magic?”

“He just admitted it.”

“He also admitted to being an idiot, but I don’t see anyone preparing to execute him for that,” Arthur snapped.

Uther’s eyes narrowed. The tension in the room thickened. Arthur knew he had mere seconds before his father ordered Merlin’s death outright. He needed to think—fast.

And then, in a stroke of either brilliance or sheer desperation, he found his opening.

“Well, as Gaius said, he’s got a grave mental disease,” Arthur announced with a casual shrug.

Silence.

Uther’s brow furrowed. “What?”

Arthur exhaled, trying to sell the lie with just the right mix of exasperation and amusement. “He’s in love.”

A strangled sound escaped Merlin. “What?!”

Arthur pressed on, fighting the smirk threatening to break through. “With Gwen.”

“I am NOT,” Merlin blurted, struggling against the guards. His face was rapidly turning a shade of red usually reserved for apples.

“Yes, you are,” Arthur insisted, adopting a patronizing tone. “I saw you just the other day, mooning over that flower she gave you.”

“I wasn’t mooning! And it wasn’t—” Merlin faltered, realizing too late that he was digging his own grave. “That’s not even—”

Arthur threw an arm around Merlin’s shoulders in an overly familiar gesture, giving him a hard squeeze that clearly translated to shut up before you ruin this.

“It’s all right, Merlin,” Arthur continued, voice thick with false sincerity. “Unrequited love can make a man say foolish things. Confess to sorcery, for instance.”

The king’s face remained unreadable, but Arthur didn’t dare look away. He was playing a dangerous game.

Then, to his immense relief, Uther scoffed. “Perhaps she cast a spell on him.”

A low chuckle rippled through the council. The tension began to ease.

Arthur forced a laugh, though the adrenaline still coursing through him made it feel strained. “Merlin is a wonder, but the real wonder is that he’s such an idiot.” He grabbed the back of Merlin’s neck, giving him a light shake. His fingers brushed the curls at the nape of his neck, softer than he expected. He nearly hesitated—nearly let his touch linger—but he withdrew his hand before he could process why.

His eyes met Merlin’s. Play along.

Merlin, still looking vaguely stunned, simply nodded.

Uther exhaled, waving a dismissive hand. “Enough of this nonsense. Let him go.”

Arthur barely waited for the words to register before reaching out and pulling Merlin to his feet. The moment they were free, he shoved Merlin toward the exit, practically dragging him out before anyone could change their minds.

As soon as they were safely outside the council chamber, Gaius hurried after them, relief evident in his face. “That was reckless, Merlin.”

Merlin let out a long breath, rubbing his wrists. “Yeah, well… it would’ve worked if you hadn’t butted in?”

Arthur turned on him. “What in all of Camelot was that?”

Merlin gave him a sheepish grin. “I couldn’t let Gwen die for something… Something she didn’t do.”

Arthur’s irritation flared, but beneath it was something else—something he didn’t have the patience to name. “You’re an idiot.”

Merlin’s grin widened. “You said that already.”

Arthur shook his head. “And I’ll say it again. And again. Until it sinks in.”

Gaius cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should focus on the more pressing matter: Gwen.”

Arthur’s expression sobered. The danger wasn’t over. Gwen was still in the dungeons, still sentenced to die. They had saved Merlin, but now they had to save her.

—

“Arthur’s the idiot!” Merlin burst out the moment they were safely inside Gaius’ chambers, slamming the door behind him. His voice was thick with frustration, his steps quick and restless as he paced across the room.

“No, Merlin,” Gaius countered sharply, already moving toward his worktable. “You are the idiot. And thank the stars Arthur saved you from your own stupidity.” He punctuated his words with a light but firm tap to the back of Merlin’s head.

Merlin flinched, rubbing the spot with a scowl. “What else was I supposed to do? Gwen’s going to die because of me!” His voice cracked, frustration giving way to raw guilt.

Gaius turned to him then, his expression softening ever so slightly, but his voice held firm. “Yes. And you don’t prove her innocence by throwing yourself onto the pyre in her place.” He kept his voice low, wary of unwanted ears. “You do it by using that brain of yours—when you remember you have one.”

Merlin huffed but said nothing. He crossed his arms and slumped against the table, his fingers gripping the edge as his mind whirred.

“Well, one thing’s for certain,” he muttered, bitterness creeping into his voice. “Arthur’s not going to find out what’s causing the sickness.”

Gaius sighed, already rifling through his shelves for supplies. “And why is that?”

“Because he thinks he’s so clever! So sharp! But I could’ve thrown a spell right in his face and he still wouldn’t believe I was a sorcerer.” Merlin’s voice dripped with exasperation.

Gaius hummed absentmindedly, gathering vials and herbs. “Well, sometimes, they are hard to spot.”

Merlin scoffed. “Maybe I should start wearing a pointy hat.”

“I doubt you’d find one big enough to fit your ego,” Gaius shot back smoothly.

Gauis shoved a leather bound satchel into his hands. “Forget Arthur. Forget your hat. If we’re going to save Gwen, we need to figure out what’s contaminating the water before sunrise.”

Merlin caught the bag against his chest, frowning. “Where are we going?”

“To the lower town.” Gaius snatched his cloak off the peg, fastening it quickly. “If we don’t move fast, there won’t be a Gwen left to save.”

That sobered Merlin instantly. His grip tightened on the satchel, his frustration giving way to determination. “Then let’s go.”

And with that, they hurried out into the night, their shadows vanishing into the dimly lit corridors of Camelot.

—

Turns out they were going underground, heading towards the city’s water source—the well system. Merlin had expected damp tunnels and the stench of stagnant water, but as they descended, an eerie stillness settled over them, thick and oppressive. Even the air felt wrong—heavy, as if it carried the whispers of something unseen.

They had left Camelot’s protective walls to reach the entrance, slipping past the guards under the cover of night. Now, as Merlin cast a wary glance toward the dense forest that surrounded them, a pang of nostalgia tightened in his chest. He missed the quiet life before Camelot—the security of the druid encampments, the warmth of his mother’s embrace. He longed for the days when his biggest concerns were finding food and staying hidden, rather than deciphering which ancient horror was trying to kill them next.

The tunnels of the well system were colder than he’d expected, their narrow passageways slick with moisture. The occasional drip of water echoed in the silence, a hollow sound that seemed unnervingly loud in the absence of other life. The deeper they went, the more the air stank of decay, like something rotting just out of sight.

Finally, they reached the underground reservoir—a wide, shallow pool that stretched across the chamber floor, its surface black and undisturbed. The dim flicker of their torches barely penetrated the gloom, casting shifting shadows on the damp stone walls.

Gaius knelt by the water’s edge, his movements precise. “This well supplies the entire lower town. If the sickness stems from here, we should be able to confirm it.” He dipped a small vial into the water. “Take a sample, Merlin.”

Merlin crouched beside him, careful not to let his fingers touch the surface. He withdrew his hand just as the water stirred.

Then, without warning, something erupted from the depths.

A monstrous screech split the air as a massive shape lunged from the pool, displacing water in a violent surge. The creature was dark and misshapen, its slick body twisting unnaturally in the torchlight. It had no discernible eyes, only a gaping maw lined with jagged yellowed teeth. Its elongated limbs ended in razor-sharp claws, scraping against the stone with an awful, grating sound.

Merlin’s breath hitched in his throat. “What the hell is that?” he choked out.

The creature let out a piercing, guttural shriek before vanishing beneath the surface, the water churning violently in its wake.

Gaius reacted first, grabbing Merlin by the arm and hauling him backward. “We need to go ,” he hissed, his voice urgent but quiet, as if afraid to provoke whatever lurked beneath. His sharp gaze flicked around the chamber, scanning the darkness for any sign of the creature reemerging.

Merlin’s legs felt stiff with shock, but he forced himself to move, stumbling after Gaius as they retreated. His heart thundered in his chest, his mind reeling.

They all but ran back to the castle.

—

The moment they returned to Gaius’s chambers, they set to work. Books were pulled from shelves in a flurry of parchment and dust, their spines cracked open with urgency. Candles flickered, casting long shadows as Merlin and Gaius scoured ancient texts, flipping through brittle pages filled with knowledge of creatures long thought to be myths.

They worked in near silence, save for the occasional muttered curse from Merlin as he tossed aside another useless tome. Time was slipping through their fingers like grains of sand, and with every passing moment, Gwen’s life hung in the balance.

Then, finally—

“Here!” Merlin’s voice was sharp with excitement as he jabbed a finger at a faded illustration. The image was crude but unmistakable: a hulking, monstrous figure with jagged teeth and clawed hands, its form coiled with dark energy.

Gaius leaned over, eyes narrowing as he read. “An Afanc,” he murmured, recognition flashing in his gaze. “A creature molded from clay and imbued with life through sorcery. Only the most powerful of spellcasters can summon one.”

Merlin swallowed hard, recalling the twisted mass of shadow and hunger that had lunged at them beneath the city. It hadn’t been a natural beast—it had been created . Someone had unleashed it upon Camelot.

His hands curled into fists. “Then we have to destroy it.”

Gaius exhaled, rubbing a hand over his beard as his gaze drifted over the countless books still stacked around them. “Yes,” he agreed. “But we need to find out how —and quickly.” He turned back to the shelves, his sharp eyes scanning title after title, searching for anything that might hold the answer.

Merlin ran a frustrated hand through his hair. “That could take days ,” he snapped. “Gwen will be dead by then.”

Gaius didn’t look up. “Have you got a better idea?” he asked, his tone calm but edged with challenge.

—

Merlin did have a better idea.

He just wasn’t sure if it would work.

As he made his way toward the caves where Kilgharrah slumbered, he found himself taking a detour—one he hadn’t planned, but one he couldn’t ignore.

 The guards paid him little mind as he slipped inside, though his heart pounded all the same. He spotted her immediately—curled up on the straw-covered floor, her back turned to him.

For a moment, he hesitated.

“Gwen,” he called softly.

No response.

Merlin stepped closer, his voice firmer. “I’m going to get you out. I promise.”

Still, she didn’t move.

Was she asleep? Or was she ignoring him?

Doubt clawed at his chest. He knew why she was in here—it was his fault. If he hadn’t interfered, if he hadn’t drawn attention to her, she wouldn’t be facing execution. And maybe… maybe she blamed him for it.

The thought stung more than he cared to admit.

He barely knew her, but from the little he did, she had always been kind. Warm. The sort of person who saw the best in people. Could she really hate him for trying to help? For failing?

He swallowed, shifting on his feet. Maybe she did. Maybe she should.

But none of that mattered.

Because whether she blamed him or not, whether she ever spoke to him again or not—he would save her.

He had to.

With renewed determination, Merlin turned on his heel and strode toward the exit. He had a dragon to see.

—

“Hello?” Merlin’s voice echoed through the cavern, swallowed by the vast darkness. His breath formed faint clouds in the chilly air, and the distant drip of water filled the silence.

A sudden gust of wind ruffled his hair as the great beast stirred. From the shadows, two golden eyes gleamed, watching him with quiet amusement.

“The great warlock returns,” Kilgharrah rumbled, his voice like thunder rolling through the cave. “As I knew he would.”

Merlin stepped forward, urgency tightening his chest. “I need to know how to defeat an Afanc.”

The dragon let out a slow, knowing exhale. “Yes. I suppose you do.”

Merlin’s patience was wearing thin. “Will you help me?” He knew he could command Kilgharrah to answer, but the thought unsettled him. It was better to ask—better to earn the dragon’s aid than to force it.

Kilgharrah’s wings shifted slightly, sending another rush of wind through the cavern. “Trust the elements that are at your command.”

Merlin frowned. “Elements? What does that mean?”

The dragon’s gaze never wavered. “You cannot do this alone. You are but one side of a coin.”

A sense of inevitability settled over Merlin, heavy as stone. “Arthur,” he realized, the name tasting strange on his tongue in this place. He had known, deep down, that their fates were entwined. But how did Arthur fit into this? What did the elements have to do with any of it?

Kilgharrah began to unfurl his massive wings, preparing to leave.

“No, wait!” Merlin called, desperation creeping into his voice. “I need more! Please, help me! ”

The dragon’s expression softened, though his departure did not falter. “I have.”

With a powerful beat of his wings, he lifted into the air, soaring into the darkness.

Merlin remained frozen, watching the last flicker of golden scales disappear. His frustration boiled over. “Oh yes, right. Thanks, ” he muttered to himself, raking a hand through his hair.

Kilgharrah’s words churned in his mind, a riddle he had no time to solve. The answer was there, buried just beneath the surface. He needed to find it—and fast.

Gwen’s life depended on it.

—

“Have you found anything more?” Uther’s voice cut through the heavy silence of the council chamber as Arthur stepped inside, the weight of failure pressing on his shoulders.

“I’ve tried,” Arthur admitted, frustration lacing his tone. He had searched tirelessly, combing through every possible lead, but nothing had revealed a way to save Guinevere. The thought of her execution gnawed at him—not just because of the injustice of it, but because he knew what it would do to Merlin and Morgana. “I can keep looking.”

 Uther shook his head, his patience worn thin. “People are dying, Arthur. We can’t delay any longer.” He straightened, his expression set in grim determination. “We bring her execution forward. It will be carried out tonight .”

The words hit Arthur like a punch to the gut. Tonight.

A sharp surge of helplessness coursed through him. He had failed.

He left the council chamber in a daze, his mind racing for alternatives, for anything that could stop this. By the time he reached his chambers, he had no answers—only frustration.

Inside, he found Merlin, of all things, reading . His scrawny servant sat hunched over a thick tome, brows knitted in concentration.

Arthur paused, momentarily forgetting his despair. He remembered the writings he found in Merlin’s chambers.

“How is it that you know how to read?” he asked, his curiosity breaking through his troubled thoughts.

Merlin jumped, snapping the book shut as if caught stealing from the royal coffers. “Arthur!”

Arthur raised an expectant eyebrow. “Well?”

Merlin hesitated, glancing down at the book as if debating whether to lie. “What?”

Arthur sighed. “How is it that you know how to read?”

“Oh.” Merlin blinked, as though the question had genuinely surprised him. “My parents taught me.”

Arthur frowned slightly. It was such a simple answer, yet something about it felt... incomplete. He spent nearly every day with Merlin, yet there were so many things he didn’t know about him. A strange contrast, considering how much of his life Merlin witnessed.

His gaze flicked to the book. “What have you got there?”

Merlin took a steadying breath, his previous fluster forgotten. “Gaius and I discovered what’s causing the plague.” His voice was urgent as he flipped the book open, revealing an illustration of a grotesque, otherworldly beast. “It’s a creature. Forged by earth and water.” His eyes met Arthur’s, filled with the intensity of someone grasping at the last thread of hope. “We need fire and air to destroy it.”

Arthur’s mind sharpened. A strategy. A way forward. He felt the first flicker of hope stir in his chest.

“I know you don’t want to go against your father,” Merlin pressed on, his words tumbling out now, gaining speed. “But this is about saving an innocent life. Gwen didn’t cause this. And maybe if we defeat the creature—if the water returns to normal—your father will see reason . We can prove her innocence.”

Arthur remained silent, absorbing Merlin’s words. He wasn’t sure he believed his father would ever admit fault, but that wasn’t the point. The point was Gwen .

Merlin wasn’t finished. His voice grew more fervent, passion and conviction pouring into every syllable. “You are a good man, Arthur Pendragon. I know you are. You care about doing the right thing, even when it’s difficult. And—”

Arthur stiffened slightly. He hadn’t expected such earnest praise from Merlin—his cheeky , insufferable servant who rarely showed him this kind of reverence. Did he really think that?

For a brief moment, Arthur found himself at a loss. He had assumed Merlin tolerated him out of obligation, perhaps even resented him at times. Sure, Merlin had saved his life more than once, but Arthur had chalked that up to duty—or perhaps just an irritatingly strong sense of justice.

Yet here Merlin was, believing in him .

A strange warmth settled in Arthur’s chest, one he was quick to dismiss as pride. Obviously it was pride.

“Merlin,” Arthur interrupted, his voice gentler than before, cutting through the boy’s rambling.

Merlin stopped, blinking as if startled by the unexpected softness in Arthur’s tone.

Arthur took a breath, his decision made. “What do you need me to do?”

For the first time that evening, Merlin smiled. Not the smug grin Arthur was used to, nor the exasperated look of someone barely tolerating his antics.

It was relief .

It was trust .

And Arthur, against all reason, found himself trusting Merlin right back.

—

Arthur's boots echoed through the damp, winding tunnels as they descended deeper into the dark well system beneath Camelot. The dim light of their torches flickered against the cold stone walls, casting long, twisting shadows that seemed to creep along with them. A chill ran down his spine, and he tightened his grip on his sword, his heart beating a little faster as the air grew thick with anticipation.

“Fire and air?” Arthur asked, his voice rising in disbelief. “What does that even mean? I can use a torch, but how do we attack it with air?”

Merlin, walking a few paces ahead, kept his eyes darting nervously around them, every creak of the stone underfoot making him flinch. "The tunnels are drafty. The wind might carry the fire toward the Afanc... maybe that'll work?" 

“Maybe?” Arthur shot back, suspicion threading his tone. He squinted at his servant, who was so focused on the shadows that it seemed like Merlin might very well be expecting the creature to leap out of the darkness at any moment. "So, you're guessing, then?"

Merlin shrugged without turning. "It's not as if you have a better idea, is it?" His voice was quiet, but there was an edge to it. He glanced over his shoulder, eyes sparkling with something between frustration and determination. Arthur narrowed his eyes.

“You’d better be right,” he muttered under his breath.

“Be nice,” Morgana interjected, her tone light but her eyes glinting mischievously. She had insisted on coming along, apparently because she had been heading to his chambers, and had overheard their plans.

She had refused to stay behind, as usual. “Just because you can’t do this on your own, doesn’t mean Merlin can’t help.”

Arthur shot her a dark look, his protective instincts already on edge. “You should stay here, Morgana,” he said, but it was more of an order than a suggestion.

She raised an eyebrow, her chin jutting out in defiance. "I’m coming with you." Her voice brooked no argument.

“No,” Arthur insisted, stepping forward to block her path. “You’ll be in danger down here.”

She merely scoffed, brushing past him with ease. "I’m not going to sit around and wait for you two to get into trouble." She shot a glance back at him, daring him to stop her.

Arthur opened his mouth to argue but hesitated, then looked at Merlin, who only shrugged as if this was an ongoing battle he had no interest in winning. "Fine," Arthur muttered, “but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

The low growling sound grew louder with every step, the walls vibrating under the ominous resonance of it.

“Stay close,” Arthur warned, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of his sword.

Merlin’s voice was tight. "Just hope we find it before it finds us."

They rounded a bend, and the air seemed to thicken, heavy with the weight of something lurking just out of sight. Arthur stopped abruptly, raising his hand to signal the others to halt. The echo of the growl reverberated again, but this time, it was closer.

“Did you hear that?” Arthur whispered, barely moving. His instincts screamed that something was wrong.

Merlin held his breath, and even Morgana went still beside him, eyes wide.

Arthur’s heart raced as he scanned the shadows. Every drip of water, every creak of stone, felt like a scream in the silence. Then came a sound—a shift in the darkness, a rustle of movement so subtle it almost felt like a trick of the mind. But it wasn’t.

"We need to move," Arthur said urgently, already moving forward, though every instinct screamed that danger was just behind them. They reached the well where Merlin had said the Afanc had been spotted. The air was thick with damp, the stone slick underfoot, and in the center of the water floated a large eggshell—cracked and inscribed with strange symbols, its surface slick and dark like the secrets of the deep.

Merlin took a step forward, reaching for it, but Arthur’s hand shot out to stop him. “Spread out,” he ordered.

Morgana moved left, but Merlin stayed close, almost uncomfortably so.

“Merlin…” Arthur said, but the servant only shrugged.

"I’m not getting stuck alone," Merlin muttered, his voice tinged with the slightest trace of fear. "Besides, you two have torches. I don’t." Arthur could see the unease in Merlin’s posture, but he wasn’t about to argue with him.

“Then keep quiet,” Arthur said, his voice harsh.

A low growl echoed from the shadows again, and before Arthur could react, the creature appeared—a blur of black and claws, its eyes two empty pits of darkness. It lunged at him.

He didn’t have time to think. Dropping his weapons, he tackled Merlin, throwing them both out of the creature’s path. They rolled on the stone floor, the sound of claws scraping against the walls as the creature disappeared again into the shadows.

"It's quick," Arthur muttered as he scrambled to his feet, pulling his sword from the ground and checking to make sure Merlin was unharmed.

Morgana came running up behind them. Merlin, though shaken, was already standing and dusting himself off. “We saw it,” he said, his voice tense.

She looked past Merlin to the darkness ahead. The next moment, she screamed. The creature’s roar rang through the tunnel, its fetid breath filling the air.

Arthur swung his sword at the creature, but it was faster. With a swipe, it knocked his sword out of his hands, raking a claw across his palm. Blood spurted, but Arthur ignored the pain. He scrambled for his sword, desperate to regain control.

“Where is it?” he demanded, eyes scanning the shadows. Merlin and Morgana were close behind him, but the creature was nowhere to be seen.

And then he saw it—right behind them.

“Move!” Arthur shouted, shoving past them and thrusting his torch forward. The creature hissed as the firelight caught its black, slithering form, and it backed away.

“Well, you were right about it not liking fire,” Arthur muttered, glancing at Merlin before retrieving his sword and sheathing it.

Merlin gave a terse nod, but his eyes were still wide, filled with the adrenaline of the moment. "We need to keep moving."

Arthur’s heart pounded in his chest as they pressed onward. They rounded a corner, and that’s when he saw it in full. The Afanc—a grotesque, gooey creature, its skin slick and black like the murky waters from which it came. It walked on all fours, its limbs long and clawed, its mouth full of sharp teeth that gleamed in the firelight.

"Arthur, use the torch!" Merlin yelled.

Arthur thrust it forward, but this time something different happened. The air itself seemed to swirl, a sudden gust of wind carrying the flame toward the creature, sending it flying across the space between them. The fire licked at its black form, catching the creature aflame. It shrieked, writhing as it burned.

Arthur froze, the sword still in his hand but forgotten for a moment, as he watched the creature burn. The flame illuminated the entire tunnel, and through the firelight, he caught a glimpse of Merlin. The servant stood behind Morgana, his face illuminated in the flickering shadows, his features sharp and intense. The golden remnants of magic shimmered in his eyes.

Arthur’s breath caught in his throat. For a moment, he saw Merlin as something else—a force of nature, unyielding and powerful.

—

They left the tunnels swiftly, the acrid scent of burned flesh lingering in their noses even after they emerged into the open air.

Once they reached Gaius’s chambers, Merlin recounted their victory over the Afanc with his usual animated gestures, though Arthur noted the way his hands trembled slightly when he thought no one was looking. Gaius listened intently, nodding as they spoke. When they were finished, he exhaled in relief.

"You have done well," Gaius said, his voice warm with gratitude. "Camelot is safe once more."

Arthur, for all his pride in their success, could see the deeper worry in Gaius’s eyes. He had known the old physician long enough to recognize the slight tension in his brow, the way his fingers lingered on the tabletop as if grounding himself.

"Merlin, go fetch some fresh water," Gaius instructed. "I’ll need to test it to ensure the infection is truly gone from the wells."

Merlin hesitated, clearly reluctant to leave after everything that had just transpired, but at Gaius’s insistence, he nodded and hurried off. Morgana had already left to check on Gwen, leaving Arthur and Gaius alone in the dimly lit chamber.

They both opened their mouths to speak at the same time.

“I wanted to say—”
“Do you think—”

Arthur huffed out a short laugh. “Go on, Gaius. I insist.”

Gaius inclined his head in gratitude. "I wanted to thank you, sire. For what you did today—for Merlin.”

Arthur waved him off. “I couldn’t just stand there and let him be punished. He was reckless, claiming to be a sorcerer like that, but... brave.” He let out a small chuckle. “Though mostly just stupid.”

Gaius smiled, but there was something else in his gaze—something almost wistful. He reached out and placed a gentle hand on his arm. It was not the touch of a subject to a prince, but of a mentor to a boy he had watched grow.

“You have always been a kind boy, Arthur,” he said, his voice carrying the weight of years unspoken. “I am proud to know you. Proud to call you my prince.”

Arthur blinked, caught off guard by the quiet sincerity in the words. He wasn’t sure why they unsettled him. He had spent his life being measured by his father’s expectations, by his ability to lead, to fight, to win. But pride? That was not something Uther offered freely.

He cleared his throat, shrugging as if to shake off the unfamiliar feeling curling in his chest. “He’s a loyal servant. I’ve never had one like him before.”

Gaius’s expression softened further. “Loyalty is a rare and precious thing, and yet... it seems you inspire it in him as much as he inspires it in you.”

Arthur frowned, caught off guard. “What do you mean?”

The words unsettled him more than he cared to admit. Merlin was frustrating, insubordinate, and had an uncanny ability to get under his skin, but—he was also always there. Always. It wasn’t something Arthur had truly questioned before. He had assumed it was duty. Obligation. But what if it was something more?

Gaius hesitated, as if weighing his next words carefully. “Merlin carries a heavy burden, one he cannot share with many. But knowing you stand by him—that gives him strength.”

Arthur stiffened. “What burden?”

The question came out sharper than he intended, but his mind was already working, sorting through moments that hadn’t made sense before. The way Merlin always seemed to know things he shouldn’t. The way he threw himself into danger without hesitation. The way he had stood before Uther and taken the blame for something that would’ve cost him his life.

He knew about Merlin’s magic, but was there something else he was hiding from him?

Gaius met his gaze, and for a fleeting second, Arthur thought he might actually answer. But then the physician shook his head, offering a small, apologetic smile. “That is not for me to share.”

Arthur clenched his jaw. He hated that answer. Hated being kept in the dark. But before he could press further, the door swung open and Merlin strolled in, carrying a jug of water as if he hadn’t just missed an important conversation about himself.

Arthur exhaled through his nose and straightened. He would let it go. For now.

But as the evening light cast golden hues across the chamber, Arthur made a silent vow. Whatever burden Merlin carried, whatever secret he kept locked away, Arthur would find out. And when he did, he would stand by him—just as Merlin stood by him.

—

Merlin paced back and forth in Gaius' chambers, his mind tangled in a storm of thoughts. The room, dimly lit by flickering candles, cast restless shadows that danced along the stone walls, mirroring the unease twisting in his chest. His pulse pounded in his ears, drowning out everything else.

It was over. Gwen was free. The plan had worked. Yet, rather than feeling relieved, Merlin found himself trapped in a new kind of uncertainty.

He had returned to the site, retrieved the cracked shell, and given it to Gaius before the old physician had gone to speak to Uther. Gaius had recognized the markings—evidence that pointed to a powerful sorceress named Nimueh. The name meant nothing to Merlin, but the weight in Gaius' voice had made his stomach churn. There were larger forces at play, threads of destiny weaving beyond his understanding. But right now, he had a much more immediate concern.

Gwen.

He had kept his distance since she’d found out what he was. 

He hadn’t known what to say, how to face her. What if she was afraid of him? Or worse—what if she intended to use his secret against him? She hadn't gone straight to Uther, which was a good sign... wasn't it? Or maybe she was biding her time, waiting for the right moment to expose him. Maybe she would demand something of him, something he couldn’t refuse.

His breath quickened, the walls of the chamber pressing in as his thoughts spiraled. He was so lost in his own panic that the sharp knock at the door nearly sent him jumping out of his skin.

Merlin froze. His heart hammered as he stared at the door.

Then, steeling himself, he crossed the room and opened it.

Gwen stood there, her face pale with exhaustion, but her dark eyes were steady, filled with quiet resolve.

Merlin swallowed hard. “Gwen.” Her name barely left his lips before he realized how dry his mouth was. “What are you doing here? I mean—come in.”

She stepped inside, glancing around as though collecting her thoughts before turning back to him. He could tell she’d been thinking about this conversation just as much as he had. The tension in his chest didn’t ease, but something about her presence—calm, unwavering—kept it from growing worse.

“Merlin,” she began, her voice gentle yet firm, “I wanted to talk to you.”

He nodded stiffly and motioned for her to sit. They both settled at the wooden table, the silence between them thick with unspoken words. Merlin clenched his hands together to stop them from trembling.

This was it. The moment she would either accept him—or destroy him.

“Of course,” he said, keeping his voice as steady as he could. “What’s on your mind?”

Gwen hesitated, her fingers brushing absently over the grain of the table. Then she took a deep breath and lifted her gaze to his.

“I wanted to thank you,” she said softly. “For everything. For saving my father. For saving me.” Her voice wavered, but the sincerity in her eyes was unshakable. “I don’t know how to repay you, but I need you to know that I will always be grateful.”

Merlin stared at her, barely daring to believe her words.

Then, before he could stop himself, he blurted out, “You’re not afraid of me?”

Gwen blinked in surprise, then let out a small, incredulous laugh. It wasn’t mocking—it was warm, reassuring.

“Afraid?” she echoed, shaking her head. “No, Merlin. Never.” Her expression softened, and she reached across the table, taking his hand in hers. Her touch was gentle, steadying, and it sent a shiver of relief through him. “I’ve seen who you are. I’ve seen the kindness in you, the way you fight for others, even at great risk to yourself. I know that whatever magic you have, you use it to help people. You saved my father’s life. You saved mine.” Her fingers tightened around his. “You’re not a threat, Merlin. Not to me, not to anyone.”

Merlin swallowed against the sudden lump in his throat. He hadn't realized how much he needed to hear those words until now.

“Thank you, Gwen,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “That means more than you know.”

They sat there for a moment, the candlelight casting a golden glow between them. The storm of fear inside Merlin settled into something calmer, something lighter. Gwen wasn’t just sparing him—she truly believed in him.

When she finally stood, he found himself reluctant to let the moment end.

“I should go,” she said, offering him a small smile. “But remember, Merlin—you’re not alone in this.”

He followed her to the door, his chest tight with emotions he couldn’t name.

“Gwen,” he said as she stepped over the threshold. She turned back, expectant.

“Thank you,” he said again, more firmly this time. “For everything.”

Her smile deepened, and for the first time since this ordeal had begun, Merlin felt a flicker of something he had almost forgotten.

Hope.

As the door closed behind her, he stood there for a moment, letting the silence settle around him. The shadows on the walls no longer seemed so oppressive, the flickering candlelight casting warmth instead of uncertainty.

Gwen knew his secret, and yet—he was still here. He still had a friend.

Chapter Text

The dim glow of candlelight flickered against the damp stone walls, casting eerie shadows that danced like specters. In the heart of the chamber, a large silver basin stood atop an altar of smooth obsidian, its surface reflecting the distorted image of a woman cloaked in darkness.

Nimueh stood over it, her piercing blue eyes alight with purpose. With slow, deliberate movements, she lifted a slender finger to her palm and pressed the tip of a ceremonial dagger against her skin. A single drop of crimson welled up before falling into the water below. As the droplet met the surface, the basin trembled, ripples spreading outward in perfect symmetry, distorting her reflection until it dissolved into nothingness.

The sorceress began to chant, her voice low and melodic, carrying ancient words through the chamber like a whisper from another world. The air itself seemed to hum in response, thick with the weight of old magic. She reached out to the edge of the basin, where delicate petals of nightshade lay scattered like remnants of forgotten dreams. Plucking one between her fingers, she held it above the shimmering water.

At the first touch of the petal to the enchanted surface, an image formed within the rippling depths—an unassuming young man, his dark hair tousled, his expression one of mild irritation as he polished the gleaming surface of a suit of armor. Merlin. The boy whose fate was inextricably bound to the future of Camelot.

A slow, knowing smile curved Nimueh’s lips. With a careful, deliberate hand, she lifted the petal from the basin, its once-vibrant hue now drained, leaving it nearly translucent. Turning toward a gilded chalice resting upon a stone pedestal, she pressed the ghostly petal against its inner wall. It clung there, shimmering faintly as though infused with the very essence of the vision it had carried.

Lifting the chalice, Nimueh cradled it between her hands, whispering one final, potent word.

“Merlin.”

—

Arthur walked in measured strides beside his father, the golden Pendragon crest gleaming on his crimson cloak as the knights followed in disciplined formation. The great hall, adorned with banners of crimson and gold, stood as a testament to Camelot’s power, its towering columns casting long shadows beneath the flickering torches. The air buzzed with murmurs of anticipation as noblemen and courtiers lined the hall, awaiting the arrival of their guests.

The heavy doors groaned open, revealing the procession beyond. Lord Bayard of Mercia strode forward, his armor polished to a mirror sheen, the sigil of his kingdom embroidered upon his cloak. Behind him, his retinue followed in solemn unity, their presence a symbol of the truce being forged this day.

King Uther stepped forward, his voice steady and commanding as he addressed the hall.

“Camelot welcomes you, Lord Bayard of Mercia. The treaty we sign today marks an end to war and the beginning of a new friendship between our people.”

As the two rulers clasped hands, the hall erupted into applause. The sound echoed off the high stone walls, filling the vast space with a rare sense of unity.

Arthur stood tall beside his father, his expression schooled into the practiced mask of a warrior-prince, but beneath the surface, his heart swelled with something unspoken. This was what he had always longed for—not conquest, not endless bloodshed in his father’s name, but peace. A chance to end the meaningless slaughter that had claimed so many lives on both sides.

He clapped along with the gathered court, his movements measured, composed. Yet within him, a quiet hope flickered like the torchlight against the stone—fragile, but burning all the same.

—

“Why do I always get landed with the donkey work?” Merlin groaned as he trudged past Gaius in the hall, his arms overflowing with bundles of fabric and assorted possessions. His back ached under the weight of the Mercian envoy’s luggage, and his feet dragged across the stone floor with exaggerated weariness.

Gaius barely spared him a glance, his lips twitching with amusement. “You’re a servant, Merlin. It’s what you do.”

Merlin huffed, adjusting the precariously stacked load in his arms. “At this rate, my arms will be a foot longer by the time I get this lot inside.”

“It’s character-building,” Gaius replied sagely. “As the old proverb says: ‘Hard work breeds… a harder soul.’”

Merlin shot him a flat look. “There is no way that’s a proverb. You just made that up.”

Gaius raised a hand in mock offense, about to argue his case, when a sudden commotion ahead caught their attention. One of Mercia’s servants stumbled, her arms flailing as a bundle of garments slipped from her grasp, scattering across the floor.

“Oh! Sorry,” the young woman said softly, kneeling to gather the fallen clothes.

Merlin, despite his own burden, immediately set his load down and crouched to help. “Here, let me give you a hand with that.”

She glanced up, her eyes meeting his—and then lingering. Her expression shifted ever so slightly, her lips parting as if surprised, or perhaps a little dazzled.

Merlin hesitated. He recognized that look. He had no idea how to gently tell her he wasn’t interested—he couldn’t exactly blurt out that he fancied men.

“Thank you,” she said, standing up straight as he handed her the remaining garments. She extended her hand. “I’m Cara.”

“Merlin,” he replied, shaking it.

Her smile brightened. “You’re Arthur’s servant, aren’t you? That must be such an honor.”

Merlin gave a lopsided grin. “Oh, yeah. It is. Well, someone’s got to keep the place running.”

From the corner of his eye, he caught Gaius giving him a knowing look.

Cara giggled. “It was nice meeting you, Merlin.” She lingered for a second longer before turning away, walking off with a small, pleased smile.

As soon as she was out of earshot, Gaius quirked a brow. “Shouldn’t you be busy running the place?”

Merlin rolled his eyes, grabbing the bags again. “Oh, shut up.”

—

Arthur watched as Merlin unceremoniously tossed his feast attire onto the table, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

“These reek.”

Arthur turned with an affronted look. “They do not.”

Merlin held the jacket up between two fingers as if it were a dead rat. “When was the last time these were cleaned?”

Arthur thought for a moment. “Sometime in the last year. Before the Feast of Beltane.”

Merlin gave him a sharp look. “Did it end in a food fight?”

Arthur smirked. “Don’t all feasts?”

Merlin chuckled, shaking his head as he checked the seams of the jacket, ensuring it still fit and didn’t need mending. “I wouldn’t know. The airs and graces of the court are a mystery to me.”

Arthur brushed a bit of dust from the fabric. “Well, tonight they won’t be.”

Merlin’s hands stilled. He blinked. “Wait. I’m going to be at the banquet?”

Arthur turned, ready to clarify, but paused when he saw Merlin’s small, hopeful smile.

“Not quite,” Arthur said, tugging the jacket from Merlin’s hands, trying it on and looking it over. “You’ll be there to make sure my cup doesn’t run dry.” He clapped Merlin on the shoulder with exaggerated sympathy. “If I have to suffer through Bayard’s never-ending speeches, I don’t see why you should get out of it.”

Merlin rolled his eyes as Arthur handed him back the jacket. “Be sure to polish the buttons,” he added, thoroughly enjoying himself. Merlin’s exasperated expression never failed to amuse him. 

Then Arthur remembered something. “Oh! I almost forgot your surprise.” He strode over to his wardrobe, rummaging through the neatly hung garments. “Do you want to see what you’ll be wearing tonight?”

Merlin barely glanced up. “Won’t this do? Or maybe the shirt you gave me? It’s rather nice.”

Arthur turned, giving him a slow, deliberate once-over, his expression unreadable. “No, no. That simply won’t do.”

He pulled out a set of robes and held them up with a triumphant grin. “Tonight, you’ll be wearing the official ceremonial robes of the servants of Camelot.”

Merlin’s face fell faster than a felled knight. “You can’t be serious.”

Arthur grinned wider.

—

The treaty was signed in mere moments—no drawn-out ceremony, no unnecessary speeches. A flick of the quill, a quick exchange of pleasantries, and then the feast began.

Arthur barely paid attention to the formalities, his eyes already scanning the hall. The flickering torchlight and the golden glow of the chandeliers cast a warm hue over the sea of noblemen, knights, and visiting dignitaries. And then, in the middle of it all, he saw him .

Merlin stood stiffly at the edge of the banquet hall, adorned in the ceremonial robes of the servants of Camelot —a garish red ensemble that, while striking in color, did absolutely nothing for his dignity. To make matters worse, he’d actually gone through with it. He was wearing the hat .

Arthur nearly choked on his own laughter.

It was feathered. Feathered.

Merlin caught his eye and scowled, clearly aware of how ridiculous he looked. Gwen leaned in and whispered something to him. Arthur saw the way Merlin’s face twisted in realization before he all but ripped the hat off his head, eyes darting around as if hoping no one else had noticed. Too late for that , Arthur thought, biting back a grin.

His amusement was short-lived, however, as Bayard rose from his seat, goblet in hand, and addressed the room.

“The people of Camelot,” he began, his deep voice carrying through the hall. “For a great many years, we have been mortal enemies. The blood of our men stains the ground from the walls of Camelot to the gates of Mercia.” He strode toward the high table, where Arthur sat beside his father and Morgana. “And though we remember those who have died, we must not allow more to join them.”

At his signal, a servant stepped forward, carrying a polished wooden box.

Arthur suppressed a sigh. A Bayard speech, wonderful.

Bayard continued, “As a symbol of our goodwill and newfound friendship, I present these ceremonial goblets. To you, King Uther, and your son, Prince Arthur. May our peace last for generations to come.”

Arthur accepted his goblet with feigned enthusiasm, already preparing himself for what was sure to be another long-winded toast. He let his gaze wander through the hall, absently swirling the wine in his cup—only to pause as he caught sight of Merlin slipping away with a Mercian serving girl.

His stomach twisted unexpectedly.

What about Gwen?

Arthur frowned, glancing across the room where Gwen stood with Gaius, completely unaware of Merlin’s sudden interest in foreign company. Had they broken up? Had Merlin actually been telling the truth when he insisted there was nothing between them?

Whatever it was, Arthur wasn’t pleased. He didn’t know why , but he wasn’t. And worse—Merlin had left him to suffer through Bayard’s speech alone.

Annoyed, he turned his attention back just as Uther raised his goblet. Arthur followed suit, bringing the cup to his lips—

—only for Merlin to snatch it clean out of his hands .

“Stop! It’s poison—don’t drink it!”

The hall fell into stunned silence.

Arthur stared at him. “Merlin, what are you doing ?” His voice was urgent but low, a warning not to make a scene—too late for that.

Merlin, however, didn’t falter. “Bayard laced Arthur’s goblet with poison,” he declared, voice carrying through the room.

Arthur felt his stomach drop.

For a single, breathless moment, no one moved. Then—

“This is an outrage !” Bayard bellowed, his knights immediately drawing their swords. The clang of steel echoed as Camelot’s knights followed suit.

Arthur rose from his seat, pushing Merlin slightly behind him as the room tensed for a fight.

“Order your men to lower their weapons,” Uther commanded, voice like iron. “You are outnumbered.”

Bayard’s gaze flickered around the hall, assessing his odds. Finally, he exhaled sharply. “I will not allow this insult to go unchallenged.”

Uther turned to Merlin, his expression unreadable. “On what grounds do you base this accusation?”

“I’ll handle this,” Arthur said quickly, dragging Merlin aside. “Merlin, you idiot . Have we been at the slow gin again?”

Uther’s glare burned into them both. “Unless you want to be strung up ,” he told Merlin coldly, “you will tell me why you think the goblet is poisoned, and how you know this.”

Arthur prayed to every deity he could think of. Please don’t be stupid. Please don’t be stupid.

“He was seen lacing it,” Merlin said simply.

“By whom?” Uther pressed.

Please don’t be stupid.

Merlin hesitated. “…I can’t say.”

Arthur closed his eyes. Stupid.

“I will not listen to this any longer,” Bayard said, his voice dangerously calm.

Uther extended his hand. “Pass me the goblet. If you are telling the truth.” He addressed Bayard. “Then you have nothing to fear, do you.” He held out the goblet to the other noble.

Bayard simply held out his hand to take it.

“No,” Uther countered, voice deceptively smooth. “If this does prove to be poisoned, I want the pleasure of killing you myself.” He turned back to Merlin. “He’ll drink it.”

Arthur immediately stepped forward. “But if it is poisoned, he’ll die !”

“And we’ll know he was telling the truth.”

Bayard’s lips curled. “And if he lives ?”

“Then you have my apologies,” Uther said flatly, “and you may do with him as you will.”

Arthur’s heart pounded as the goblet was placed in Merlin’s hands.

Gaius stepped forward, desperation in his voice. “Uther, please. He’s just a boy. He doesn’t know what he’s saying.”

Uther’s gaze hardened. “Then you should have schooled him better.”

Arthur turned to Merlin, urgency in his tone. “Merlin, apologize . Say you were mistaken. Give it to me, I’ll drink it.” He all but lunged at the other boy.

Merlin gave him a small, tight smile, pushing him away, “No, no, no. It’s alright.”

And before Arthur could stop him, Merlin took a sip.

The entire hall held its breath.

A beat. Another.

Merlin let out a shaky breath. “It’s fine.”

Uther shook his head. “He’s all yours.”

Arthur barely heard the words. His eyes were locked onto Merlin’s, watching—too closely. That’s how he noticed the subtle shift in his complexion, the way his fingers trembled slightly as he lowered the goblet.

Then he reached for his throat.

Arthur caught him just as his legs gave out.

The hall erupted into chaos—shouting, swords clattering, footsteps pounding across stone—but Arthur heard none of it.

Gaius grabbed his arm. “We need to get him to my chambers— now .”

Arthur didn’t hesitate. Without a second thought, he scooped Merlin into his arms .

“Hold on,” he muttered under his breath, pushing past the stunned crowd. “You idiot , hold on.”

—

Arthur’s heart was in his throat as he layed Merlin down on the bed in Gaius’s chambers. Merlin drank that poison for him . If he died it would be all Arthur’s fault. He stood back, he didn’t know what to do with his hands.

“Is he gonna be alright?” he heard himself ask.

But if anyone answered him, he couldn’t hear them. He was going to be alright, he had to be.

“Pass me the goblet.” At the mentioned of that acursed object Arthur came back to the world around him.

“There’s something stuck on the inside.” Gaius said.

“What is it?” Arthur rushed to his side.

“Looks like a flower petal of some kind.” Gaius pondered, taking it over to his workbench, then going about looking through his bookshelves, finding a book he brought it back to the table and started to skim through it.

“His brows on fire.” Gwen said, Arthur just then realizing she was there.

“Keep him cool, it’ll help control his fever.”

Looking up from his book, Gaius looked at him. “The petal comes from the Mortaeus flower. It says here that someone poisoned by the Mortaeus could only be saved by a potion made from the leaf of the very same flower.”

“Where can we find this flower.”

After a pause Gaius looked back down at the book. “It can only be found in the caves deep beneath the forest of Baloch. From the roots of the Mortaeus tree.”

Arthur looked at a picture of a great beast next to the drawing of the flower. “That doesn’t look very friendly.

“A Cockatrice. It guards the forest. It’s venom is potent. A single drop would mean certain death.”

Arthur took a breath, looking at Merlin once more. “Sounds like fun.” He started towards the door.

“Arthur, it’s too dangerous!” Gaius said.

“If I don’t get the antidote, then what happens to Merlin?”

Gaius shook his head. “The flower produces a slow and painful death. He may hold out for five or six days. But eventually,” his voice shook. “He will die.”

That was all Arthur needed to hear, he was leaving that night.

—

Arthur had barely gotten himself outfitted before his father caught him storming through the halls, his sword belted at his hip, his mind set on a single goal. He was halfway to the stables, ready to ride out, when Uther’s voice rang out, sharp and unyielding.

“I will not risk my only heir for the life of a servant.”

Arthur halted, his fists clenching. He turned to face his father, rage flaring in his chest. “Because his life is worthless?”

Uther’s expression didn’t change. “No,” he said evenly, as if this was simply a matter of logic. “Because it is worth less than yours.”

Arthur had always known how his father saw the world—rank above all else, nobility before commoners, power above principle. But hearing it laid out so plainly made something in him snap.

“ Please , Father,” Arthur’s voice shook with fury, with desperation. “He saved my life. Again . I won’t stand by and watch him die.”

“Then don’t look.”

With that, Uther turned and walked away, his decision final, his back a wall Arthur could never break through.

Arthur stood there, his heart hammering, his breath uneven. He wanted to scream, to tear something apart. But he didn’t have time for that. Every second he wasted arguing with his father was a second Merlin didn’t have.

So Arthur did what he did best—he ignored orders.

He saddled his horse with frantic hands, barely stopping long enough to secure his supplies. Then he rode.

Through the city gates, into the darkened wilderness, faster than he ever had before. The wind lashed against his face, the pounding of hooves a steady rhythm in the silence of the night. He didn’t stop. He wouldn’t stop. He pushed forward, trees and shadows blurring past him, the weight of his armor nothing compared to the weight in his chest.

The only thing that mattered was Merlin.

Hours passed, but Arthur barely noticed. It wasn’t until his horse faltered beneath him, breath heaving, legs trembling, that he was forced to slow. Guilt pricked at him—he was driving the poor creature into the ground. Gritting his teeth, he dismounted, running a hand over the horse’s lathered neck in silent apology.

They had gone as far as they could for now.

Arthur found a small clearing and made camp, but he didn’t sleep. He couldn’t.

He sat by the weak fire, his jaw clenched, staring into the flames as if they held the answers he sought. Merlin’s face haunted him—the sharp intake of breath, the way his body had gone limp in Arthur’s arms, the faint blue tint to his lips.

—

“I expressly ordered Arthur not to go!” Uther’s voice thundered through Morgana’s chambers, rattling the very walls.

He had been going on like this for ten minutes now, and Morgana, who had merely been trying to enjoy a quiet evening, was beginning to lose patience. It wasn’t even her he was angry at, yet she was the one stuck enduring his tantrum.

“I’d say that worked like a charm,” she muttered, flicking through the pages of a book she had no intention of reading.

Uther turned on her, pointing a rigid finger. “ Not another word. ”

Morgana tilted her head innocently. “My lips are sealed,” she said, flashing him a smile.

Uther let out a sharp huff, pacing in agitation. “I should have put him under lock and key!”

She rolled her eyes, shutting the book with a snap. “You can’t chain him up every time he disagrees with you.”

“ Watch me! ” Uther barked. “I will not be disobeyed, especially by my own son!”

Morgana exhaled through her nose and moved to sit at her vanity, hoping that if she ignored him, he might storm out and find someone else to berate. No such luck. Uther was relentless, and within moments, he leaned over the table in front of her, his presence looming, his fury unwavering.

“You knew about this, didn’t you?” His voice was low now, edged with accusation.

Morgana met his gaze unflinchingly. “Arthur is old enough to make decisions for himself.”

Uther scoffed. “He’s just a boy.”

She arched a brow. “Have you seen your son recently? He’s not a child anymore, Uther. You have to let him make up his own mind.”

“Even if it means letting him ride to his death ?” he shot back.

Morgana hesitated. The thought had crossed her mind. The idea of Arthur never returning, of Uther’s fear proving justified, had been enough to make her consider trying to stop him. But she hadn’t. Because Arthur had made a choice—a noble one. He was risking everything, not for glory or politics, but for a servant. For Merlin .

That was the kind of man he was becoming.

That was the kind of king he could be.

—

By dawn, Arthur reached the outskirts of the forest, where the caves were said to be. The air was damp, thick with the scent of moss and earth, and the canopy above wove twisting shadows over his path. His horse moved cautiously beneath him, its ears flicking at every unfamiliar noise.

He was leading it along a narrow trail when a cry split the silence.

Arthur halted. His hand flew to the hilt of his sword as he scanned the woods. Then, through the trees, he spotted her—a woman, huddled in the undergrowth, her dress torn and smeared with dirt. Blood streaked her arms. She was trembling, sobbing into her hands.

Arthur stepped forward. “Hello?” he called out. “Are you hurt?”

The woman’s head snapped up. Her eyes were wild, filled with a terror that made Arthur’s stomach tighten. But she wasn’t looking at him .

She was looking past him.

Her lips parted in a silent scream.

Arthur turned just as a guttural growl rumbled through the trees.

From the shadows, a hulking shape slithered into view. Scaled skin, twisted talons, blackened feathers clinging to its grotesque form—the Cockatrice.

Arthur’s pulse quickened.

Slowly, he stepped away from the woman, drawing the creature’s attention. He met its glowing, reptilian eyes, his grip tightening around his sword.

Then it lunged.

Arthur barely had time to react. He dropped, rolling beneath the beast as it crashed down where he had stood, claws tearing through the undergrowth. His heart pounded as he spun, raising his sword—

The Cockatrice reared back for another strike. Arthur didn’t hesitate. He hurled his blade with deadly precision.

The sword met flesh.

A sickening squelch filled the air as the weapon buried itself deep into the beast’s side. The Cockatrice let out a piercing shriek, its body convulsing before collapsing in a heap. Arthur stood there, breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling as the creature’s growls faded into silence.

He turned back to the woman. She had not moved. But her fear had not lessened.

Arthur furrowed his brow. “It’s alright,” he said, softening his tone. “You’re safe now. I won’t hurt you.”

Still, she flinched as he approached. His gaze flicked over the bruises littering her skin, the scratches that were too small, too deliberate , to have been left by the Cockatrice. A different kind of anger stirred in him.

“Who did that to you?” he asked.

Her fingers curled into the dirt. She swallowed hard. “My master,” she whispered. “I ran away, but I got lost in the forest.” A tear slipped down her cheek. “Please… don’t leave me.”

Arthur’s jaw clenched. He knelt beside her, his voice firm with quiet resolve. “I won’t.”

Her breath hitched at his promise.

“I’ll get you to safety,” he continued, but hesitated. “I just need to find something first.”

She blinked at him, wiping at her face. “What are you looking for?”

“A type of flower, it’s very rare, and only grows in these caves..”

Her eyes widened slightly. “In the caves?” She sat up a little. “Do you mean the Mortaeus flower? I know where that is. I can show you.”

Arthur stilled. He had expected to spend half the day searching through the endless tunnels. And now, by sheer luck he had a guide.

Arthur stood, offering her a hand. “Well then, let’s get moving before anything worse finds us.”

She took his hand, gripping it tightly, and together, they stepped deeper into the forest.

—

The woman moved through the caves with an unsettling confidence, leading Arthur through a labyrinth of twisting passages. The damp air clung to his skin, and the only sounds were the echo of their footsteps and the occasional drip of water from the jagged ceiling.

Arthur’s grip tightened around his sword. This was too easy. Too convenient. She never hesitated, never second-guessed a turn. For someone who had supposedly been lost in these caves, she navigated them far too well.

A trap. It had to be.

But what choice did he have? This was his best lead, and Merlin was running out of time.

They rounded a final corner, and the woman suddenly stopped. She pointed. “There they are.”

Arthur followed her gaze. Across a deep abyss, clinging to the far cave wall, was the Mortaeus flower. Its silver petals shimmered faintly in the darkness, a stark contrast against the slick, wet stone.

Arthur stepped forward cautiously. The ground beneath his feet was narrow, an outcrop that barely offered enough space to balance. Below, an eerie skittering sound echoed from the abyss, like the clicking of many legs against stone. He grimaced. Whatever was down there, it was alive. And it was waiting.

The only way across was a jump. Not a long one, but the cave walls were slick with moisture, and if he miscalculated—

Behind him, the woman began to murmur. A chant.

Arthur’s stomach dropped.

Magic.

His body tensed, instincts roaring to life. “What are you doing?” he demanded, turning just as the cavern trembled.

A deep rumble shuddered through the stone, dust trickling from the ceiling. He could feel the magic in the air, thick and oppressive. The floor beneath him quivered. Cracks splintered along the edges of the outcrop.

She was trying to kill him.

Arthur should retreat. He should . But the flower—Merlin needed it. He had come too far to turn back now.

The ledge gave way beneath his feet.

Arthur leapt.

He barely caught the far ledge, fingers gripping desperately at the jagged rock. His arms strained under his own weight, his armor making every movement more difficult. The abyss yawned beneath him, and from its depths, the scuttling grew louder.

From above, the woman’s voice was no longer meek. It was smooth, commanding, brimming with cruel amusement.

“I expected so much more.”

Arthur gritted his teeth, glancing up at her. The timid runaway was gone. She stood tall, her presence radiating power.

“Who are you?” he growled.

She reached up and pulled back her hood, revealing sharp, angular features and cold, calculating eyes. A smirk curled her lips.

“The last face you’ll ever see.”

Arthur’s pulse pounded in his ears.

Then he heard it—the sound of something moving. Fast.

He turned his head just as a grotesque shape emerged from the abyss. A spider, monstrous and glistening, the size of a large hound. Its many black eyes gleamed hungrily as it scuttled toward him, fangs clicking together in anticipation.

The woman tilted her head. “Ah. Seems we have a visitor.”

Arthur cursed under his breath. He shifted his grip, trying to inch toward a larger ledge where he could haul himself up, but the spider was closing in fast.

He had seconds.

With a grunt, Arthur let go with one hand and yanked his sword from its sheath. He swung just as the spider lunged. The blade connected with a sickening crack , sending the creature shrieking as it tumbled into the abyss below.

Arthur wasted no time. He tossed his sword onto the ledge above, preparing to pull himself up—

The woman only laughed. “Very good,” she mused, “but that won’t be the last of them.”

Arthur glanced down. More shapes skittered in the darkness, moving fast. Too fast.

She took a step back, voice full of mockery. “I’ll let its friends finish you off, Arthur Pendragon. It’s not your destiny to die by my hand.”

Arthur’s eyes snapped up. “Who are you?!” he shouted again.

But she was already gone.

Arthur was left hanging in the pitch black.

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of his ragged breathing. Then, out of the darkness, something flickered.

A soft, blue glow.

Arthur’s breath hitched. He knew that glow.

Just like his eyes.

The light hovered, faint at first, then slowly rising, illuminating the rock above him.

Merlin. Somehow, Merlin had sent this light.

Arthur adjusted his grip. “Alright, then,” he muttered. “Let’s see where you’re leading me.”

Following the glow, he climbed, fingers scraping against the wet rock, angling for the flower. He could almost hear Merlin’s exasperated voice in his head. Leave it, Arthur. Save yourself.

Arthur set his jaw. Not a chance.

The scuttling behind him grew louder. The spiders were coming.

But just as they neared, Arthur reached up and grasped the flower, roots and all, yanking it free.

He didn’t stop, he put it in his pouch and he kept climbing, following the glow. Every muscle in his body burned, his arms trembling under the weight of his armor, but he pushed forward.

Then—light.

A real light. A sliver of pale daylight streaming in through a narrow crevice. An exit.

Arthur pulled himself up with a final heave. As soon as he reached solid ground, he bolted. His horse stood where he had left it, pawing at the earth anxiously. Without hesitation, he mounted, kicking it into motion.

He had the flower. He had to get back.

—

Arthur rode through the night, his horse’s hooves pounding against the dirt, his heart matching the frantic rhythm. The sky had begun to lighten, the first hints of dawn stretching over the horizon when the towers of Camelot finally came into view. He barely slowed as he approached the gates, exhaustion weighing him down like his armor, but he had no time to rest—not when Merlin’s life hung in the balance.

He was almost through when a line of guards stepped forward, blocking his path.

“Step down, my lord,” one of them ordered, shifting uneasily.

Arthur frowned, scanning their faces. These weren’t ordinary gate guards—they were his father’s men.

“What is this?” he demanded.

“I’m sorry, sire. King’s orders.”

The moment his feet touched the ground, they seized him.

His father came to see him in the dungeons.

“You disobeyed me.”

“Of course I did, a man’s life was at stake!” Arthur shouted. “Do not let Merlin die because of something I did.”

His father shook his head, “Why do you care so much? The boy is just a servant.”

He shook his head. “He knew the danger he was putting himself in, he knew what would happen if he drank from that goblet, but he did it anyway. He saved my life. Again.”

His father turned to leave. “There’s more.” Uther paused. “There was a woman at the mountain, she knew I was there for the flower. I don’t think it was Bayard who tried to poison me.”

His father just scoffed. “Of course it was.”

Arthur was tired of this. Reaching into his pouch, he pulled out the flower.

Handing it to his father, he said “Gaius knows what to do with it. Put me in the stocks for a week, a month even, I don’t care! Just make sure that it gets to him. I’m begging you.” He tried to put all the emotion he could into his face, hoping beyond hope that his father would see how much this meant to him and care.

Uther crushed it in his palm.

“You have to learn, that there is a right, and there is a wrong way of doing things. I’ll see that you’re let out in a week.”

Uther left the cell as dropped the flower as the guards closed the door. “And you can find yourself another servant.

Arthur dropped to his knees, ignoring the rough scrape of the stone against his skin, reaching through the bars. He stretched his arm as far as it would go, fingers grasping desperately for the ruined flower.

It was a struggle, but finally, he managed to pull it back toward him. It was battered, crushed, nearly useless—but it was all he had.

He sat back against the cold stone wall, staring at the fragile thing in his hands.

His father was a cruel, ruthless man. He had always known that. But this?

This was unforgivable.

He hugged the flower to his chest, closing his eyes.

Merlin was going to die.

Arthur’s throat tightened painfully. The thought of it made something ache deep inside him, something he had never felt before.

Because Merlin wasn’t just some servant.

He was Arthur’s friend. His first real friend.

The only person who had ever treated him as more than a prince, more than Uther’s son. Merlin had never feared him, never hesitated to call him out when he was being an ass, never walked on eggshells around him like so many others did.

With Merlin, he could breathe. He could laugh. He could be himself.

And now he was going to die.

Arthur clenched his jaw, his grip tightening around the broken flower.

He would never forgive his father. Never.

—

Arthur sat in the dim light of his cell, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on him. His mind churned, racing through every possibility, every desperate hope.

Footsteps echoed down the corridor. He barely lifted his head as the familiar figure approached.

Gwen.

She carried a wooden tray, her movements careful yet efficient, the flickering torchlight casting long shadows over her face. She hesitated outside his cell, her expression unreadable.

“Your supper,” she said quietly.

Arthur forced a scoff, shifting where he sat. “Set it down over there,” he muttered, jerking his head toward the spot near the bars. He made sure to keep his tone sharp, impatient—just enough to make her think he wasn’t worth lingering over.

Gwen pursed her lips but obeyed, kneeling to place the tray down. As she did, Arthur moved swiftly, his motions precise despite the tension coiling in his chest.

His fingers brushed over the crumpled remains of the flower—his last hope—and, in one smooth motion, he slipped it onto the tray.

It wasn’t much. Just a broken, battered thing. But maybe—just maybe—it was enough.

Gwen started to rise. He had to make sure she saw it.

“Wait,” he called, voice deliberately laced with irritation.

She turned back, eyes questioning.

Arthur pushed himself up and strode to the bars, crossing his arms as if he were inspecting his meal with disdain. “I couldn’t possibly eat this,” he said, wrinkling his nose. “It’s disgusting.”

He flung himself back onto the bench with exaggerated exasperation, watching from the corner of his eye.

Gwen hesitated, then reached for the tray.

Arthur held his breath.

She lifted it. Paused.

Her back was to him, but he saw the way her shoulders stiffened, the tiny falter in her movement.

She had seen it.

She knew.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then, with quiet efficiency, Gwen straightened, cradled the tray close to her, and turned on her heel.

She didn’t look back. Didn’t say a word.

But she left quickly, walking with just enough urgency to tell Arthur everything he needed to know.

He exhaled, pressing his head back against the stone wall.

Hope.

—

The war chamber was thick with tension, the air charged with urgency as Uther and his generals poured over maps, voices rising in hurried deliberation.

The doors creaked open, and Gaius stepped inside. He was not announced, nor did he wait for permission.

“Sire, forgive the interruption, but may I speak with you?” His tone was measured, but there was an edge beneath it.

Uther barely spared him a glance. “Not now.”

“Your Highness, it is important.”

Uther exhaled sharply, his patience fraying. “Word of Bayard’s arrest has reached Mercia. We are about to be attacked.”

Gaius did not flinch. “What I have to tell you will have some bearing on your plans, Sire. Please, it will only take a moment.”

There was something in his voice—something unyielding. It wasn’t just urgency. It was anger. Controlled, but present. Uther may not have noticed it, but Gaius felt it burn in his chest. His nephew had nearly died because of this man’s blindness.

Uther straightened, scrutinizing him. With a sharp nod, he signaled for Gaius to follow him across the room, out of earshot of the others.

Once they stood apart, Gaius wasted no time. “I know who tried to poison Arthur.”

Uther barely blinked. “So do I. He’s locked in my dungeon.”

Gaius inhaled slowly, steadying himself. “It wasn’t Bayard,” he said firmly. “The poison was magical.”

That gave Uther pause. His expression darkened, but Gaius pressed on.

“And I’d recognize the hand that crafted it anywhere.” His voice dropped lower. “Nimueh.”

For the first time, something flickered across Uther’s face. Not just anger—fear. It was brief, but undeniable.

“You must be mistaken.” His voice was quiet, but strained.

Gaius met his gaze without wavering. “I wish I was.”

Uther shook his head. “It can’t have been. We’d know her.” His voice was growing firmer now, defensive. “That witch’s face is not easily forgotten.”

“She is a High Priestess, a master of deception,” Gaius countered. “She can enchant the eyes of those who look upon her. We never knew it was her.”

Uther held his stare, his jaw tight, but Gaius could see the doubt creeping in.

“Have you any proof?” the king demanded.

Gaius gave a grave nod. “The poison used against Merlin was far more potent than anything natural. It was laced with magic.”

Uther’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Are you saying she conspired with Bayard to kill Arthur?”

“No,” Gaius said sharply. “Bayard is innocent.” He gestured toward the room, to the men hunched over battle plans, their voices growing more heated. “Look at what is happening. This is what she wanted all along. Not Arthur’s death—war. Strife. Misery. She has orchestrated all of this.”

Uther’s gaze flicked back toward his generals, the weight of the situation sinking in. He exhaled, then turned back toward the room.

“How long before Bayard’s army reaches our walls?” he asked.

A knight stepped forward. “A day, maybe less.”

Uther’s decision was swift. “Instruct the men to hold the gates. No one leaves Camelot until I give the word.”

Gaius felt a rush of relief. For once, Uther was seeing reason. At least, for now.

“You are making the right decision, Sire,” Gaius said.

Uther did not acknowledge him. His gaze remained fixed on the war table, his expression unreadable.

Then, after a moment, Gaius spoke again, quieter this time. “Do you think Arthur should be told the truth about Nimueh?”

Uther did not answer.

—

The first thing Arthur did when he was released was go see Merlin.

He didn’t go to his chambers to rest, didn’t change out of the clothes that smelled of damp stone and confinement. His legs ached from days of stillness, but he barely noticed as he made his way through the castle halls, his steps steady, purposeful.

When he pushed open the door to Gaius’s chambers, warmth greeted him—a stark contrast to the cold of the dungeons. The air smelled of herbs and something faintly sweet, like honeyed tea.

Merlin was seated at the table, a thick blanket draped around his shoulders, a bowl in front of him. He was eating—slowly, but with an appetite—and there was color in his cheeks again.

Arthur hadn’t realized how much he needed to see that.

Gaius, who had been adjusting the blanket around Merlin’s shoulders, turned at Arthur’s arrival. The old physician studied him for a moment, then, without a word, nodded and quietly excused himself, leaving them alone.

Arthur stepped further into the room, arms crossed over his chest. “Still alive, then?” he called, his voice lighter than he felt.

Merlin glanced over his shoulder, offering a tired but genuine smile. “Yeah, just about.”

Arthur took him in, truly looking at him. He looked far better than the last time Arthur had seen him—pale, trembling, slipping away with every shallow breath. Now, though still thin, he looked stronger. More like himself.

“You had me worried for a moment,” Arthur admitted, his tone laced with something too raw to be called casual.

Merlin smirked. “You? Worried about me? That’s a first.”

Arthur scoffed, shaking his head. “Don’t get used to it.”

He hesitated, then tipped his head toward him. “I understand I have you to thank for that.”

Merlin met his gaze, something unspoken passing between them. “Yeah, well,” Arthur continued, shifting his weight. “A half-decent servant is hard to come by.”

Merlin huffed a quiet laugh, dipping his head with a knowing smile. He didn’t need to say anything. They both knew what Arthur really meant.

Arthur cleared his throat. “I was only dropping by to make sure you’re alright.” A beat. “And to check that you’ll be back to work tomorrow morning.”

“Oh, yeah, of course. Bright and early.”

Merlin grinned, and for the first time since this whole ordeal began, Arthur felt some of the tension in his chest ease.

He turned to go, but before he could reach the door, Merlin’s voice stopped him.

“Arthur.”

He turned back.

Merlin’s expression had shifted—lighter, but sincere. “Thank you.”

Arthur stared at him for a long moment.

Then, finally, he nodded. “You too. For… everything.” He smiled, “Get some rest Merlin.”

—

After leaving Merlin’s chambers, Arthur made his way to the battlements, watching as the Mercian procession wound its way through the gates of Camelot. The banners of Mercia rippled in the breeze, their knights casting wary glances back at the citadel. Peace had been restored—for now.

Footsteps approached behind him. Arthur did not turn. He knew who it was before he even spoke.

“The woman you met in the forest.” Uther’s voice was measured, but there was something beneath it—hesitation. “What did she tell you?”

Arthur’s jaw tightened. Despite Merlin’s survival, he was still furious with the King. Furious at his blindness, his arrogance—his willingness to let an innocent man suffer for a crime he didn’t commit. But he couldn’t let it show. Not yet. He had to play the long game.

He forced his voice to remain neutral. “Not much. She was too busy trying to get me killed.”

Uther gave a curt nod, as if that confirmed what he already believed.

Arthur hesitated, then added, “It was strange, though.”

Uther’s gaze flicked toward him. “In what way?”

Arthur turned slightly, meeting the man’s eyes. “I was at her mercy. She could have killed me, but she didn’t.” He frowned, remembering the woman’s words. “She said it wasn’t my destiny—to die at her hand.”

For the first time, Uther looked more than just curious. His expression darkened, a flicker of something Arthur couldn’t quite place crossing his features—was it concern? Fear?

“You must have been scared,” Uther said at last.

Arthur tensed. There it was again—he was being looked down on, spoken to as though he were a boy instead of a warrior. A prince.

He shrugged. “Had its moments.”

Uther barely seemed to hear him. He was staring past the walls, into the horizon, as if searching for something unseen. “Those who practice magic know only evil,” he said finally. His voice was firm, unwavering. “They despise and seek to destroy goodness wherever they find it.” He shook his head, almost to himself. “That is why she wanted you dead. She is evil.”

Arthur studied him. The King’s hatred for magic had always been absolute, but there was something personal in his voice now—something deeper than the usual doctrine he so often preached.

“You sound as if you know her,” Arthur said carefully.

Uther went still.

But then his father’s expression shuttered, his walls slamming back into place. “To know the heart of one sorcerer is to know them all,” he said instead. His voice was colder now, distant.

Arthur clenched his fists at his sides. He knew a dismissal when he heard one.

Uther turned to him, his face softening. “You did the right thing,” he said, “even though you disobeyed me.” He placed a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, his grip firm, steady. “I am proud of you. Don’t ever forget that.”

Then he was gone, striding back toward the castle, leaving Arthur alone with his thoughts.

Arthur exhaled slowly, his breath visible in the cool evening air. The tension in his chest refused to ease, coiling tighter with every thought that ran through his mind. The words still rang in his ears— You did the right thing. I am proud of you. He should have felt some sense of satisfaction, some small measure of vindication, but instead, all he felt was conflict.

He was still furious with Uther. Furious that he had nearly let an innocent man die, that his stubbornness had almost cost Arthur his closest friend. Furious that Uther continued to paint the world in black and white, magic as evil, himself as righteous. That same blind hatred had driven him to execute countless men and women without a second thought.

And yet… there had been something in Uther’s eyes, just for a moment.

If he could say that Arthur was right in going against his wishes, who’s to say he couldn’t continue to change his mind. Arthur had spent years believing Uther could never change, that he would never listen, never see reason when it came to magic. But what if that wasn’t entirely true? What if there was a crack in the armor, however small?

He was still angry, still resentful. But for the first time in a long while, he wondered— was there hope for him after all?

Chapter Text

The journey through the forest had been long, but Arthur was in high spirits. The air was crisp, the sun was shining through the trees, and best of all—he was finally getting a break from the never-ending tedium of court.

"There’s nothing quite like a bit of adventure to break up the monotony of listening to noblemen complain about their land disputes," Arthur said, stretching his arms as he rode. "Don’t you agree, Merlin?"

Merlin, riding along beside him, swatted at a branch that Arthur had conveniently let snap back into his face. "Oh yes, this is exactly how I wanted to spend my day—marching through a cursed forest on an errand for your father. Living the dream, really."

"That’s the spirit!" Arthur grinned, ignoring Merlin’s glare. "And we both know you’d just be loitering around Gaius’s chambers otherwise. This way, you get fresh air, exercise, and the privilege of my company. A rare treat, truly."

"Oh yes, I feel incredibly lucky," Merlin muttered.

They pressed on, their small group of Camelot’s soldiers following behind. The further they went, the quieter the forest became, the usual sounds of rustling leaves and distant birdsong fading into an unnatural stillness. The ruins of the temple finally came into view, half-buried beneath creeping vines and cracked stone. It had once been grand—Merlin could tell from the towering archways and intricate carvings—but now, it stood abandoned, its entrance gaping like a silent invitation.

Arthur swung down from his horse with ease, brushing the dust from his gloves as he took in the sight before them. "*Well, this doesn’t look too bad. I was expecting something…ominous."

"That’s because you don’t have the sense to recognize ominous when you see it," Merlin muttered, eyeing the eerie symbols carved into the temple’s walls.

Arthur turned toward him, looking entirely too cheerful. "Careful, Merlin. You sound suspiciously like you’re afraid."

"I’m not afraid," Merlin shot back, crossing his arms. "I just don’t think marching into an ancient, supposedly cursed temple is the wisest idea."

"My father disagrees." Arthur clapped Merlin on the shoulder. "And since he’s the king, and I’m the prince, and you’re…well, you, we’re going in."

Merlin sighed, glancing at the temple again. "Right. Because when has ignoring ominous warnings ever gone badly for us?"

Arthur flashed him a grin. "Exactly. Now, let’s get this over with. The sooner we make sure it’s empty, the sooner we can bring it down."

He strode forward, leaving Merlin to glare after him.

—

The temple’s air was thick with dust, the scent of aged stone and forgotten magic clinging to every surface. Their footsteps echoed as they entered the grand chamber, torchlight flickering against the towering walls.

At its center stood an enormous mirror—tall and ornate, its gilded frame curling like vines around the edges. The rest of the temple had crumbled with time, but the mirror remained untouched, its surface pristine, almost glowing.

"Well, that’s… dramatic," Arthur muttered, stepping closer.

"It doesn’t feel right," Merlin said quietly, eyeing the way the mirror seemed to hum with an energy he couldn’t place.

One of the soldiers, a broad-shouldered knight, scoffed. "The villagers said it shows your heart’s desire, didn’t they? A reflection can’t hurt us."

Before Arthur could stop him, he strode forward and peered into the glass. The moment his gaze locked onto the reflection, he gasped, his entire body going rigid. "I see my wife…" he whispered, voice thick with emotion. "She’s right there…"

Though he couldn’t see anything other than the rooms reflection Arthur watched as the man reached out, trembling fingers brushing against the glass. But the second he made contact, he gasped again, “She’s gone.” He staggered away, his breath shaky.

"It’s a trick," Arthur declared, rolling his eyes. "Light and shadow, nothing more. Don’t tell me you lot actually believe this nonsense."

Merlin frowned. "Arthur, maybe we shouldn’t—"

"Oh, please." Arthur crossing his arms. "If this thing actually works, then it should show me something truly important."

Before Merlin could argue, Arthur stepped up to the mirror, confident, smug—determined to prove how ridiculous the whole thing was.

For a long moment, the glass remained dark.

Then, slowly, an image began to form.

Arthur leaned forward, expecting to see Camelot’s throne, his father’s approving nod, maybe even a vision of a powerful future queen at his side.

Instead, he saw Merlin.

Merlin, standing just behind him in the reflection—smiling, warm, looking at Arthur with something unspoken in his eyes.

Arthur’s breath caught. His pulse pounded in his ears.

No.

That wasn’t right.

He glanced over his shoulder, half-expecting Merlin to be standing too close, playing some ridiculous trick. But Merlin was still by the entrance, watching with wary curiosity, completely unaware.

Arthur turned back to the mirror, but the vision remained. Merlin. Only Merlin.

Something deep in Arthur’s chest twisted. He forced himself to take a step back, scowling, his throat tight. "Told you it was nonsense," he said, voice sharper than he intended.

He turned on his heel, shoving past Merlin as he stalked toward the exit.

Merlin blinked after him. "What? What did you see?"

"Nothing," Arthur snapped. "Let’s burn this place down and go home."

But as he marched ahead, jaw clenched, he couldn’t shake the image from his mind.

Why him?

Why—Merlin?

—

The tension in Arthur’s shoulders was obvious, the way he stalked past Merlin with clipped steps, barking orders at the soldiers as if setting the temple ablaze would erase whatever he’d seen in that cursed mirror.

Merlin, of course, noticed immediately. It was a strak contrast to the bright mood he’d been in earlier.

"What did you see?" Merlin asked, tilting his head, his voice laced with curiosity.

"Nothing," Arthur said too quickly, his voice stiff. He brushed past him, waving an impatient hand. "Burn it down. We’re leaving."

Merlin narrowed his eyes. "Oh, come on," he drawled, hurrying to catch up as they made their way back through the forest. "You looked like you’d seen a ghost. Or worse, something embarrassing. Let me guess—was it you on the throne? No, wait! Was it Morgana?" He grinned. "A grand wedding, you in some ridiculous ceremonial robe—"

"Merlin," Arthur growled, his hands balling into fists. "Drop it."

But Merlin didn’t do dropping things.

"Oh!" Merlin gasped dramatically, eyes twinkling with mischief. "Was it me? Feeding you grapes while you lounged around like a spoilt prince?" He smirked. "I could see that, actually. You, draped across a pile of cushions, me fanning you—"

"Shut up!" Arthur barked, turning on him with wild eyes. Merlin took an exaggerated step back, hands up in surrender, but the smirk never left his face.

Arthur was visibly rattled, more than Merlin had ever seen him after a battle or an argument with Uther. And that was interesting.

"You’re making that face again," Merlin pointed out, biting back a grin. "The one where you pretend you're not upset, but actually you're incredibly upset."

Arthur let out a strangled noise, looking very much like he wanted to throttle him. Instead, he spun on his heel and marched ahead, muttering curses under his breath.

Merlin, ever persistent, jogged after him. "Was it me in a dress? I bet it was me in a dress. You know, you have been spending a lot of time around me—"

"I swear to the gods, Merlin, if you say another word—"

"You’re blushing, sire."

"Merlin!"

Merlin cackled as Arthur stomped ahead, shoulders tense, ears burning red.

Oh yes. Whatever he’d seen in that mirror had definitely been interesting.

—

Upon returning to Camelot after destroying the temple, Arthur found himself restless in a way that defied explanation.

The castle was the same as it had always been—stern, unyielding, safe. Yet somehow, it no longer felt like a refuge. The stone walls, once a source of stability, seemed to loom over him now, closing in with a weight that pressed against his chest. The corridors stretched too long, the training yard felt suffocating, and even the throne room, where he had stood countless times before, seemed unfamiliar. He moved through it all as if in a haze, everything just as it should be and yet... fundamentally different.

Or maybe he was.

He could have dismissed it as exhaustion. The mission had been long, grueling. He had faced danger before, seen things far stranger than an enchanted mirror. But nothing had ever followed him like this. Nothing had ever unsettled him in quite the same way.

Because no matter how hard he tried to push it from his mind, the vision lingered.

The mirror’s reflection was burned into his thoughts, creeping in when he least expected it. He had expected to see something grand—Camelot at the height of its power, his father’s approval, the glory of his future reign. Instead, he had seen him .

Merlin.

Standing beside him, smiling with that effortless, honest warmth. Merlin, as if he belonged there, as if they had always stood together. There was no crown, no throne—nothing of the future Arthur had always believed he was meant to have. Just Merlin. And the weight of that realization sent a shiver through him that had nothing to do with fear.

No, it was something else entirely. Something Arthur refused to name.

So, he did what he did best. He ignored it. He buried himself in training, exhausting himself until his muscles burned and his mind had no space for unwelcome thoughts. He sat through council meetings, feigning interest in discussions of trade and border security, even as his mind threatened to drift. When his father spoke, Arthur listened with an intensity that should have made him the perfect son.

And yet, the moment his mind quieted, Merlin was there again.

Laughing at some ridiculous joke. Grimacing as he scrubbed mud from Arthur’s boots. Complaining under his breath in that way that honestly crossed into disrespect. Shoving food into his mouth like he’d never had a decent meal in his life. Looking at Arthur with that infuriating mix of defiance and loyalty, like he saw right through the prince and chose to stand beside him anyway.

He must have some sort of sickness.

Arthur barely noticed when his name was called during a council meeting, only snapping to attention when Morgana nudged him sharply under the table. He muttered something about being tired, brushing off the way she narrowed her eyes at him like she knew .

He was tired. Overworked. Distracted. The mission had taken its toll. That was all.

And yet.

It wasn’t just the mirror. It wasn’t just the vision. It was the way he felt now, when Merlin walked into a room. The way his stomach twisted, the way his chest tightened whenever their gazes met. The way he found himself seeking Merlin out, watching him, looking for... for what? Some sign that he felt it too?

Didn’t he feel it?

The question haunted Arthur in ways he despised.

Late into the night, long after the castle had gone quiet, he sat alone in his chambers, elbows resting on his knees, staring into the dim glow of the dying fire. His mind, normally so sharp, so decisive, was an utter mess. A tangle of thoughts, questions, and the one truth he could not escape.

The mirror hadn’t shown him a monster. It hadn’t shown him an enemy.

It had supposedly shown him his heart’s greatest desire.

And it had shown him Merlin.

Arthur’s breath hitched, his hands tightening into fists.

That terrified him more than anything else ever had.

Because he had heard stories about love like this before.

In the dungeon, with Balinor, his voice rough but steady, his gaze meeting Arthur’s across the damp stone floor.

The story of Bodhmall and Liath. Though they hadn’t been the point of the story, they stuck with him nevertheless. Two women, married.

His father would say it was wrong. The law would say it was forbidden.

But Arthur had looked into that mirror. And what he had seen had not been shameful. It had not been twisted or dark.

It had been Merlin .

Arthur exhaled shakily, pressing his palms against his face.

—

As the days pass, the situation in Camelot worsens, and Arthur finds himself more distracted than ever. The land is dying, the people are suffering, and Arthur can’t shake the constant pull of Merlin’s presence in his mind.

The more he tries to avoid it, the more he finds himself watching Merlin from a distance—his every action, his every word. Arthur doesn't realize he's doing it at first, but soon, Merlin catches him staring. Merlin raises an eyebrow, puzzled by the odd way Arthur is behaving.

Arthur quickly looks away, his face reddening, and mutters under his breath, "What’s wrong with me?"

To distract himself, Arthur throws himself into training, hunting, and various royal duties—anything to keep his mind from drifting back to Merlin. But it’s no use. No matter how hard he works, the tension inside him builds, and the reflection of the mirror, with Merlin standing beside him, continues to haunt him.

One evening, while brooding in the courtyard, Arthur is once again alone with his thoughts. The dim light of the setting sun casts long shadows across the stone, and the air is cooler than usual. Merlin steps out from the shadows, his usual mischievous grin replaced by a more curious expression.

"You’ve been acting weird since the temple," Merlin remarks, his voice tinged with concern. A pause "What did you see?"

Arthur tries to deflect, trying to hide the truth. "It doesn’t matter," he says, his tone sharper than he intended.

Merlin, not one to let things slide, pushes further. "Whatever it was, it’s got you more wound up than usual. Which is saying something."

Arthur stands up abruptly, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. "It doesn’t matter!" he snaps, his voice cracking with frustration. The words sound more like a plea than a statement.

But Merlin’s gaze doesn’t leave him. There’s something about Arthur’s words, his tone, and the way he avoids meeting his eyes that sends a chill through Merlin. He studies Arthur for a long moment, something unspoken passing between them. For once, Merlin isn’t trying to make a joke or lighten the mood. He’s waiting, watching Arthur, as if he knows the prince is holding something back.

Arthur, sensing the weight of the moment, becomes more restless. He turns sharply and begins to walk away, muttering, "Forget I said anything, dismissed." But Merlin doesn’t move. He stands there in silence, the confusion etched across his face, and a twinge of something else in his eyes—something he can’t quite place.

Arthur, on the other hand, walks away quickly, his heart pounding in his chest. He doesn't know what’s happening to him, but one thing is certain: the reflection in the mirror was no accident. And whatever it means, he has no choice but to face it.

—

That night, as Camelot continued to tremble under the weight of ominous omens, Arthur found himself alone in his chambers. The flickering candlelight barely held the darkness at bay, casting long, wavering shadows on the stone walls, and the moon outside hung heavy in the sky, its pale light creeping through the narrow window.

Arthur lay in his bed, his body still, yet his mind was anything but. His thoughts were consumed by the vision he had seen in the Mirror of Amare—the reflection of Merlin, standing beside him, smiling as though they had nothing to fear, nothing to hide. Merlin's face was burned into his mind, unshakable. The way he laughed, the way his eyes sparkled when he teased Arthur, the way he had always been there despite the prince's cruelty, despite the walls Arthur had put between them. It was impossible to ignore now.

He rolled over, staring into the dark, his breath shallow. The silence in his room felt suffocating, like the walls themselves were closing in. He had tried to push the vision away, to dismiss it as nothing more than a trick of magic, something born of his own fears and uncertainties. But deep down, he knew it wasn’t that simple. The nagging feeling inside him refused to quiet, gnawing at him like a shadow that wouldn’t leave.

He sat up slowly, his hands gripping the edge of the bed, his chest tight with an unfamiliar sense of unease. What is happening to me? he wondered, his mind racing.

The reflection of Merlin smiling at him—the way it had seemed so real, so certain—came rushing back like a flood. Was this a vision of what could be? Or was it a warning of what might happen if he didn’t change?

Arthur couldn’t deny it any longer. He had tried, with all his might, to push it aside, to hold onto the belief that Merlin was just a servant, nothing more. But something had shifted. The lines between what was expected and what he truly felt were beginning to blur, and it terrified him.

The prince’s hand gripped the bedspread tightly, his knuckles whitening. His heart pounded painfully in his chest, a steady rhythm that echoed the rising chaos in his thoughts. He couldn’t pretend anymore. He couldn’t ignore it. His heart—a place where duty and honor were supposed to reign—was betraying him.

His mind flickered to the vision again—Merlin, standing beside him, glowing with that strange, unexplainable light, smiling at him as though the world was as it should be. Arthur's breath hitched. I’m losing my mind, he thought bitterly. He couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t questioned the path laid out before him, but now, this? This confusion over Merlin? It was unlike anything he had ever experienced.

With a sudden movement, Arthur bolted upright in bed, his pulse racing as the image of Merlin, still so vivid, flooded his mind again. No. Not again, he thought, shaking his head as if he could banish it, but the vision was relentless. Merlin’s face, always there when Arthur least expected it, a constant presence in his thoughts, in his life.

He threw his legs over the side of the bed, his feet hitting the cold stone floor with a soft thud. The chill in the room matched the sudden emptiness in his chest, the strange ache that he could not understand. Arthur stood and paced, the weight of it all pressing down on him like a burden he had no name for. His heart ached, not with the cold hardness of duty, but with something deeper, something that left him feeling exposed, vulnerable.

What am I going to do? he muttered aloud, his voice barely more than a whisper. The words hung in the air, the answer elusive, like an answer just beyond his grasp. He could feel it, the rising tide of conflict within him—duty pulling him one way, and the undeniable truth of his own heart pulling him another. His thoughts were scattered, filled with images of Merlin—laughing, teasing, challenging him in ways that no one else ever dared.

And yet, with all of this confusion, a truth seemed to solidify in his mind.

This—whatever this was—could not be ignored. The reflection in the mirror was no mere vision. It was something deeper. It had to be. If Merlin truly held a place in his heart, then he needed to know the truth. Was it possible that this reflection—the one so full of warmth, of affection—was real? Or was it a figment of his imagination, a desperate desire to believe that something greater could be?

Arthur stood still, his mind racing, and then, with a sharp breath, he made up his mind.

Enough.

He wasn’t going to let this uncertainty rule him any longer. He would face it head-on. He would confront whatever feelings this vision—this reflection of the heart—had stirred within him, and he would learn whether it held any truth or whether it was nothing but a fleeting illusion.

He paced once more, a resolve hardening inside him, a fire kindling where doubt once lived. Whatever it was that had begun to change inside him, Arthur was going to find out. He was going to speak to Merlin, confront the truth of the vision, and discover, once and for all, if there was more to their connection than he had ever allowed himself to admit.

—

The sun hung low in the sky, the morning glow casting golden light through the canopy as Arthur led Merlin through the dense woodland. The quiet rustling of leaves and the occasional birdsong were the only sounds that accompanied them as they walked further from Camelot’s towering walls.

Merlin, adjusting the satchel Arthur had shoved into his arms at the start of their journey, shot him a curious glance. “So, let me get this straight—you, Arthur Pendragon, Crown Prince of Camelot, suddenly decided to abandon your duties for a day just to ‘escape’?”

Arthur, walking a step ahead, tossed a smirk over his shoulder. “That’s exactly right.”

Merlin scoffed. “You’re not exactly the spontaneous type. I mean, you hate being unprepared for things. You once made me carry extra boots on a hunt because—and I quote—‘a king would never have damp feet.’”

Arthur shrugged, unfazed. “And I stand by that.”

Merlin gave an exaggerated sigh but followed him nonetheless. Eventually, they reached a clearing where the sunlight poured through uninterrupted, warming the soft grass beneath them. Arthur pulled a thick blanket from his pack, shaking it out with practiced ease before laying it down.

Merlin blinked at the unexpected sight of fresh bread, cheese, apples, and even a flask of wine. “You packed a picnic?”

Arthur, already pulling out a knife to slice the bread, raised an eyebrow. “What? You think I’d drag you all the way out here just to watch you trip over tree roots and starve?”

Merlin rolled his eyes but sat down beside him, plucking a piece of bread from the pile. “Well, that’s usually how these things go,” he muttered before taking a bite.

They fell into easy conversation as they ate, the kind of banter that only came after getting to truly know each other—Arthur teasing Merlin about his terrible swordmanship, Merlin reminding Arthur of the time he mistook a goat for a wild boar on a hunt. The warmth of the afternoon, the food, and the rare freedom from their responsibilities made the moment feel oddly... simple.

After a while, Arthur leaned back on his hands, gazing up at the shifting leaves overhead. “There’s a ball coming up in a few days.”

Merlin hummed in vague interest as he chewed. “Let me guess, another diplomatic thing? You looking forward to dancing with some noble lady whose name you’ll forget immediately afterward?”

Arthur huffed. “You make it sound so meaningless.”

Merlin shrugged. “Isn’t it?”

Arthur didn’t have a good response to that, so he shifted tactics. “Will you be there?”

Merlin scoffed. “Of course. I’ll be fetching wine, tripping over my own feet, and probably getting insulted by at least one nobleman before the night is through.”

Arthur let out a quiet chuckle. “You don’t have to trip over your own feet, you know.”

“Oh, believe me, I do.” Merlin grinned, tossing an apple core into the grass. “I never learned any of those fancy dances.”

Arthur turned his head to look at him fully, considering something. “I could teach you one.”

Merlin nearly choked on his own laughter. “You?”

Arthur scoffed, standing and offering his hand. “I’ll have you know, I’m an excellent dancer.”

Merlin groaned, but Arthur was already grabbing his wrist, dragging him up to his feet. “Oh, this is going to be a disaster,” Merlin muttered.

Arthur ignored him. “Alright. Hands here.” He took Merlin’s hand in his own and placed the other on his shoulder. Merlin stiffened slightly at the closeness, but Arthur pretended not to notice. “It’s simple,” he continued. “Follow my lead.”

Merlin, for all his wit, was utterly hopeless at keeping up. He stepped on Arthur’s foot almost immediately, then stumbled back when Arthur tried to guide him into a turn. “You’re doing that on purpose,” Arthur accused, narrowing his eyes.

“I’m really not,” Merlin admitted, laughing breathlessly.

Arthur sighed, but there was a smile tugging at his lips. “Alright, slower.”

They tried again, this time with Arthur guiding Merlin more gently, adjusting his steps to match Merlin’s awkward pace. Eventually, something clicked. Their movements became smoother, their steps more natural. The air between them changed—still lighthearted, but something unspoken lingered beneath the surface.

Merlin wasn’t looking at his feet anymore; he was looking at Arthur. And Arthur—Arthur was looking at him too.

After a few turns, Merlin grinned. “Alright, your turn.”

Arthur blinked. “What?”

Merlin stepped back, shaking out his arms. “You taught me one of your stiff, proper court dances. Now, I’m teaching you a dance from my—village.”

Arthur scoffed. “I don’t think that’s necessary.”

“Oh, come on, Your Highness. Where’s your sense of adventure?” Merlin’s eyes sparkled mischievously as he clapped his hands and began moving in quick, energetic steps. His movements were light, almost playful, as he bounced from foot to foot, spinning and clapping in rhythm. “Just keep up.”

Arthur hesitated, watching Merlin’s effortless movements. The dance was wild and free—completely unlike the structured, methodical court dances he was used to. But as Merlin laughed, his face alight with joy, something in Arthur softened.

With a resigned sigh, he tried to mimic Merlin’s steps. It was awkward at first—his movements were too stiff, too controlled—but Merlin laughed and grabbed his hands, pulling him along. “Loosen up, Arthur! It’s meant to be fun.”

Arthur huffed but did as he was told. Soon, they were moving in sync, twirling and clapping, laughter ringing through the trees. It was exhilarating, a kind of freedom Arthur hadn’t known he was missing.

As they finally collapsed onto the blanket, breathless and grinning, Arthur found himself watching Merlin in a way he never had before. His hair was a mess, his cheeks flushed, and his smile was so open, so unguarded, that it made Arthur’s chest tighten.

That’s when it truly hit him.

The mirror was right.

He had a crush on Merlin.

—

The fire in Arthur’s chambers crackled softly, casting flickering shadows across the stone walls. The remnants of the day’s exhaustion should have lulled him to sleep by now, but instead, he lay awake in his bed, staring at the ceiling, hands clasped behind his head.

This was ridiculous.

He was Arthur Pendragon—he had faced deadly creatures, battled rogue sorcerers, and spent his entire life preparing to rule a kingdom. And yet, here he was, utterly undone by the thought of Merlin.

His mind refused to settle. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw flashes of the afternoon—the way Merlin’s laughter rang through the trees, the warmth of his hand in Arthur’s as they danced, the carefree joy on his face. It was different from anything Arthur had ever experienced. Different from courtly interactions, from the restrained pleasantries of noblewomen who bowed at his feet, who danced with measured grace and careful smiles.

Merlin wasn’t careful. He was unpredictable, exasperating, utterly infuriating at times. But gods, he was alive in a way Arthur had never known he needed.

Arthur rolled onto his side with a frustrated sigh, staring at the dying embers of the fire.

This was a passing fancy, surely. A fleeting thought brought on by the strange intimacy of the moment. He’d forget about it by morning, shake it off like an ill-fitting cloak.

Except he knew that was a lie. The mirror had told him as much.

Because this feeling—this unbearable warmth in his chest, the way his stomach twisted when Merlin smiled at him—had been there far longer than he wanted to admit. He just hadn’t given it a name until now.

Arthur sat up abruptly, scrubbing a hand over his face.

No. This was madness. This was Merlin . His servant. His friend.

It was impossible.

And yet…

He closed his eyes, letting his head drop into his hands. The truth was undeniable now. He… had a crush… on Merlin.

And worse still, he had no idea what to do about it.

Chapter Text

Merlin hated hunting.

And yet, somehow, he always found himself dragged along on these wretched expeditions, trudging through the woods like some cursed soul doomed to eternal suffering. At least, that’s what it felt like. And Arthur—Arthur knew it.

Every time their eyes met, Arthur smirked. That insufferable, self-satisfied smirk.

These hunting trips always seemed to follow some minor transgression on Merlin’s part—perhaps an ill-timed remark in front of the knights, a prank gone too far, or an unfortunate morning where Arthur had been late to a meeting because Merlin had accidentally let him sleep in. But this time? This time, Merlin had done nothing. Nothing that he could remember, at least.

So, naturally, he decided to exact his revenge in the only way he could: making as much noise as humanly possible.

He stomped, he muttered under his breath, he "accidentally" let branches snap beneath his feet—anything to send their prey scattering into the depths of the forest. He had just stepped on an especially loud twig when Arthur whirled on him, expression taut with barely concealed frustration.

“ Merlin! ” he hissed. “Perhaps you’d like to go ahead and flush out this beast we’ve been tracking?”

Merlin gulped. “You want me to go in there?” He gestured vaguely at the darkened brush ahead. “But we don’t even know what it is—it could be dangerous .”

Arthur clapped a hand on his shoulder, tone infuriatingly smug. “Let’s hope so.”

Then, with a shove, he sent Merlin stumbling forward.

Oh, he was going to kill him.

Muttering curses under his breath, Merlin crept ahead, deciding that if he had to go alone, it was probably best not to anger whatever might be lurking in the shadows. Carefully, he pushed past the thick brush and peered into the clearing beyond.

And then he saw it.

A unicorn.

Merlin's breath caught in his throat.

It was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen, its coat impossibly white, glowing even in the dim light. Its spiraling horn gleamed, and when its eyes met his—deep, knowing, ancient—Merlin felt something. Something more than words, more than magic. A connection. A warning.

The moment broke too soon.

The arrow came before he could even think to shout.

The unicorn reared, letting out a strangled cry before collapsing onto the grass. Merlin lurched forward, dropping to his knees beside it.

“No, no, no,” he whispered, hands trembling as he pressed them to its silken coat. He could feel its life slipping away, too fast, too wrong. “I’m sorry.” He bowed his head, murmuring a quiet prayer to the Goddess, pleading for her to take it home.

Laughter rang through the clearing.

Arthur strode forward, grinning, followed by his knights. “A unicorn !” he declared, victorious.

Merlin lifted his head, rage curling through his chest like wildfire.

“What have you done?”

Arthur scoffed. “Oh, chin up, Merlin. This is a grand prize to take back to Camelot. We’re done now—you can stop whining.”

Merlin barely heard him. His fingers curled into fists, nails digging into his palms.

Then he felt it.

A shift in the air, colder than the autumn wind. A presence.

Slowly, his gaze lifted past Arthur, to the edge of the clearing.

A figure stood there.

Draped in white, pale as bone, watching.

Merlin sucked in a breath.

Arthur frowned. “What are you looking at?”

He turned—but the figure was already gone.

—

Arthur did feel bad about the unicorn.

It wasn’t like hunting a boar or a stag—it hadn’t fought, hadn’t tried to flee. It had only stood there, watching, waiting. And yet, when they had returned to Camelot with its horn, his father had clapped him on the shoulder and told him he had done well . He hadn’t quite said he was proud —not yet—but Arthur could tell he was close. Just a little more, and he’d earn that honor again.

And yet... Merlin wasn’t speaking to him.

Arthur had been on the receiving end of his sulking before, but this was different. Every time their eyes met, Merlin glared at him, a scowl tugging at his features before he turned away. It left Arthur himself feeling upset, moreso now that he knew of his unfortunate crush.

He had decided to ignore it, or at least try to.

Gaius wasn’t much better. The old physician had given him a look of deep disappointment and muttered something about old legends—how slaying a unicorn was said to bring misfortune upon those who took its life.

Arthur had scoffed at that. It was just a story.

At least, he hoped it was.

Still, he didn’t like the idea of Merlin being angry with him. He had tried everything; lightening his workload, making jokes, even considering ordering another custom shirt. Nothing worked.

Then, one afternoon, he found Merlin staring blankly out a window, his expression heavy with something Arthur couldn't quite name.

He sighed and strode up beside him.

“Merlin,” he said, drawing the other man’s attention. “You’ve had a face like a wounded bear since we got back from that hunting trip. Don’t tell me you’re still upset about the unicorn?”

Merlin huffed, his lips pressing into a thin line. “I don’t think you should have killed it,” he said flatly. “It wasn’t harming anyone. What purpose did killing it serve?”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “We were hunting , Merlin. That’s what you do on a hunt. Would you rather I had brought it home as a pet?”

Merlin opened his mouth, likely to say something incredibly annoying, when Arthur's gaze flickered downward—

And he leapt back with a strangled noise.

“Merlin!” he barked, pointing accusingly at the floor. “I nearly stepped in rat droppings !” His disgust overpowered whatever guilt had been lingering. “My chambers are infested. You need to spend less time worrying about unicorns and more time worrying about rats .”

Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel and stormed off.

But the pit in his stomach remained.

—

His father had requested his presence in the farmlands surrounding Camelot.

Arthur hadn’t known what to expect—bad weather, perhaps? A blight spreading across a few fields? But nothing could have prepared him for this .

Every single crop. Dead.

The day before, the fields had been thriving—golden wheat swaying in the breeze, ripe vegetables bursting from the earth. Not a single diseased plant in sight. And yet, now they stood in the middle of a barren wasteland, the ground cracked and lifeless, stalks withered to brittle husks. A deathly silence hung over the land, broken only by the murmurs of anxious farmers gathered nearby, their faces tight with worry.

Arthur crouched down, running his fingers over the dry, shriveled remains of what had once been healthy crops. The earth crumbled beneath his touch, like dust slipping through his fingers. His gut twisted. This wasn’t natural.

“We’ve received reports that it’s the same throughout the entire kingdom,” Uther said, his voice grim. “The farmers are at a loss to explain it.”

Arthur rose, glancing at his father. “Could it be a disease of some kind?”

“Perhaps,” Uther murmured, but there was something in his tone—something cold, something certain.

“We must ration what little food we have left,” Uther continued. “The people must understand that we will endure.”

Arthur nodded, but the pit in his stomach only deepened.

—

The crops were dead, and now the water was gone.

Merlin had been speaking with Gwen in the town square, caught between conversation and the weight of his deliveries. The sun hung heavy in the sky, thick and relentless, baking the dirt into cracked, jagged patterns beneath their feet. The scent of dust and decay clung to the air, the scent of a land being strangled.

Gwen had left to fetch water from the well, her usual resilience showing only in the determined set of her shoulders. But then—nothing. No satisfying splash, no weight of a full bucket. Instead, when she worked the pump, only sand trickled out. A dry, whispering sound, like the ghost of something that had once been alive.

It was the moment the people of Camelot had been dreading.

Within the hour, the town square was in an uproar, voices rising in panic, in anger. The well had never run dry before. The castle’s supply of grain was still intact for now, but that wouldn’t last long. The people needed answers. And answers led straight to the king.

Uther had been alerted immediately, and with a heavy grimace, he had turned to Gaius.

“It must be sorcery,” the old physician finally admitted. The words left his lips like they physically pained him, and perhaps they did. A man of science, of logic, he was rarely so quick to name magic as the cause. But even he could not deny what was happening.

Not the presence of magic itself—no, this was deeper, heavier, something that coiled in the very air like an unseen force pressing against his chest. This was not simple enchantment, not some petty trick designed to inconvenience.

This was a curse. A powerful one.

Merlin wasted no time. He returned to his room, shutting the door behind him as he pulled out the book Gaius had given him. He barely even heard the physician’s usual caution, because for once, Gaius didn’t give one. Instead, he only said, “Keep trying.”

It was all the permission Merlin needed.

He pored over every spell he had ever learned, every line of ancient text his eyes could decipher. He whispered incantations until his throat went hoarse, poured magic into every syllable, into every flick of his wrist, every motion of his hand. He willed it with every fiber of his being, reaching deep into himself, trying to call on the power that had always been there, waiting.

But nothing worked.

The sand remained sand.

Merlin slammed his hands onto the wooden table, frustration surging through him. He could feel the magic humming inside him, restless, desperate to be useful—but it wasn’t enough. Whatever had done this was far stronger than him. Older, darker, something beyond his current abilities.

And if he couldn’t stop it, then all of Camelot would suffer.

He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, willing himself to think, to push past his own limitations. There had to be a way. There had to be.

Because if there wasn’t…

He swallowed hard, pushing that thought away before it could take root.

Failure was not an option.

—

Merlin had decided to take a break from fruitless spellwork and do his actual job—hunting the rat that had been pestering Arthur so humorously. Unfortunately, the rodent proved far more elusive than he’d expected, darting through the castle’s nooks and crannies as if it knew exactly how to evade capture.

After an hour of chasing shadows, he admitted defeat. With a sigh, he headed back toward his own chambers, already dreading whatever early-morning task Arthur would have in store for him.

He was nearly there when a familiar voice stopped him in his tracks.

“Merlin, you do know there’s a curfew?”

Merlin turned to see Arthur standing in the dimly lit corridor, arms crossed, his usual air of princely authority tinged with amusement.

“Yeah,” Merlin said, smirking, “I was in your chambers, hunting for your new friend.”

Arthur rolled his eyes, though the corner of his mouth twitched in an attempt to suppress a smirk of his own.

“Did you find it?”

Merlin shook his head. “They say rats are quite smart.”

Arthur clapped a hand on his shoulder, squeezing just enough to be annoying. “Smarter than you, it would seem. Now get home, it would be embarrassing if I hadto arrest my own servant for breaking curfew.”

Merlin grinned, giving a mock salute before turning away.

He had barely taken three steps when Arthur’s hand caught his arm again, this time with a sharp, halting grip.

“What was that?” Arthur’s voice was suddenly tense, his gaze locked on something across the square.

Merlin followed his line of sight, squinting into the darkness, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. “What?”

Arthur didn’t answer. Instead, his grip tightened, and the next second, he was moving—pulling Merlin along as he took off in pursuit of whatever he had seen.

They ran through the castle, their hurried footsteps echoing against the stone walls. Arthur led them through a corridor Merlin didn’t recognize, down a narrow staircase into what looked like a long-forgotten dungeon. The air was thick with dampness, the scent of old stone and neglect pressing in around them.

Then, in the flickering torchlight, Merlin saw it—the unmistakable silhouette of a figure draped in white robes.

Arthur didn't hesitate. “Go down the other hallway,” he ordered, voice low and commanding. “We’ll cut him off.”

Merlin nodded and sprinted in the opposite direction, weaving through the cold, winding corridors. He reached the other side, expecting to catch their target—only to find empty air.

They tried again, closing in from opposite directions. Still nothing.

Arthur was beginning to lose patience, his frustration evident in the stiff set of his shoulders.

And then—

“Are you looking for me?”

The voice was deep, resonant, coming from nowhere and everywhere all at once.

Both men turned sharply.

There, standing calmly where no one had stood a moment before, was the very figure they had been chasing.

“I am Anhora,” the man announced, his voice unwavering, “Keeper of the Unicorns.”

Merlin’s stomach dropped. Of course. He had heard stories—old legends passed down about the Keeper of the Unicorns, the protector of the rare and sacred creatures. He should have seen this coming.

He exchanged a glance with Arthur, whose face was unreadable but tense.

Arthur was the first to speak. “Camelot is under curfew. What is your business here?”

“I have come to deliver a message to you, Arthur Pendragon.”

Arthur exhaled sharply, his patience thinning. “Is it you who is responsible for killing our crops? Taking our water?”

Anhora remained impassive. “You alone are responsible for the misfortune that has befallen Camelot.”

Arthur let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Me?” He took a step forward, his disbelief giving way to irritation. “You think I would bring drought and famine upon my own people?”

Anhora regarded him for a long moment before speaking. “When you killed the unicorn, you unleashed a curse. For this, Camelot will suffer greatly.”

Arthur’s jaw tightened. He only half-listened, his instincts guiding him to the more immediate issue—the stranger standing in his kingdom, making accusations.

“If you have put a curse on Camelot,” Arthur said coldly, “you will lift it, or you will pay with your life.”

Anhora remained still, unaffected by Arthur’s threat. “Only you can lift this curse. You will be tested.”

Arthur had heard enough. His patience snapped. “You’re under arrest.”

He reached out to seize the man’s arm—

And his hand passed straight through him.

Arthur stumbled back, eyes widening as the robed figure flickered, like a flame caught in the wind. Then, just as suddenly, Anhora reappeared behind them.

Anhora’s gaze bore into Arthur. “Until you have proven yourself and made amends for killing the unicorn, the curse will not be lifted. If you fail any of these tests, Camelot will be damned for all eternity.”

And with that, the Keeper of the Unicorns disappeared, leaving only the weight of his warning behind.

The dungeon fell silent.

Arthur’s hands clenched at his sides, his chest rising and falling with barely restrained frustration.

Merlin, standing beside him, exhaled slowly.

“Well,” he muttered. “That went well.”

—

Arthur was complaining about the rat again. Merlin was making jokes again. And yet, none of it mattered—not really. Because outside the castle walls, people were still starving, the land was still barren, and Camelot was still cursed.

Merlin had to get Arthur to take this Anhora business seriously.

“Have you given any thought to what Anhora said last night?” Merlin asked, trying to sound casual.

Arthur sighed, stopping mid-step. “I told my father I would find Anhora and put an end to it.”

Merlin frowned. “What if it’s not that simple? What if he was telling the truth about the curse?”

Arthur turned to face him then, something unguarded flickering in his eyes. “You truly think I’m responsible for bringing suffering upon my own people?”

Merlin hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “Not deliberately.” He took a breath, shifting on his feet. “But… when you killed the unicorn, I saw Anhora in the forest.”

Arthur straightened immediately. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“It was just for a second,” Merlin said quickly, trying to explain. “He disappeared almost as soon as I saw him. I thought I was seeing things, but looking back, I’m certain it was him.” He swallowed. “I believe he was telling the truth.”

Arthur dragged a hand over his face, his jaw tightening. He was silent for a long moment, lost in thought. Then, with a quiet exhale, he admitted, “So do I.”

Merlin blinked. “Really?”

Arthur didn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, he turned on his heel, striding purposefully toward the weapons rack.

“We need to find him again. If he’s testing me, he won’t just disappear. He’ll want me to figure it out.” Arthur grabbed his sword, testing its weight. “I think I know what his next move will be, and we need to be ready.”

Merlin hesitated for a beat before following.

Arthur believed him.

No matter how many times it happened, it still caught Merlin off guard. It had only been a few months since they’d met, and yet Arthur already trusted him more than he trusted most people in his life. It was a fragile, growing thing—this trust between them—but it was real. And it gave Merlin more hope than ever.

—

Arthur turned the corner on his patrol and immediately spotted Merlin—fast asleep.

Unbelievable.

He had specifically told him to keep an eye out for Anhora, and yet here he was, slumped against the cold stone wall, arms folded, his head drooping slightly to the side. Before waking him, Arthur hesitated, taking him in for a moment.

He had never really looked at Merlin while he slept before. He looked… peaceful, far removed from his usual exasperating self. His dark lashes were longer than Arthur had expected—almost girlish. The hair at the nape of his neck curled ever so slightly, giving him an air of softness Arthur would never admit to noticing.

It was—

Arthur gave himself a mental shake. No. He was not thinking about this right now.

Smacking Merlin’s arm, he said dryly, “Oh, don’t trouble yourself with keeping watch, Merlin. Just make yourself comfortable.”

Merlin jolted awake, blinking blearily. He smacked his lips sleepily before yawning.

Arthur wrinkled his nose. “Don’t smack your lips. It’s annoying.”

Merlin stretched. “I’m thirsty.”

“We’re all thirsty, Merlin,” Arthur muttered.

Before Merlin could come up with another complaint, Arthur caught a flicker of movement from the corner of his eye—a shifting shadow in the torchlight. His instincts sharpened.

“Someone’s coming,” Arthur murmured, peering back around the corner.

Merlin followed his gaze, his previous drowsiness vanishing as he tensed beside him. But the figure approaching wasn’t Anhora—at least, not by the cut of their clothes. Arthur’s grip on his sword tightened as they silently followed, trailing the unknown figure through the dim corridors of the castle.

Their pursuit led them straight to what remained of Camelot’s grain stores.

Arthur stepped forward, raising his blade. “Show yourself,” he commanded, twirling the hilt of his sword. “Before I run you through.”

A man stepped hesitantly into the torchlight, hands raised in surrender. He was no warrior—just a peasant, his threadbare clothes hanging loosely on a frame thinned by hunger. A half-filled sack of grain dangled from his grip.

Arthur’s jaw clenched. A looter.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

The man lowered his gaze. “My name is Evan, my lord.”

Arthur exhaled sharply, glancing at the bag of stolen grain. “I see you think you can help yourself to our reserves.” He shook his head. “My father has ordered that looters be executed.”

The man paled, falling to his knees. “Please, my lord,” he begged, voice hoarse with desperation. “I do not steal for myself. I have three children. They haven’t eaten for two days.”

Arthur’s grip on his sword tightened.

“It’s the same for everyone,” he said, though the words felt hollow even as he spoke them.

“I know it is wrong,” Evan whispered, head bowed. “But I could not bear to see them starve.”

Arthur hesitated, his throat tightening. He could hear the sincerity in the man’s voice—the quiet, helpless grief of a father trying to save his family.

“And could you bear for your children to see you executed?” Arthur asked softly.

The man let out a choked breath, shaking his head as silent tears slipped down his gaunt face.

Arthur sighed.

“Go home,” he said at last, voice firm but not unkind. “If you are caught stealing again, I will not spare you.”

Evan’s breath hitched, his eyes wide with disbelief. “Thank you, my lord,” he whispered.

He placed the grain bag back on the pile, standing to go, but Arthur stopped him.

“Wait.”

Evan turned, confused, as Arthur picked up the bag and pressed it into his hands. “Use it sparingly,” he instructed. “It may be the last food you and your family see for some time.”

The man’s lip trembled as he clutched the sack to his chest, gratitude shining in his weary eyes. “You have shown yourself to be merciful and kind, my lord,” he said softly. “This will bring its own reward.”

And with that, Evan turned and disappeared into the shadows.

—

The water returned the next day.

Gwen had spotted it first—a single drop slipping from the well’s spout. Then another. And another. Soon, the well was flowing once more, and word spread through Camelot like wildfire. The castle’s once-parched courtyards filled with the sounds of relief—cups clinking, laughter breaking through days of exhaustion, the steady splash of water into buckets. For the first time in what felt like forever, everyone’s thirst was quenched.

In Arthur’s chambers, he and Merlin sat with flagons of water, drinking until their stomachs were heavy with it.

Merlin hadn’t realized just how much he had missed the simple luxury of a drink without restraint. He tipped his cup back again, savoring the coolness of it as it ran down his throat, but his mind kept drifting back to the night before—to Arthur, standing firm against his father’s decree, letting a desperate man go free.

Arthur had been merciful.

And, well… it was hot .

Merlin couldn’t describe it any other way. Seeing Arthur defy Uther, even in a small way, had been something remarkable. It wasn’t that Arthur lacked kindness—Merlin had always known there was more to him than the arrogant prince he pretended to be—but watching him make that choice, seeing the weight of it settle on his shoulders… it had been something .

Now, sitting across from him, Merlin found himself watching him again. Arthur was drinking greedily, water spilling from the edge of his mouth and trickling onto his shirt. It clung to the fabric, darkening it in places, and Merlin swallowed thickly.

He could admit, there were far worse-looking individuals he could have been tied to by destiny.

Perhaps, in some twisted way, this was his reward for putting up with the royal prat.

Arthur let out a satisfied sigh, setting his empty flagon down. “I never knew water could taste so good.”

Merlin, still caught in his thoughts, barely registered the words.

“My throat was so dry, I thought I wouldn’t be able to talk.” He finally said.

Arthur nodded, stretching his arms. “At least some good would’ve come from the drought, then.”

Merlin scoffed, but there was no real bite behind it.

They sat in silence for a moment, the ease between them settling naturally, until Merlin spoke again.

“That man last night… he said letting him go would bring its own reward,” he mused. “Maybe that was one of the tests Anhora was talking about. You passed it, and now the curse is lifting.”

Arthur considered this, running a hand over his jaw. “Maybe.”

“We should seek Anhora out,” Merlin suggested.

Arthur sighed. “I can’t negotiate with sorcerers. My father wouldn’t hear of it.”

Merlin grinned. “Then it’s probably best you don’t tell him.”

Arthur shot him a look, but after a beat, his lips quirked upward.

—

“I’m not entirely sure what I’m looking for?” Merlin admitted, glancing around the damp forest.

They hadn’t been searching for very long, but long enough that Arthur was beginning to suspect Merlin had just been aimlessly wandering behind him. The morning air was crisp, still carrying the scent of rain from the night before, and the dense canopy above dripped water onto the forest floor. Twigs cracked underfoot, and somewhere in the distance, the soft hoot of an owl lingered, a final farewell to the night.

Arthur sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re looking for footprints. Broken branches. Anything that would indicate that someone passed this way—”

He froze mid-sentence, eyes catching a flicker of white just beyond the trees. He knew those robes anywhere. Anhora.

Arthur’s pulse kicked up. “Merlin, he’s here!”

Before Merlin could even react, Arthur bolted, crashing through the undergrowth in pursuit of the old man. His boots pounded against the damp earth, his breath coming sharp and fast.

He kept catching glimpses—just a flash of white, always ahead, always slipping out of reach. His heart thundered as he pushed himself faster, determined not to let the elusive figure disappear into the forest. But then—

He skidded to a halt in a clearing.

There, sitting casually by a fire, was a man Arthur recognized all too well.

Evan.

The thief from before.

Arthur’s eyes darted around the man’s makeshift camp, searching for signs of a family—children, a wife, anything to suggest truth in the desperate plea Evan had once given. But there was nothing. Only a few rough-cut logs arranged in a circle, a dying fire, and sacks of food—far too much food for one man to need. Bags of grain, apples piled high, bundles of vegetables.

Arthur felt his stomach twist.

“You,” he said, voice flat.

Evan barely looked up, too busy cutting into an apple with a small knife. “Me.”

Arthur’s gaze swept over the supplies again, his fingers tightening around the hilt of his sword. “You’re a thief.”

Evan smiled, biting into his apple. “Wasn’t that obvious when you caught me stealing your grain?” he said casually, as if it were a joke.

Arthur narrowed his eyes but turned away. Anhora was here somewhere—he had to keep moving. He had more important matters to deal with than a petty thief.

“You didn’t really believe that story about my children, did you?”

Arthur stopped dead in his tracks.

Slowly, he turned back to face Evan, his expression darkening. “What kind of man lies about starving children to save his own skin?”

Evan merely chuckled, tossing the apple core into the fire. The flames hissed as they consumed it. “The same kind of man whose people starve because he lets thieves steal their grain.” He clucked his tongue in mock disappointment. “That is why they doubt you, Arthur. That is why they do not trust their future king.”

Arthur clenched his jaw, his grip tightening on his sword hilt. “You don’t speak for my people.”

Evan tilted his head, studying him. “Don’t I?” His voice was calm, almost amused. “You’re too soft, boy. Your father—now, he would never have been so easily fooled.”

The words cut deep. Arthur could feel them settle inside him like a poison.

“Hold your tongue,” he warned, voice low and edged with anger. “Or I will make time to teach you some manners.”

Evan only grinned. “Your father would have had me executed.”

Arthur’s knuckles went white.

The man was provoking him. Why? What was the purpose of this?

Arthur had his sword in hand—one strike and Evan would be dead. The thought should have disturbed him, but it didn’t.

“But you didn’t have the stomach for it, did you, Arthur?” Evan continued, shaking his head. “That’s why he doubts you’ll ever be a good king.”

Arthur’s chest burned with fury.

He turned to leave, refusing to entertain this any longer.

“You know nothing of what my father thinks.”

Evan chuckled darkly. “Oh, I think I do.” His voice took on a mocking lilt. “I think he wishes he had another son, one who was truly worthy of taking his place. You shame him.”

Arthur stopped walking.

His breath came sharp and uneven.

He shouldn’t care. It shouldn’t matter what some lowly thief said.

And yet—

Arthur turned, drawing his sword in one smooth motion. “Pick up your weapon.”

Evan grinned, his eyes glinting with something unreadable. He reached for his own sword, the steel flashing as he took his stance.

“The king must fear the day when you take the throne.”

Arthur lunged.

Their swords clashed, ringing through the clearing. The battle was fierce, fast. Evan was good—better than Arthur had expected—but Arthur was better. With each strike, his anger sharpened his focus.

Steel met steel.

Evan danced backward, parrying swiftly. “He fears you don’t have the strength to defeat his enemies.”

Arthur gritted his teeth, pressing forward. His father’s enemies? The neighboring kingdoms Arthur wished for peace with? The magic users Arthur didn’t see as inherently evil? He didn’t want to fight his father’s wars.

He wanted to fight his own.

Their swords clashed again, the force jarring up Arthur’s arms.

“The king must wonder if you are even his son!”

Arthur’s vision blurred with fury.

He drove Evan back, their fight careening toward the trees. With a final strike, he disarmed the man, sending his sword flying.

Evan stumbled back against a tree.

Arthur raised his blade.

His chest heaved.

He could end this. Right now.

The anger, the humiliation, the doubt—it would all be silenced with one swing of his sword.

But then—

Arthur hesitated.

The world around him seemed to slow.

What harm did this man truly do him? Evan was just a voice in the wind, a test of his resolve.

Arthur lowered his sword.

“I’ve wasted enough time listening to you.” His voice was steady, but inside, his heart was still racing.

He turned to leave.

And then, Anhora appeared.

Arthur froze.

The old man’s expression was unreadable, his blue robes still pristine despite the damp forest. 

“So,” Arthur said, “this truly was your doing.”

Anhora nodded. “A test to see what is truly in your heart.” He stepped forward, his gaze piercing. “Tell me, Arthur. Why did you not kill this man?”

Arthur turned to look back at Evan, who had now disappeared.

Why hadn’t he killed him?

Evan had insulted his honor. He had called him weak. Arthur had every right, as a prince, as a man, to cut him down.

But what did he truly gain from that?

Arthur met Anhora’s gaze.

“What harm did he truly do me?” he said at last.

Anhora studied him for a long moment. Then, he nodded.

“You have shown that you are not prideful,” Anhora said. His voice was calm, but there was something almost approving in it. “For this, Camelot will reap great rewards.”

—

The news arrived the next day—crop had revived in the outlying villages, and hunger was no longer driving them to desperation. But within the city walls, the people of Camelot still suffered.

Arthur stood in the throne room, waiting for his father’s arrival. His spirits should have been high—the worst of the crisis had been averted—but knowing that so many still went without was a weight on his chest that refused to lift. He could only imagine the mothers rationing what little they had, the fathers growing weaker as they gave their portions to their children, the elders who had stopped eating altogether so that the young might live.

The heavy doors swung open, and Uther strode in with purpose, his crimson cape sweeping behind him. Arthur turned to face him immediately.

“There are still some stores left in the palace,” Arthur began, careful to keep his voice steady. “We’ve been distributing what we can, but there is not enough to last. At this rate, they won’t survive for long.”

Uther exhaled sharply, his expression unreadable as he nodded in thought. “Then you must stop distributing food to the people.”

Arthur blinked, certain he had misheard. “What?”

“We must conserve what we have for the army.”

For a moment, Arthur could only stare at him, unable to believe what he was hearing. “You would let them starve?”

Uther’s gaze hardened. “We must defend our kingdom.”

Arthur felt the heat rise in his chest, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. “What is the point of defending a kingdom when its people have already perished?”

Uther’s jaw tightened. “What would you have me do?”

“Ask the neighboring kingdoms for aid,” Arthur urged. “They may have food to spare..”

His father barked out a harsh laugh. “Out of the question. The moment they sense our weakness, our enemies will strike.”

“You don’t know that—”

“—I will not risk Camelot’s safety on the goodwill of others!” Uther cut him off, his voice rising. His eyes burned with a cold fire, one that Arthur had seen countless times before. “I would sooner starve than beg our enemies for help! Have you no pride?”

Pride.

Arthur’s stomach twisted. That was what this was about. Not strategy. Not necessity. Pride.

“I cannot think of my pride when our people go hungry,” Arthur said, voice quieter but filled with more steel than before. “They are all I can think about.”

Uther stepped forward, his posture towering, his presence suffocating. “Give the order, Arthur. No more food is to be distributed.”

Arthur met his gaze, and for the first time, he didn’t see the man he had admired all his life. He saw a man ruled by fear. By cruelty. By pride so rigid it would see his people buried before it bent.

“You’ll have to give that order yourself,” Arthur said, his voice firm.

He turned on his heel and strode toward the door.

“Very well,” Uther called after him, his tone cold with warning. “But if you had caught the sorcerer responsible, none of this would be necessary. That is your responsibility.”

Arthur hesitated for a moment, just a breath, before turning his head slightly. His voice was steady when he replied.

“I’m doing everything I can.” He met his father’s gaze. “What are you doing?”

A flicker of something crossed Uther’s expression—whether it was anger, shame, or something else, Arthur wasn’t sure.

“One day,” Uther said, his voice low with promise, “you will understand what it takes to be king.”

Arthur turned away again, walking out of the throne room before his father could see the fury in his eyes.

—

Merlin found Arthur in his chambers, standing by the balcony, his back turned, gazing down at the city below. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows over the rooftops, bathing Camelot in golden light, but there was no warmth in Arthur’s expression. His shoulders were rigid, his hands clenched at his sides.

“They do not yet know that worse is to come,” Arthur murmured, his voice quiet but weighted with something heavy. He didn’t turn to acknowledge Merlin’s presence.

Merlin hesitated in the doorway. He had expected to find Arthur in high spirits—he had passed the second test, hadn’t he? They were one step closer to lifting the curse. But something in the way Arthur spoke sent a chill through him.

“What do you mean?” Merlin asked carefully, stepping further inside.

Arthur exhaled sharply, his grip tightening on the stone railing. “Uther has decided to stop distributing food to the people.” He shut his eyes, as if the very words sickened him. “They are to be left to starve.”

Merlin felt the air leave his lungs.

For a moment, he couldn’t move, couldn’t think—only feel the fire of rage spreading through his chest. His fists clenched at his sides, and he swallowed down the immediate urge to storm out and do something . Anything.

“They’ll die,” he said finally, his voice hoarse with disbelief.

Arthur let out a bitter, humorless laugh. “I know.”

Silence stretched between them, thick with the weight of it all.

Merlin wanted to tell Arthur that this wasn’t his fault. That he couldn’t have known what would happen when he killed the unicorn. That no one could have foreseen the famine that followed.

But Arthur spoke before he could.

“Camelot is on the verge of collapse,” he said, his voice raw. “And it’s all my fault.”

Merlin’s heart twisted. “Arthur, you couldn’t have known—”

Arthur shook his head, pushing off the railing and turning away from the balcony. His face was carefully composed, but Merlin could see the cracks beneath it—guilt, frustration, despair.

“I killed the unicorn, Merlin,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “I did this.”

Merlin stepped forward, reaching out as if to place a hand on his shoulder, but Arthur moved past him, striding toward the center of the room, as if standing still was unbearable.

“We need to find Anhora,” Arthur said, his tone hardening with resolve. “We need to get the final test over with.”

—

Anhora’s words echoed in Arthur’s mind. The Labyrinth of Gedref. That was where his final test awaited.

So at dawn, he prepared to leave.

Merlin was already in his chambers, helping him into his armor, though mostly using the opportunity to argue.

“Let me come with you,” Merlin insisted, fastening Arthur’s belt with more force than necessary. “You don’t know what form the test will take.”

Arthur huffed. “Precisely why you’re not coming. If we don’t know what’s ahead, then you could get hurt.”

Merlin ignored him, adjusting the strap on Arthur’s shoulder plate. “I might be able to help.”

Arthur sighed, struggling to pull on his glove. “You’re not coming, Merlin.” He finally yanked it into place. “I brought this curse upon Camelot. I am going to be the one to lift it.” He met Merlin’s gaze, voice steady with conviction. “Or die trying.”

Merlin’s hands stilled. His expression flickered between anger and disbelief before settling on sheer frustration.

“How does you dying help anyone?” he snapped.

Arthur exhaled slowly. “I’ll die knowing I did everything I could.”

Merlin’s jaw clenched, his lips pressing into a thin line. Then, with unshakable certainty, he said, “I’m coming with you.”

Arthur turned fully to face him, his patience fraying. “Merlin.” His voice was firm, but not unkind. “You are to stay here and help the people as best you can.”

Merlin didn’t reply.

Arthur reached out, clasping his arm—a rare gesture, a silent acknowledgment of trust, of gratitude. He felt how thin Merlin was beneath the fabric of his sleeve, another reminder of how dire things had become.

His tone softened. “And get something to eat.”

Merlin looked away, his expression unreadable.

Arthur took the silence as reluctant agreement. With a final nod, he stepped away, gathering the last of his supplies.

—

Arthur should not have taken Merlin’s silence as a yes.

He arrived at the Labyrinth of Gedref by midday, his horse carrying him swiftly across the bleak landscape. The sky hung low with heavy clouds, casting a gray pall over the land.

When he reached the entrance, he dismounted, tying his horse to a nearby tree before unsheathing his sword. The labyrinth loomed before him—tall, grassy walls that stretched into the distance, twisting in ways that defied logic.

Arthur gripped his sword tighter. Every turn felt the same. Each pathway led to another dead end or another fork in the road. The deeper he went, the more his unease grew. Was this the test? To be lost? To wander until madness took him?

His heart pounded as frustration built. He had no way of knowing if he was making progress, no clear direction. What virtue does this prove?

Then, after what felt like an eternity—though by the sun’s position, only an hour had passed—he emerged into an entirely different landscape.

The labyrinth had led him to a rocky, windswept beach. Waves crashed violently against the jagged shoreline, spraying mist into the salty air. This made no sense. He hadn’t traveled anywhere near the coast. Had the maze shifted reality itself?

Then he saw them.

Anhora stood a short distance away, unmoving as ever. Behind him was a wooden table. Seated at it was a familiar figure.

Arthur’s breath caught. Merlin.

Merlin looked up, his expression tight with guilt.

“Merlin?” Arthur stepped forward.

“I’m sorry,” Merlin murmured.

Arthur’s gaze flicked to the table. Two goblets sat before them.

His stomach turned.

He turned sharply to Anhora. “Let him go. I’ll take your test, but not until he is released.”

Anhora’s face remained impassive. “That is not possible. Merlin is part of the test.” He gestured to the seat across from Merlin. “Please, sit.”

Arthur hesitated. Every fiber of him rebelled against this, against whatever cruelty this test would demand of them. He had no fear of what it would require of him , but the idea of Merlin suffering—of Merlin dying—made his blood run cold.

“If you refuse,” Anhora warned, “you will have failed. And Camelot will be destroyed.”

Arthur clenched his jaw. He had no choice.

With deliberate movements, he sat, setting his sword down on the table.

“I thought I told you to stay home,” he muttered.

Merlin had the decency to look ashamed. He didn't answer.

Arthur exhaled sharply. “Let’s get on with it.”

Anhora nodded. “Before you are two goblets. One contains a deadly poison, the other a harmless liquid. All the liquid from both goblets must be drunk. But each of you may drink from only a single goblet.”

Arthur stared at him in disbelief. “What kind of ridiculous test is that? What does it prove?”

“What it proves is for you to decide.” Anhora’s voice was unreadable. “If you pass, the curse will be lifted.”

Arthur looked to Merlin, whose gaze was already fixed on the goblets, thinking.

Merlin was the first to speak. “Alright. What if I drink from mine first?”

Arthur didn’t even hesitate. “If it’s poisoned, you’ll die.”

Merlin huffed. “And if it’s not, then you’ll have to drink from yours, and you’ll die.” He leaned forward, bracing his arms on the table. “There must be a way around it.”

Arthur scoffed. “It’s perfectly simple. One of us has to die.” He forced himself to say it flatly. He already knew what needed to be done. “We determine which goblet has the poison. Then I drink it.”

Merlin looked up sharply, eyes flashing. “I will be the one to drink it.”

Arthur’s hands curled into fists on the table. “This is my doing. I will drink it.”

Merlin’s voice rose in frustration. “It is more important that you live! You are the future king. I am just a servant.”

Arthur’s mind raced, trying to piece together some way out of this, some alternative. “This is no time to be a hero, Merlin. It really doesn’t suit you.”

Merlin stared at him, then let out a strained laugh. Arthur felt himself mirroring it, despite the tension twisting in his gut.

“I had no idea you were so keen to die for me,” Arthur murmured.

Merlin rolled his eyes. “Trust me, I can hardly believe it myself.”

Silence stretched between them, filled only by the crashing waves.

Arthur swallowed, the weight of the moment settling over him like a mantle he hadn’t known he was wearing. The mirror had told him as much, but it was only now—sitting across from Merlin, watching the candlelight flicker in his impossibly blue eyes—that he truly understood just how much he cared for him.

Somewhere along the way, in a mere six months, Merlin had become—more. More than a servant, more than a friend. When had that happened? When had the clumsy, insufferable idiot who never listened become the person Arthur trusted most? The person he would give his life for in an instant?

Arthur’s gaze lingered on Merlin’s face, taking in the soft curve of his mouth, the way his brows knitted in concern. He was not a boy—not anymore. He was a man. A man who had risked everything for him. A man Arthur wasn’t sure he could live without.

His chest tightened. He had been raised to be a king, to wield a sword, to fight for his people. But this? This feeling, quiet yet undeniable, was the most terrifying thing of all.

He care for him so much.

“I’ve got it,” Merlin suddenly said, pulling Arthur from his thoughts. His eyes lit up with realization. “Right—we pour all the liquid into one goblet.”

Arthur blinked. “What?”

“If we combine them, then we can be sure that goblet is poisoned. That way, all the liquid gets drunk, but only from one goblet.”

Arthur stared at him, then let out an astonished laugh. “You never cease to surprise me, Merlin. You’re a lot smarter than you look.”

Merlin gave him a look. “Is that actually a compliment?”

Arthur sighed, exasperated. Then his eyes flicked behind Merlin, and he gasped. “Look out!”

Instinctively, Merlin turned.

Arthur seized the goblets, swiftly pouring both into one.

“No!” Merlin spun back, eyes wide. “I will drink it!”

Arthur tightened his grip on the goblet. “As if I would let you.”

Merlin’s voice turned desperate. “You can’t die. This isn’t your destiny! ”

Arthur’s gaze settled on the liquid. It was dark, swirling ominously under the gray light. He inhaled slowly.

“It seems you’re wrong yet again.”

Merlin grabbed his wrist. “Arthur, listen to me— ”

Arthur looked at him one final time, a quiet smile on his lips.

“You know me, Merlin.” His voice was soft. “I never listen to you.”

Then he drank.

—

Merlin barely registered the weight of Arthur in his arms, his mind spinning with the horror of what had just happened. Arthur had drunk the liquid without hesitation, without a second thought for himself, and now—now he lay still, his body limp, his golden hair stark against the dark rock. Merlin could feel the faint rise and fall of his chest, but it did nothing to ease the panic clawing at his throat. His grip on Arthur tightened as he turned wild, desperate eyes to Anhora.

“Please,” his voice cracked, raw with emotion. “Please, let me take his place. It should have been me.”

Anhora, standing as impassive as ever, shook his head. “This was Arthur’s test, not yours.”

Merlin's breath hitched, anger and sorrow warring within him. “You’ve killed him!” His voice rose in anguish, hot tears spilling onto Arthur’s tunic. “I was meant to protect him! That’s my destiny, that’s why I—” He cut himself off, throat constricting as the weight of his failure crushed him.

But Anhora remained unmoved. “He is not dead.”

Merlin froze, his heart lurching. “What?”

“He has merely consumed a sleeping draught. He will awaken shortly.”

Merlin blinked, hardly daring to believe. His fingers trembled as he brushed a damp lock of hair from Arthur’s forehead. “He’s—he’s alive?” His breath shuddered out of him.

Anhora gave a small nod. “A unicorn is a creature of purity. To take its life is to bring misfortune upon yourself and your people. The only way to make amends is to prove that you, too, are pure of heart.” He glanced down at Arthur’s still form. “Arthur was willing to sacrifice himself to save you. In doing so, he has shown what truly lies within his heart. The curse is lifted.”

Relief crashed over Merlin so intensely that for a moment, he thought he might collapse. He looked down at Arthur, his face slack in sleep, yet even unconscious, he had that stubborn, determined set to his features. He had been ready to die. For him.

Merlin swallowed past the lump in his throat. “You really are a prat,” he muttered, though his voice was thick with something dangerously close to affection. He gave a shaky laugh and shook his head. “Always so noble, always so bloody reckless.”

—

By the time they reached the castle gates, Camelot was alive with celebration. The air, once thick with unease, now buzzed with laughter and cheer. Market stalls that had stood empty for days were overflowing with fresh produce, the scent of baked bread and roasting meat drifting through the streets. The crop fields they had passed on their journey back were no longer barren but bursting with life, golden stalks swaying gently in the breeze. The people, once hollow-eyed with hunger, now rejoiced, their relief palpable.

At the castle entrance, King Uther stood among his subjects, a goblet of wine in hand, his usual stern expression softened by the revelry around him. As soon as he spotted Arthur and Merlin approaching, his gaze sharpened, assessing.

“This is your doing?” Uther asked, his voice edged with expectation. His eyes flicked to Arthur’s sword, then to Merlin, who kept his head respectfully bowed. “Is the sorcerer dead?”

Arthur hesitated. The truth sat heavy on his tongue, but he knew what his father wanted to hear. He wouldn’t risk undoing all that had been restored. “He won’t be troubling us anymore,” Arthur said carefully.

Uther considered him for a moment before nodding in approval. “Good.” He reached out, clapping a firm hand on Arthur’s arm. “Make sure the grain reserves are restocked.”

“I will see to it,” Arthur promised.

As Uther turned away, already absorbed in the renewed festivities, Arthur exhaled and glanced at Merlin. There was a weariness in his servant’s posture, but also a quiet satisfaction. They had done what needed to be done—not in the way Uther would have wished, but in the way that was right.

Arthur nodded toward the castle. “There’s something we must do first.”

—

They buried the horn at the very spot where the unicorn had fallen, ensuring that the sacred creature was honored in death as it should have been in life. The earth was soft beneath their hands as they worked, each movement deliberate, respectful. A proper burial—one befitting such a majestic being.

When the last of the soil was smoothed over, Merlin was the first to notice it. His breath hitched as he reached out, lightly gripping Arthur’s arm.

“Look,” he whispered.

Arthur followed his gaze—and there, standing at the edge of the clearing, bathed in the golden light of the setting sun, was another unicorn.

This time, Arthur truly saw it. The creature was unlike anything he had ever beheld—graceful, luminous, its silver mane rippling in the breeze. Its dark eyes held an intelligence far beyond human comprehension, deep and knowing.

Neither of them moved.

The unicorn regarded them for a long moment, then dipped its head ever so slightly—a silent acknowledgment, a blessing.

Arthur felt something shift inside him, something unspoken but powerful. He had been given a second chance. They both had.

And for the first time in a long while, he felt worthy of it.

Chapter Text

The castle was alive with a buzz of excitement as preparations for the grand ball unfolded across Camelot. Servants scurried through the hallways, carefully hanging colorful tapestries and placing candles that would soon flicker and glow as night fell. Nobles from neighboring kingdoms had already begun to arrive, their voices and laughter merging into a lively chorus, each one swept up in the anticipation of the evening ahead. The air was thick with expectation—tonight was all about glamour, celebration, and a well-deserved escape from the ceaseless demands of court life.

In Morgana’s chambers, Gwen carefully adjusted the delicate lace of her gown, her fingers nimble from years of practice. But as she worked, her heart felt a little lighter than usual. Tonight was a chance for joy, music, and laughter—a rare break from the usual duties of the castle. Her eyes flickered over to Morgana, who stood near the mirror, her serene grace seemingly effortless. There was something about her that made everything else fade into the background.

Gwen’s fingers trembled slightly as she finished fastening the lace, a flutter in her chest she quickly shook off. "You’re going to be the star of the night," she said, her voice softer than usual. She couldn’t help herself. It was true—Morgana was a vision of perfection. She quickly corrected herself, her teasing tone returning. "The noblemen will be tripping over their feet just to get a dance with you."

Morgana flashed a playful smile, her eyes gleaming with that irresistible charm Gwen had always admired. "I’m sure you’ll be just as dazzling, Gwen. So, if I need a partner for the evening, I know where to find you." She winked, and Gwen’s heart skipped a beat at the mischief that sparkled in her eyes. The playful exchange made Gwen smile, her nerves lightening just a little.

Just then, Merlin entered the room, his presence a stark contrast to the elegant chaos that surrounded them. He shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, clearly feeling out of place amidst the flurry of the evening's preparations. Gwen raised an eyebrow, wondering how he managed to fade into the background even in such a lively setting. She couldn’t help but chuckle softly.

“Oh, Merlin!” she called out, her voice laced with teasing. “What are you going to wear for the ball? Surely you can’t be planning on wearing your same old clothes?”

Merlin grinned sheepishly, and to Gwen’s surprise, his response was more enthusiastic than she’d expected. “I’ll wear what I want if it’s all the same to you,” he said casually, though there was a twinkle in his eye that made it clear he was just playing at reluctance.

Gwen’s laughter danced in the air as she gave him a pointed look. "Merlin, we’re going to a ball, not a trapse through the forest!"

From where she stood by the mirror, Morgana overheard the exchange and couldn’t resist chiming in, her voice light with amusement. "Oh, yes, Merlin, you simply must. Imagine it—Merlin in a suit! I can already see the ladies swooning," she teased, the playful tone tugging at Gwen’s heart. Morgana’s smile was irresistible, and it was all Gwen could do to keep her focus.

Merlin let out a laugh. His eyes sparkled with excitement. “I think I’ll leave the ‘charming’ to the nobles, thank you. They’re better at it.”

Gwen’s teasing glance shifted to something more genuine. "Don’t be so modest, Merlin. You’d be a hit, I’m sure. Who cares about fancy clothes? You’ll charm them all with your—” She paused for dramatic effect, letting her words linger as she gave him a once-over. “—wit."

Merlin raised an eyebrow, but there was a lightness to him now, something playful in his smile. "Wit, huh? I’m not sure that’ll be enough to get me through the night."

Morgana grinned, her eyes dancing with mischief. "You might be surprised, Merlin. You’ll be the talk of the ball. But at least try not to embarrass yourself too much, alright?"

Merlin’s grin spread wider, his eyes shining with a newfound energy. "I’ll try," he said with mock reluctance, "but no promises. Balls are more your thing, not mine."

Morgana shot him a smirk over her shoulder, her voice playful but full of challenge. “Merlin, you’re not fooling anyone. You’ll end up on the dance floor before the night is through, whether you like it or not.”

Merlin groaned, but there was no real bite to it, his shoulders relaxing as he gave her a playful look. “I’ll leave that to the knights, thank you very much. I’ll stick to being the invisible servant who fetches the drinks. But, if I’m going to trip over my feet,” Merlin said with a dramatic sigh, “I might as well get it over with.”

Gwen laughed, her spirits lifted by the sound. "That’s the spirit! Now, I have to help Morgana with her gown. No excuses, Merlin. You better be all fancy tonight."

Merlin sighed theatrically, but there was a bright spark of excitement in his eyes now, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Alright, alright, I’ll dress up. But don’t expect me to be dancing the night away.”

“Well,” Gwen teased, “you never know. Maybe tonight’s the night you surprise us all, Merlin.”

—

Arthur stood on the training grounds, his sword cutting through the air with precise, practiced movements. But his focus wasn’t on the sword or the fight. He was lost in thought, each swing feeling heavier than the last. The memories of the Labyrinth had left an indelible mark on him, and it wasn’t just the battle itself that weighed on him. It was the realization that had hit him in the darkest moment of their struggle—the sudden, stark awareness of just how much Merlin meant to him.

Merlin had always been there, of course. The constant presence at his side, the servant with the quick wit, the occasional annoyance, and the silent protector. But in the Labyrinth, Arthur had felt a terror he had never known before—the thought of losing Merlin. It was the kind of fear that gripped him and held him tight, a fear that went beyond the fight and beyond the realm of friendship. He’d almost lost him, and that terrified him in a way he couldn’t fully understand.

Since that night, Arthur had thrown himself into training with relentless fervor, wielding his sword as if he could carve the uncertainty from his mind with every strike. The training grounds had become his refuge, the clash of metal against metal drowning out the thoughts he couldn’t afford to entertain. He pushed himself harder than usual, his muscles aching, his breath ragged, but still, it wasn’t enough.

Because when the sword stilled, when the noise faded, his mind drifted back to him. To Merlin.

Arthur had faced death before, but never like that. Never with the weight of someone else’s life entwined with his own. He had thought his duty was to protect Camelot, to protect his people—but in those moments at the table, when the poison had been between them, all that had mattered was Merlin. And that terrified him.

He couldn’t let it show. Not to his knights, not to his father, not to Merlin himself. Whatever had shifted inside him, whatever realization was clawing its way to the surface, had to be buried.

His thoughts turned to the ball. The castle was already alive with preparations—music drifting through the corridors, the chatter of noblewomen gossiping about the evening’s festivities, the scent of spiced wine lingering in the halls. A celebration, his father had called it. A night of joy.

Arthur couldn’t bring himself to care.

How was he supposed to stand there, all smiles and charm, when his mind was elsewhere? When his thoughts were heavier, tangled in something far more pressing than courtly trivialities?

But more than that—how was he supposed to face Merlin?

How could he look at him across the hall, exchange easy words, pretend that nothing had changed when everything had?

Arthur had always thought of Merlin as a servant. That was how it was meant to be. But now… now, he wasn’t sure anymore. The lines between them had blurred, their roles no longer so easily defined.

And tonight, for better or worse, Arthur would have to face it. He would have to face him.

He wasn’t sure what he expected. Avoidance? Distance? The same easy grin, as if nothing had happened? Or something else entirely?

Arthur needed to know where Merlin stood. If the unease stirring inside him was his burden alone to bear, or if Merlin felt it too. If the moment they had shared had meant something —or if, to Merlin, it had been nothing at all.

The sound of footsteps behind him broke his thoughts, and Arthur turned, momentarily startled. He saw Merlin approaching from the castle, dressed in the usual servant attire, but with an unexpected lightness in his step.

Arthur opened his mouth to speak, but the words didn’t come. Instead, he gave a brief nod of acknowledgment, a small attempt to bridge the distance that had grown between them.

“Arthur,” Merlin called, his tone light but with an undercurrent of something else—a hint of concern? “You’ve been at this for hours. Maybe it’s time to take a break?”

Arthur didn’t answer right away. He couldn’t. The words were stuck in his throat. He wanted to say something—something about the way he felt, about the fear that had gripped him, about how important Merlin had become to him—but he couldn’t find the right words.

“Perhaps later,” Arthur said, his voice gruff as he took another swing at the dummy. He couldn’t look Merlin in the eye; he didn’t know how.

Merlin seemed to notice the tension in Arthur’s posture, the way he gripped his sword too tightly, the way his jaw clenched. But Merlin didn’t press. Instead, he simply nodded and gave a small, knowing smile.

“Alright then. But don’t push yourself too hard, Arthur. We’ve got to figure out how to get through this night.”

Arthur managed a tight smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Right.”

Merlin gave him a quick, almost casual salute before turning to leave, but Arthur’s gaze lingered on him, his mind racing. He knew he couldn’t keep avoiding the truth. The truth about how he felt. About what had happened to his relationship with Merlin after the Labyrinth. And despite the confusion and the fear that came with it, one thing was clear: he cared for Merlin, and it wasn’t something he could ignore anymore.

—

The corridors of Camelot were unusually quiet at this hour, the usual bustle of servants replaced by an eerie stillness. A hush had settled over the castle, a moment of calm before the storm of festivities. The upcoming ball had the entire court preoccupied—dresses being stitched, silverware polished, banners hung—but Merlin, for once, had managed to slip away unnoticed.

He wasn’t particularly eager to continue polishing Arthur’s armor, knowing full well the prince would scuff it within the hour. Besides, he’d had his fill of Arthur’s particular brand of demands for the day. Make sure my boots shine, Merlin. You missed a spot, Merlin. That’s not how you carry a ceremonial cloak, Merlin. He had half a mind to drop the cloak over Arthur’s head next time just to see what would happen.

But any trace of amusement vanished the moment he heard the voices.

It was subtle at first, just a murmur threading through the air from one of the grand, ornately decorated archways leading toward the guest chambers. A conversation held in hushed tones, urgent, secretive. The kind that made the hairs on the back of Merlin’s neck stand on end.

He slowed his steps, slipping into the shadows cast by a towering stone pillar. The flickering torchlight didn’t quite reach him, but he dared not move closer—not yet. Instead, he stilled his breath and strained to listen.

“…Everything is in place. The ball will provide the perfect opportunity.”

The voice was unfamiliar—clipped, refined, the kind that belonged to someone accustomed to giving orders. A noble.

A second voice answered, lower, rougher, with the steady calm of someone who’d done this before. “And you’re certain he will be there? The prince?”

Merlin’s breath hitched. He edged forward, careful to keep his footsteps soundless against the cold stone floor. Reaching the narrow gap between the door and its heavy wooden frame, he peered inside.

The first man stood with an air of practiced nobility, his richly embroidered cloak pooling at his feet, rings glinting on his fingers as he clasped them behind his back. His face was partially obscured by the dim light, but his posture alone radiated the kind of arrogance Merlin had come to expect from the nobility.

But it was the second figure that sent a chill through him.

Dressed in dark robes, his face hidden behind a silver mask, the man loomed in the shadows like a phantom. The mask was smooth, expressionless, but the way he carried himself—still, composed, exuding an unsettling patience—made Merlin’s skin crawl.

“Of course,” the noble scoffed. “Arthur wouldn’t dare miss such an event. He’s the future king—duty-bound to be present.”

“And the plan?” the masked man asked.

“A blade laced with poison,” the noble replied smoothly, as if he were discussing a dinner arrangement. “He won’t even realize he’s been struck until it’s too late. A simple graze, and the venom will do the rest. By the time anyone notices, he’ll already be beyond saving.”

Merlin’s stomach twisted.

An assassination attempt.

Arthur was in danger.

The noble continued, his voice dripping with contempt. “The moment the deed is done, you disappear. No one will suspect a thing until it’s far too late.”

A pause. The masked figure gave a slow nod. “It will be done.”

Merlin felt the air leave his lungs. He needed to move. Now.

Forcing himself to remain calm, he took a careful step back, keeping his body pressed against the wall. His mind raced, piecing together the fragments of conversation, formulating a plan, trying to push past the rising panic that clawed at his chest.

He had to warn Arthur.

Another step back. Then another.

But his boot caught the edge of a loose stone.

The faintest scrape echoed through the corridor.

Merlin froze.

The voices inside the room fell silent.

For a single, agonizing heartbeat, nothing moved.

Then came the sharp rustle of fabric. Footsteps. Someone moving toward the door.

Merlin didn’t wait to see who it was.

Heart hammering, he spun on his heel and fled, slipping down the corridor as fast as he dared without making a sound. The moment he turned the corner, he broke into a full sprint, his pulse pounding in his ears.

He had to find Arthur.

He had to stop this.

Merlin didn’t stop running until he reached the training grounds. His lungs burned, his heart pounded, but none of it mattered. He had to find Arthur.

The moment he spotted the prince, relief surged through him—only to be replaced by frustration when he realized Arthur was too busy hacking away at a training dummy to notice him.

“Arthur!” Merlin called, skidding to a halt.

Arthur didn’t look up. He swung his sword again, the blade slicing clean through the dummy’s straw-stuffed torso.

Merlin tried again, louder this time. “Arthur, you need to listen—”

“I’m busy, Merlin,” Arthur cut in, voice clipped. He turned away, retrieving another training dummy as if Merlin weren’t standing there, panting, urgency written all over his face.

Merlin’s brow furrowed. Something was off. Arthur was tense—not just the usual post-training exhaustion, but something deeper. His movements were sharper, more aggressive, and there was a set to his jaw that Merlin didn’t like.

Still, he didn’t have time to pick apart Arthur’s mood. “This is important,” Merlin insisted, stepping closer. “I overheard something—”

Arthur swung his sword again, a little too forcefully. “Not now, Merlin.”

Merlin scowled. “Yes, now! There’s an assassin—”

“I said not now! ” Arthur snapped, finally looking at him.

Merlin faltered. There was something in Arthur’s eyes—something guarded, distant.

“I’m going to wash up, and get ready for the ball. George will assist me while you get dressed, don’t forget your mask.” Arthur strode away.

—

The great hall glowed with golden light, filled with music, laughter, and the rustle of fine silks. Everywhere Arthur turned, masked nobles twirled in an elegant display of wealth and power. He had done this more times than he could count—led these dances, smiled at the right people, played his role as Camelot’s heir.

And yet, tonight, something was different.

He was different.

Arthur had spent the entire day avoiding Merlin, refusing to think too hard about why. But now, as he stood at the edge of the ballroom, mask in hand, all of his carefully built walls shattered in an instant.

Because there he was.

Merlin.

Dressed in deep purple, standing in the glow of the chandeliers, the rich fabric draping over his frame in a way that felt entirely unfair. His usual scruffy appearance was softened by the finery—his posture straighter, his presence… different.

And Arthur felt it.

Not just the simple admiration he had long pretended was nothing more than friendship. No. This was something deeper, something dangerous.

Something undeniable.

He had known for some time now. Had let himself think it in the quiet of his chambers, when there was no one around to see the way his thoughts drifted. But this —seeing Merlin like this, standing there as though he belonged in Camelot’s court, as though he was meant to be at Arthur’s side—

It was too much.

Merlin turned then, and their eyes met across the hall.

Arthur felt the air shift between them, heavy with something unspoken.

He wondered if Merlin could tell. If it was written across his face, plain for anyone to see.

But then, Merlin reached for the mask in his hands.

Arthur didn’t know why it made his chest ache.

He had the absurd urge to cross the room, to pull Merlin aside before he could disappear into the anonymity of the ball. To say something, though he had no idea what.

But he didn’t move.

Instead, he watched as Merlin slipped the mask over his face, hiding himself from view. And Arthur—future king of Camelot, undefeated champion of the tournament, leader of knights—felt utterly helpless.

He exhaled sharply, tearing his gaze away.

There were nobles waiting for him, alliances to maintain, a kingdom watching. And yet, as he took Morgana’s hand and led her onto the dance floor, his mind was far, far away.

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop looking for that flash of purple in the crowd.

And no matter how much he tried to pretend otherwise—

He knew exactly why.

—

Merlin’s eyes darted across the ballroom, scanning the dizzying sea of shimmering masks and fluttering silks. The grand hall stretched endlessly, filled with an air of opulence that was almost suffocating. The guests—noblemen, merchants, dignitaries—twirled and spun, their identities hidden behind elaborate masks of gold, velvet, and gems, each one more intricate than the last. It was a spectacle, a display of wealth and power, and yet beneath the glittering surface, danger lurked.

Somewhere in this sea of faces was an assassin, hidden in plain sight. The thought made Merlin’s skin crawl, his sharp senses tingling with the pressure of the hunt. His eyes flicked over the crowd again, searching for anything that didn’t belong. A flicker of movement, a false gesture, a look held too long. But the more he searched, the more frustration boiled under the surface.

The hall was a maze, the crowd too thick, the noise too deafening. Every mask was a mystery, every face a potential threat. He should have been able to spot them by now. He should have been able to feel their presence, to sense something off, but the crowd was overwhelming—distracting in its grandeur. And despite himself, Merlin couldn’t shake the feeling that the room had become more about this—about the ball, the music, the masks—than about the threat he was supposed to be hunting.

Especially when, no matter how hard he tried to focus, his gaze kept slipping back to one particular person in the crowd.

Arthur.

Merlin let out a quiet sigh as he leaned against one of the grand pillars, arms crossed tightly over his chest. From his vantage point, he could see Arthur across the room, resplendent in his royal red tunic, his golden mask half-concealing his face. Arthur was dancing with Morgana, spinning her across the floor with practiced ease, but something about his movements was off. A little too careful. A little too slow. His mind wasn’t in the dance.

Merlin frowned slightly. Arthur looked distracted—his focus slipping, his movements slower than usual—but that wasn’t entirely unusual. He had a lot on his mind with the looming threat hanging over the ball.

Still, something about his behavior was… odd. His gaze kept shifting, flitting across the room as if he were looking for something. Or maybe he was just keeping an eye on everything, the way a prince should.

Merlin didn’t think much of it—until Arthur’s eyes landed on him.

A strange tension curled in Merlin’s chest. Arthur was watching him, unreadable behind the golden mask. He wasn’t scowling, wasn’t smirking—just looking. And he didn’t look away.

Merlin swallowed, suddenly unsure of what to do with himself. Maybe Arthur was just lost in thought, not really looking at him at all. Maybe Merlin was imagining the weight behind that stare, the strange tightness in his own chest.

Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Arthur was trying to figure something out.

About what, Merlin had no idea.

The music swirled around them, the ballroom alive with laughter and movement, a sea of gold and jewels gliding effortlessly across the polished floor. Flickering candlelight cast long shadows, the warm glow of the chandeliers reflecting off masks and goblets alike. Merlin went back to scanning the room for danger—until, out of nowhere, a hand seized his wrist.

Before he could react, he was pulled from the dance floor, dragged into the cool, dimly lit shadows.

The sounds of the revelry faded, muffled now by thick stone walls and heavy curtains. The air here was different—cooler, quieter, charged with something unspoken.

Merlin blinked, his pulse still quick from the abrupt movement. “Arthur, what—?”

But Arthur wasn’t listening. His grip was firm, urgent, fingers wrapped around Merlin’s wrist as he tugged him deeper into the alcove, away from prying eyes. The golden mask obscured much of Arthur’s face, but even in the dim light, Merlin could see his eyes—sharp, intense, searching.

Merlin’s heart raced. Not because of the sudden change in location, but because of Arthur. Because of the way he was looking at him now—too focused, too close, too much.

“What is it?” Merlin asked, frowning, but Arthur didn’t answer immediately.

He was standing so close now that Merlin could feel his breath ghosting over his skin, warm and unsteady. The air between them crackled with something undefined, something Merlin wasn’t sure he wanted to name. The sounds of the ball—the music, the laughter, the murmur of conversation—seemed so distant now, as if the world had shrunk to just this space, just this moment.

Arthur’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, his gaze unwavering. “You saved my life,” he said, voice quieter than usual, but there was a roughness to it, an edge of something raw. “So many times now. Why do you do it?”

Merlin stilled.

For a heartbeat, the question hung between them, heavy and unspoken. The air grew thick, pressing against his ribs, tightening around his lungs. Arthur wasn’t asking as a prince demanding answers from his servant. He wasn’t asking with the usual teasing smirk, the playful arrogance.

He was asking as Arthur.

And that was far more dangerous.

Merlin opened his mouth to reply, to deflect with some glib remark— Because it’s my job, prat. Because someone has to keep you alive. Because you’re hopeless on your own. But the words didn’t come.

Because this time, it wasn’t a joke.

Arthur’s eyes were still fixed on him, searching, peeling away the layers of half-truths and deflections, looking for something Merlin wasn’t sure he was ready to give. His breath hitched, a strange warmth blooming in his chest.

Merlin forced a laugh, but it felt weak. “You’re giving me far too much credit, Arthur. Saving you is basically my full-time job.” He waved a hand dismissively, but it felt hollow, forced.

Arthur didn’t laugh.

His expression didn’t even flicker. He just kept watching Merlin, gaze heavy with something unreadable. The tension between them only thickened, pressing in like the weight of a storm on the horizon.

“I’m serious,” Arthur murmured. His voice was barely above a whisper, and for the first time, Merlin heard something in it that made his stomach twist—something vulnerable. “You’ve put yourself in danger for me more times than I can count. You don’t have to.” His jaw tightened. “Why do you keep doing it?”

He should say something. He should brush it off, make a joke, anything to pull them out of this strange, suffocating moment. But all he could do was stand there, heart hammering, caught in the weight of Arthur’s gaze.

About the truth that sat heavy on Merlin’s tongue, the secret he had carried since the moment he first heard from his father in the depths of his mind about his destiny. The truth that Arthur was the Once and Future King—and that he, Merlin, was Emrys, bound by fate to protect him, to guide him, to shape the world at his side.

He could tell him now. The words trembled on the edge of his lips, desperate to be spoken. He could end the lies, the secrecy, the half-truths and hidden glances. He could tell Arthur everything—about his magic, about destiny, about the future they were meant to build together.

Would Arthur believe him? Would he scoff, call him an idiot as he so often did? Or would he look at Merlin the way he was looking at him now—like he was searching for an answer, for something just beyond his grasp?

Merlin swallowed hard, his pulse a frantic beat in his ears.

Not yet.

He wasn’t ready. Arthur wasn’t ready.

So instead, he forced a breath, willed his voice into something steady, something familiar. “There’s no time for this, Arthur. I’m looking for something—someone.”

Merlin looked back into the room, and saw him. A masked figure at the edge of the party, slipping through the throng of dancers with silent precision, a gleam of steel flashing beneath his cloak.

Merlin’s stomach lurched.

“There he is!” he hissed, yanking free from Arthur’s grip. He barely registered Arthur’s sharp call behind him—he was already moving, already pushing through the sea of nobles, his pulse pounding like a drumbeat in his ears.

Merlin shoved forward, cutting through courtiers, his breath quick and shallow. He had to reach him. He had to stop this.

And then—

A figure stepped into his path.

Merlin stumbled, nearly crashing into the guest. He muttered an apology, trying to sidestep, but they moved with him, blocking his way. The candlelight caught on their elaborate gold-trimmed sleeves, their crimson mask concealing all but their sharp, knowing eyes.

“Not so fast,” the guest murmured, voice smooth, unreadable.

Merlin’s heart pounded.

He recognized this noble. They had been speaking with the assassin earlier.

Panic surged through him. Every second wasted was a second too long. He tried to push past, but the guest caught his arm, grip deceptively strong.

“What’s your hurry?” they asked, tilting their head. Their voice was laced with amusement, but their fingers tightened, testing his strength.

Merlin clenched his jaw, glancing over their shoulder. The assassin was still moving, blade unsheathed, glinting under the candlelight.

He wrenched his arm free. “I don’t have time for this.”

The guest only smiled. As Merlin stepped around them, they leaned in, their breath ghosting over his skin.

“Oh, but time has a way of slipping through your fingers, doesn’t it?”

A chill ran down Merlin’s spine.

He didn’t wait to decipher the meaning—he pushed forward, heart hammering.

And then he saw it.

The assassin struck.

Everything slowed.

A flash of steel.

Arthur, unaware.

Merlin didn’t think.

Didn’t hesitate.

Didn’t even breathe.

He lunged.

The impact sent Arthur stumbling, a startled grunt escaping his lips.

Pain—sharp and blinding—exploded in Merlin’s side. The dagger sank deep, cold steel cutting through flesh and muscle. His breath hitched, a choked sound escaping as warmth bloomed against his skin, spreading fast.

Arthur hit the ground, twisting just in time to see Merlin stagger.

Merlin swayed, knees buckling. The world blurred at the edges.

Arthur’s eyes went wide. “Merlin—”

Chaos erupted.

Screams. Gasps. The music cut off, the revelry shattering in an instant. The assassin was seized, knights swarming like a tide of steel. Nobles reeled, masks abandoned in horror. Somewhere, Morgana was shouting.

But Merlin only registered one thing—Arthur.

Arthur, who was suddenly there, dropping to his knees, hands gripping him, shaking.

“Merlin!” Arthur’s voice was thick with panic, raw in a way Merlin had never heard before. His hands pressed against the wound, trying to stop the bleeding, but Merlin could feel it—warm and wet, slipping through Arthur’s fingers.

“Stay with me.” Arthur’s grip tightened, desperate. His breath was ragged, uneven. “Just—just hold on, you idiot.” His voice cracked, breaking under the weight of something too fragile. “Don’t you dare—”

Merlin tried to speak. To joke. To say something, anything.

But the pain surged, stealing his breath.

The world tilted.

Arthur’s grip was the only thing anchoring him.

—

He refused to move, refused to let go of Merlin even as the knights assured him the assassin had been subdued, even as the crowd slowly regained its breath. His hands, slick with Merlin’s blood, pressed desperately against the wound as if sheer will alone could stop the bleeding.

“Where is Gaius?” Arthur barked, his voice sharp with barely contained panic. “Get Gaius! Now!”

A servant bolted from the hall, the urgency in Arthur’s voice leaving no room for hesitation.

Merlin groaned beneath him, his face pale, his breath coming in shallow gasps. He blinked sluggishly up at Arthur, a faint, tired smile tugging at his lips. “Y-you’re… making a scene,” he murmured weakly.

Arthur scowled. “Shut up, Merlin.” But his voice lacked its usual bite, trembling at the edges.

The sound of boots against stone announced Uther’s arrival, the king stepping through the gathered nobles with his usual commanding presence. His gaze swept over the scene—the toppled chairs, the shattered goblets, the noblemen and women still frozen in shock. His eyes landed on Arthur, still kneeling beside his bleeding manservant, and for the briefest moment, something flickered across his expression.

Then he turned to the crowd, voice ringing through the hall. “The danger has passed,” he declared. “Let this be a reminder that treachery will not be tolerated in Camelot.” His gaze shifted back to Arthur and Merlin, and he nodded. “This boy has shown great bravery in protecting his prince.”

Arthur’s jaw clenched. Bravery. That was what Uther saw—an act of duty, of loyalty, nothing more. He couldn’t see the way Merlin had moved without hesitation, the way he had thrown himself between Arthur and the blade with no thought for his own life.

He couldn’t see what Arthur saw.

Arthur barely heard the murmurs of agreement from the nobles. He barely registered his father’s approval, nor the whispers of courtly admiration. His world had narrowed to the limp weight beneath his hands, the too-pale face looking up at him with something between amusement and exhaustion.

“Gaius is coming,” Arthur said, more to himself than anyone else. He wasn’t sure if he was reassuring Merlin or himself.

Merlin let out a shaky breath, eyes slipping shut. Arthur’s grip tightened.

“You’re not dying, you hear me?” Arthur muttered, his voice fierce, low. “You’re not getting out of your chores that easily.”

A weak chuckle escaped Merlin’s lips, and Arthur clung to the sound like a lifeline.

—

That night, as Merlin rested, Arthur sat beside him, unable to shake the overwhelming fear that he had nearly lost him—again. The flickering candlelight cast restless shadows across the chamber, but Arthur barely noticed. His gaze was fixed on Merlin’s face, pale against the pillows, his breath slow but steady. Each rise and fall of his chest was a quiet reassurance, yet it did nothing to loosen the knot in Arthur’s stomach.

He had almost died.

Arthur ran a hand down his face, exhaling sharply. The image of Merlin collapsing, blood seeping between his fingers, was burned into his mind. He had seen Merlin in danger before—too many times—but this had been different. This had been too close.

His father had called it bravery, the court had murmured their admiration, but none of them knew. None of them understood what it meant to Arthur.

He had almost lost him.

Arthur swallowed hard, glancing at Merlin’s hand resting limply at his side. Without thinking, he reached out, curling his fingers around it, grounding himself in the warmth of Merlin’s skin.

“You idiot,” he muttered under his breath. “Why do you always do this?”

Merlin didn’t answer, of course. He only stirred slightly, brow furrowing before settling again.

Arthur let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He should leave, get some rest—Gaius had assured him Merlin would be fine. But his body refused to move, his fingers still wrapped around Merlin’s hand as if letting go might mean losing him for real.

The room was quiet except for the sound of Merlin’s steady breathing, the occasional creak of the floorboards as the castle settled into the night. Arthur's heart ached, a weight pressing on his chest as the events of the evening replayed in his mind.

He had to stop pretending.

Arthur knew what it was like to lose someone you cared about. He’d felt it with his mother, he’d felt it with the knights, and now, it had nearly happened again with Merlin. And that... that was a loss Arthur couldn’t bear.

But there was something else, something he didn’t fully understand. He knew what he felt for Merlin—how it went beyond simple friendship—but he wasn’t sure he could risk it. He wasn’t sure if Merlin felt the same, if anything would even come of it.

And so, Arthur made a decision.

He would keep his feelings hidden, locked away for now. It would be enough—having Merlin by his side was more than enough. He would stay loyal, he would remain by his friend’s side, and they would continue to fight together. Whether Merlin ever knew what was truly in Arthur’s heart didn’t matter—not right now. What mattered was that Merlin was alive, and he was here.

Arthur gently squeezed Merlin’s hand, letting out a breath, a quiet resolve settling in his chest.

This, he thought, was enough.

And with that thought, he leaned back in his chair, not quite ready to sleep but willing to sit there, by Merlin’s side, for as long as it took.

—

A few days later, Arthur pushed open the door to Merlin’s chambers, his usual confident stride tempered by something softer in his steps. The room smelled faintly of herbs and dust from the night before, the remnants of the previous evening still hanging in the air. Merlin, sitting on his bed with a frown on his face, was rifling through his belongings.

"Merlin!" Arthur’s voice broke the silence, and Merlin startled, glancing up.

"Arthur?" Merlin asked, raising an eyebrow. "What are you doing here?"

Arthur didn’t respond right away. He crossed the room with his usual purpose, his eyes flicking over Merlin's shirt on the floor, the bloodstains still visible despite the best attempts to scrub them out. He hesitated for a moment before speaking. "I see you’ve ruined the shirt I gave you," he said, his tone teasing but with an undercurrent of something more.

Merlin blinked. "It’s not like I got myself stabbed on purpose."

"Well," Arthur said, almost reluctantly, "consider this a replacement. You’ll need something for those overnight journeys you’re so fond of, won’t you?" He reached into the bag slung over his shoulder and pulled out a cloak, rich with embroidery, the deep red fabric gleaming in the dim light. It was finer than anything Merlin had ever seen.

Merlin stared at it, completely baffled. "What... is this?"

Arthur’s face softened just a fraction. "It’s a cloak. For when we go off on our adventures. It's not much, but... you should have something nicer than whatever that is you’ve been wearing."

Merlin reached for the cloak, fingers brushing over the intricate stitching, still unsure what to make of it. Arthur wasn’t usually one to give gifts, let alone something so personal.

"Arthur, you really didn’t have to," Merlin said, his voice hesitant.

Arthur just shrugged, but his gaze lingered on Merlin a moment longer than usual. "Consider it a... token of gratitude for all the times you’ve saved my life," he said with a small, awkward smile.

Merlin's heart skipped at the words. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but the words caught in his throat. The atmosphere between them was different today—lighter, but with a deeper undercurrent of unspoken things.

Arthur turned to leave, his steps quieter than usual, but then he paused at the door. His voice was softer when he spoke again. "You are more than just my servant, you know."

Merlin froze, his heart pounding in his chest. Arthur didn’t turn to look at him, but the weight of the words hung in the air, thick and heavy. Merlin felt something stir inside him, something he couldn’t quite explain. Before he could respond, Arthur was gone, the door closing gently behind him.

Merlin stood there for a long moment, staring at the cloak in his hands, trying to make sense of the conversation. His mind was racing, his heart still hammering. Had Arthur just—?

He shook his head, feeling the warmth of the cloak in his hands, and let out a shaky breath. The air between them had shifted somehow, but Merlin wasn’t sure if it was for better or for worse. One thing was clear, though: the walls Arthur had built between them were beginning to crack.

Chapter Text

Merlin was just trying to get through a normal day.

He had been walking through the winding corridors of Camelot, his mind still reeling from the earlier duties he'd been assigned, when he suddenly heard a scream. Not the usual kind, but one that reverberated in his mind—sharp, desperate, and filled with a rawness he couldn’t ignore.

It was a scream that only certain, talented druids could send, a cry for help that Merlin had grown too vaguely familiar with over the years. His heart raced. There was a druid in the city, and they were in trouble. Merlin had witnessed too many innocent lives lost in this kingdom—too many executions—and he wouldn’t let another fall.

“ Help .”

The cry echoed again, louder this time. It was a boy’s voice, young and terrified. Merlin’s breath hitched. The urgency was palpable.

“Help me.”

Without another thought, Merlin sprinted down the hall, his feet moving faster than his thoughts. He could feel the boy’s fear as though it were his own, and the weight of the task ahead settled heavily on his shoulders. He couldn’t let the guards find him. Not when the boy was clearly desperate, likely hunted for something beyond his control.

Merlin burst into the courtyard, eyes scanning frantically for the source of the cry. His heart skipped a beat as he finally spotted him. The boy was small—barely older than Eira, certainly no older than ten or eleven—and he was huddled behind a well, trying to stay out of sight. His clothes were ragged, his face pale, and his eyes wide with terror.

Merlin’s stomach twisted. This child had been forced to flee, just like so many others before him.

Their gazes locked, and Merlin could see the plea in the boy’s eyes.

“Please, you have to help me.”

The words were barely above a whisper, but they were full of desperation.

Before Merlin could answer, he heard the clatter of approaching footsteps—the sound of guards closing in. Their search was relentless, and they were getting closer. They already knew he was here.

Merlin’s heart pounded. There was no time.

He scanned the area. His eyes landed on a narrow passage that led into the old servant’s hallways—hidden, barely used, a place he had frequented during his many sneaky escapes.

“Through here!” Merlin said urgently, gesturing for the boy to follow him. “Run! Run, quickly! ”

The boy hesitated for a moment, but then he bolted forward, his small feet hitting the stone floor with rapid, desperate thuds. Merlin tugged him forward through the darkened passageways of Camelot.

They twisted and turned through the labyrinth of corridors, Merlin’s mind racing. The royal wing wasn’t far off now, and he knew it was the last place they should be, but he couldn’t think of anywhere else. The boy was too young to face the wrath of Uther’s guards. He had to find a place to hide him. A place where the guards wouldn’t think to look.

Then, an idea struck him. Morgana.

Morgana had always been outspoken against Uther’s brutal treatment of magic users, especially the druids. She was sympathetic and that was enough. Merlin hoped she would understand.

He pulled the boy into the room, startling Morgana and Gwen. “Have you forgotten how to knock Merlin?” Morgana gasped.

Gwen caught on faster, “Who’s that?” 

“The guards are after him,” Merlin explained. “I didn’t know what to do.”

Morgana’s gaze flickered to the boy, his ragged state making the situation clear. She didn’t hesitate for a moment.

“Get him behind the curtain!” she ordered, her voice urgent and steady. “Quickly.”

Merlin didn’t need to be told twice. He grabbed the boy’s trembling hand, pulling him toward the far side of the room where a heavy curtain shielded a small alcove. As they reached it, Merlin looked down at the boy, his heart clenching at the sight of the boy’s arm, held close to his chest.

His cloak fell away, revealing a shirt sleeve seeping with blood and beneath it—a jagged wound, deep and painful. The boy had been injured. Merlin cursed under his breath. It was more than just a scrape—it needed attention. He could see the blood already starting to congeal, darkening the fabric. If he didn’t get him treated soon, it would become infected.

But there was no time for that now. The boy was clearly exhausted, his tiny frame trembling. As he collapsed behind the curtain, Merlin knelt beside him, pulling back his cloak and trying to assess the injury. The boy’s breathing was ragged, and Merlin could feel the heat radiating off him. Feverish, from both the wound and the terror.

A loud knock came at the door, followed by a gruff voice. “My lady, we are searching for a young druid boy. We believe he came this way.”

Merlin’s stomach dropped. He glanced up at Morgana, who stood across the room, her expression calm but guarded. She didn’t falter.

Her voice was effortlessly cool. “It’s just me and my maid. I haven’t seen anyone else.” She was convincing, and Merlin could see the flash of concern in her eyes.

The guards’ footsteps faded slightly, but they were still too close. Merlin’s thoughts raced. He could feel the boy’s small body trembling under his touch. Merlin had to make sure the guards didn’t find him. He couldn’t fail him.

Behind him, the women moved quickly, locking the door and turning toward the curtain. They gasped when they saw the blood on the boy’s clothes. Panic surged in their eyes.

—

“The druid was only in Camelot to collect supplies,” Arthur argued, his voice edged with frustration. His hand gripped the edge of the table, the tension in his body clear. “He meant no harm. Is it really necessary to execute him?”

Uther sat at the head of the long table, his back straight, eyes cold as ever. He didn’t even look up at his son. “Absolutely necessary. Those who use magic cannot be tolerated, Arthur,” he replied, his voice flat, unwavering.

Arthur’s fists clenched at his sides. “The druids are a peaceful people—” He started again, but Uther was quick to cut him off.

“—and given the chance they would return magic to the kingdom.” Uther spoke over him. “They preach peace, but they conspire against me. We cannot appear weak.”

“Showing mercy can be a sign of strength,” Arthur insisted, his voice quieter, more deliberate now.

Uther’s eyes finally lifted to meet his son’s gaze, though his expression remained hard. “And yet, our enemies will not see it that way.” Uther replied. “We have a responsibility to protect this kingdom. Executing the druid will send out a clear message.”

Arthur was ordered to search the entire castle, the entire city.

His steps were heavy as he made his way to the courtyard. His mind raced with possibilities. What if someone else had already found him? What if someone out there, even now, was offering the boy a chance? It was the only hope Arthur had left. The city was full of people—some kind-hearted, some with their own hidden motives—but surely, there had to be someone who would stand up for a helpless child, just as he would, if only he could.

He paused in the middle of the courtyard, gazing out at the sprawling stone streets of Camelot. The bustling market, the soldiers patrolling, the echo of the castle’s imposing walls. To the outside world, it was business as usual. But for Arthur, every corner, every shadow, every alley felt like a place where the boy might be hiding, running from a fate that he didn’t deserve.

—

They had stripped the boy’s cloak and shirt off with haste, desperate to stop the bleeding and clean the wound. His small body trembled under the touch, too weak to protest, too scared to make a sound. The mark on his chest, the intricate druid tattoos that spiraled, stood out starkly against his pale skin. It was a symbol of the Triple Goddess, a sacred mark carried by druids from various tribes—a mark Merlin himself bore as well.

Merlin’s eyes traced the lines of the tattoo, the familiar curves, and swirls. It was a bond, a connection he had shared with so many druids before. But seeing it on this boy, so young, so innocent, twisted something deep inside him. It was a reminder of everything that had been lost—of the countless lives that had been taken. It was a reminder of his own guilt, of his promise to the Druids to keep their ways alive, to protect them. And yet, here he was, unable to save this boy from a fate that was already sealed.

Merlin’s gaze drifted to the window, where the darkened skies of Camelot stretched out beyond. From here, he could hear the faint murmurs of the crowd, the ominous quiet that seemed to settle over the city whenever something terrible was about to happen. He knew what was coming. He could feel it in the pit of his stomach.

The execution.

Merlin stood up slowly, his heart racing as he took a step toward the window. Outside, he could see the executioner's block in the courtyard. The boy’s father was being led to his death. Merlin’s heart hammered in his chest, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. There was no saving him.

The father was kneeling. The crowd was silent.

Merlin’s knees went weak, and he sank to the floor, his mind clouded with the image of the man’s final moments. The executioner raised the axe, and in that split second, Merlin could feel the weight of it all—the cruelty, the injustice, the lives lost—and the father’s final, desperate plea for mercy that would never come.

The chop was swift. The father’s body crumpled, and the crowd erupted into a mix of murmurs and distant cheers.

But it wasn’t the crowd Merlin heard. It wasn’t the sound of the axe or the thud of the body hitting the ground that echoed in his mind.

It was the boy’s scream.

The high-pitched cry rang through Merlin’s skull, searing into his thoughts. It was a cry of pure anguish, of grief and hopelessness, as if the boy's soul had shattered in that instant. Merlin’s eyes squeezed shut, his heart clenching painfully at the sound. I should have done more , he thought bitterly. I should have stopped it.

But it was over.

Merlin's head bowed, a cold, numb feeling settling over him. The world outside seemed to fade into a blur as the weight of it all pressed down on his shoulders. The scream echoed again, a haunting reminder of all the lives lost to Uther’s wrath. A reminder that no matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he fought, it was never enough.

—

Merlin returned to his chambers to gather supplies, rifling through Gaius’s collection of tinctures and potions with growing frustration. He was more familiar with natural remedies—plants, poultices, the healing properties of honey and herbs. Many of Gaius’s medicines were beyond him, and there was no time to consult the physician. He settled on what he knew, grabbing clean cloth, honey from the kitchens, and a handful of herbs before hurrying back.

By the time he slipped into Morgana’s chambers the next morning, the room was thick with silence, save for the faint, shallow breaths of the unconscious boy. The fire had burned low, casting flickering shadows along the walls. Morgana sat at his bedside, her face drawn with exhaustion.

“How is he?” Merlin asked in a hushed voice.

Morgana glanced up. “He’s sleeping,” she murmured, though the worry in her eyes remained. “He’s so pale. I’m afraid he’s lost too much blood.”

“Has he said anything to you?”

She shook her head. “Not a word. Won’t even tell me his name.”

Her gaze lingered on the boy, fingers absentmindedly smoothing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. There was a protectiveness in her stance, an unspoken resolve that reminded Merlin why he had trusted her in the first place.

He knelt beside the bed and carefully began unwrapping the boy’s bandages. The wound was red, angry, but not festering. That was a good sign. He took out the jar of honey and had just begun applying a thin layer to the wound when Morgana’s voice cut through the quiet.

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

Merlin glanced at her, brow raised. “Honey has natural healing properties. Helps fight infection.”

She didn’t look entirely convinced, but after a moment, she nodded and let him continue going to get him some water.

As soon as she left, the boy spoke to him, again through his mind.

“ Thank you, Emrys.”

“You can call me Merlin.” He thought for a moment. “You know who I am, how?”

But Morgana came back, and the boy closed his eyes once again.

Silence stretched between them, heavy but not uncomfortable. As Merlin worked, a thought surfaced, one he had been holding onto since the night before. He hesitated, then spoke.

“You know, for a moment there, earlier, I thought you were going to hand us over to the guards.” His voice was light, almost teasing, but the underlying truth was there.

Morgana arched a brow, unimpressed. “Well, I’m glad you have such faith in me, Merlin.”

His eyes widened. “No! No, that’s not what I meant! I just—” He huffed, trying again. “You’re the king’s ward. Helping the boy is… a risk.”

“I won’t see an innocent child executed,” she said simply, as if that was all the justification she needed. Her fingers curled into her skirts, her expression darkening. “What harm has he ever done anyone?”

Merlin hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “Well… Uther believes he has magic, and that makes him guilty.”

Her jaw tightened. She turned sharply to look at him, eyes flashing. “Uther is wrong.”

Merlin felt a flicker of something dangerous—something hopeful. He kept his expression neutral, but his heart picked up speed. “You believe that?”

She swallowed, as if weighing whether to say the next words aloud. When she finally did, they were quiet, uncertain. “What if magic isn’t something you choose?” She hesitated, gaze flickering to him before dropping to her lap. “What if it chooses you?”

Merlin inhaled sharply. He couldn’t stop the small, involuntary smile that pulled at his lips.

Morgana narrowed her eyes. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

He quickly shook his head. “Nothing. Just—nothing.”

She didn’t seem convinced, but let it go. Instead, her expression turned questioning. “Why are you helping him?”

For a split second, Merlin considered telling her the truth. Telling her everything. She was on his side—he could feel it. He had already taken a risk telling Gwen, and she had proven to be understanding, loyal. Maybe Morgana would be, too. Maybe she already knew more than she let on.

But another secret keeper meant another risk. And one mistake could cost all of them their lives.

“It was just… a spur-of-the-moment decision,” he lied, keeping his tone light.

Morgana studied him, as if searching for the real answer in his face. He quickly changed the subject before she could push further.

“What do you think we should do with him?”

Morgana exhaled, shaking her head. “We have to find a way to get him back to his people.”

Her voice was firm, but there was an edge to it—a quiet urgency.

Merlin nodded, but a weight settled in his chest.

—

Morgana dreaded these weekly dinners with Uther. They were an exercise in endurance, a test of how long she could bite her tongue before she either exploded in frustration or excused herself under the guise of a headache. It was always the same—empty pleasantries, because Uther didn’t deem it appropriate to discuss politics with a woman, or outright arguments when, inevitably, the conversation strayed into politics.

Tonight, though, she was quiet. Too quiet. She could feel it, but she couldn’t help herself. Her mind was elsewhere, back in her chambers, where a young, injured druid boy lay hidden beneath layers of secrecy and whispered fears. Gwen was with him now, tending to him with that endless kindness of hers. Wonderful, gentle, dependable Gwen.

And yet, a gnawing unease sat in Morgana’s stomach. It should have been her watching over him. She was the one who Merlin had turned to, who had promised him safety. No matter how much she trusted Gwen, it didn’t shake the instinctive certainty that he was only truly safe in her care.

A voice cut through her thoughts.

“You seem troubled, Morgana. Is something wrong?”

She looked up sharply. Uther was watching her, his expression unreadable but vaguely expectant.

“No, my lord,” she said quickly, forcing a small, placating smile. “I’m sorry I’m not better company.”

Uther took a sip from his goblet. “I was merely concerned for your welfare, that’s all.”

Concern. Morgana swallowed down the bitter laugh that threatened to escape. It was a lie—Uther’s concern only ever extended as far as her usefulness to him.

Still, she bowed her head slightly, playing the part. “Thank you, my lord. All is well.”

Fake, conniving, little d—.

The door swung open, saving her from finishing that thought.

Arthur strode in, his presence commanding even in the dim candlelight of the hall. His armor was gone, replaced with a deep red tunic, but the tension in his shoulders remained. He had spent the day hunting for the druid, and it was clear from his expression that he had little to show for it.

Uther barely gave him a moment to settle before speaking. “What news of the hunt for the druid boy?”

Arthur exhaled through his nose, walking further into the room. He leaned against the back of a chair, his grip tightening slightly on the carved wood. “We have conducted an extensive search,” he said, voice measured. “The boy is nowhere to be found.”

Uther’s face darkened. “You mean you failed to find him.”

Morgana’s stomach twisted. What an arse.

Arthur, to his credit, didn’t rise to the bait. “Perhaps he’s already left the city.”

Uther scoffed. “You’re telling me that a wounded boy evaded Camelot’s guards and slipped past the city gates unnoticed?” He clenched his goblet with enough force that the wine inside sloshed dangerously close to the rim. “Nonsense. Someone is hiding him. I want him found.”

Arthur’s jaw tightened. For a fleeting moment, there was something in his expression—anger, perhaps? Frustration? He straightened slightly, meeting his father’s gaze. “He’s just a boy. What harm can he do?”

“He is a druid,” Uther snapped. “That makes him dangerous.”

Morgana saw her opening. If she stayed silent, it would be suspicious. If she defended the boy, it would be worse. So she did what was necessary.

“The druids would see your father’s kingdom destroyed,” she said, injecting just enough steel into her voice to sound convincing.

Arthur turned to her, his brow furrowing. “I had no idea you were such an authority on druids.” His voice was laced with something—curiosity? Skepticism?

Before she could formulate a response, Uther cut in. “Morgana is right.” He turned back to Arthur, his tone brooking no argument. “Double your efforts.”

Arthur hesitated, his fingers tightening around the chair. Then, finally, his shoulders sagged ever so slightly in reluctant obedience. “Yes, sire.”

Morgana watched him, noting the flicker of hesitation in his eyes.

He wasn’t as certain of Uther’s words as he once had been.

—

The treatment had worked.

The boy was upright, sitting where Merlin had left him behind the curtain, his breathing steadier, his color returning. Relief crashed over Merlin so suddenly that he let out a breathless laugh.

“Oh, thank goodness,” he said, turning to Morgana with a grin. “If we’d had to involve Gaius, he would have executed me himself.”

Before Morgana could respond, a sharp knock at the door sent a jolt of panic through Merlin’s chest.

He froze. Morgana did too.

Their eyes met, wide with alarm.

Then, in a blur of motion, Merlin grabbed the boy and shoved him further behind the curtain, pressing a hand to his shoulder as if that alone would keep him still. His own heart was hammering against his ribs.

From his hiding spot, he watched as Morgana moved across the room, carefully schooling her features before unlatching the door.

The moment she cracked it open, Merlin caught a glimpse of a familiar brown jacket.

Arthur.

Merlin felt his stomach drop.

“Arthur,” Morgana greeted, her voice dripping in forced cheeriness, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”

Arthur’s tone was just as dry. “Don’t get all excited. This isn’t a social call.” He stepped inside without invitation, boots clicking against the stone. “We’re searching for the druid boy. I’m going to search your chambers.”

Merlin’s pulse quickened.

Behind Arthur, a knight stood in the doorway, hand resting idly on his sword. If Arthur so much as glanced toward the curtain—

“You are not searching my chambers,” Morgana said, folding her arms.

Arthur exhaled, already looking exasperated. “Don’t take it personally. I have to search the entire castle. It’ll only take a few minutes.”

And with that, he started moving through the room.

Morgana followed him like a shadow. “I am not having you mess up my things!”

“Ew, I have no interest in your things, Morgana,” Arthur shot back, opening the lid of a jewelry box before shutting it again. “I’m just looking for any evidence the boy is in the castle.”

Merlin dared to peek through the curtain again, just in time to spot something that made his stomach plummet.

The boy’s boots.

Lying in plain sight on the other side of Morgana’s bed.

Goddess help me.

Merlin inhaled sharply through his nose and reached out a hand, fingers trembling slightly. He whispered a single word under his breath—

A flicker of gold.

The boots twitched.

Then, carefully, as if on tiptoe, they began sliding across the floor toward him.

Arthur turned his head slightly, his sharp gaze sweeping the room.

Merlin’s breath caught.

The boots inched closer.

Arthur took a step toward them.

At the last possible moment, the boots vanished behind the curtain.

Merlin let out a slow, silent breath, his heart thudding painfully against his ribs.

“Well, I’ll save you the trouble,” Morgana said smoothly.

“The druid boy is behind the screen.”

Merlin stiffened.

What is she doing?

Arthur’s head snapped toward her, eyes narrowing. “What?”

Morgana smiled, tilting her head as if this were all some amusing little game. “I’m sure your father would love to know how you’ve wasted your time rifling through my things. Go on, look.”

Merlin’s blood turned to ice.

Arthur stared at her for a long, unreadable moment. Then, finally, he moved.

Each step felt heavier than the last.

Merlin’s breath hitched. The boy tensed beside him, gripping the fabric of Merlin’s sleeve so tightly it hurt.

Arthur reached out—

And pulled back the curtain.

Their eyes met.

Merlin could see the flicker of recognition, the slight widening of Arthur’s gaze before he schooled his expression. Arthur’s gaze flickered to the boy, then back to Merlin.

A long silence stretched between them.

Merlin didn’t dare breathe.

Then, Arthur let the curtain drop.

He turned back to Morgana with an exaggerated sigh. “Thank you, Morgana,” he said flatly. “For wasting my time.”

And then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

—

That night, Merlin received a summons from Kilgharrah.

He wasn’t particularly eager to go—he was exhausted, and he had more than enough on his plate already—but he also wasn’t eager to run into Arthur again anytime soon. If Kilgharrah wanted to talk, then fine. The old dragon probably just wanted some company

the moment Merlin stepped onto the rocky outcrop beneath the castle, a powerful gust of wind nearly knocked him off his feet as Kilgharrah descended with a deafening roar.

Merlin flinched. “Do you have to do that?”

“Now, now,” the dragon spoke, settling his massive form onto the ledge, “we have much to discuss.” His great golden eyes narrowed. “The druid boy—you must stop helping him.”

Merlin blinked, thrown by the sudden shift. “What?”

“You must let him die.”

Merlin frowned. “How do you even know about him?”

Kilgharrah gave him a knowing look. “Just like you, I hear him speak.”

That sent a shiver down Merlin’s spine. He had felt the boy’s magic in the air, the way it hummed beneath his skin. But for Kilgharrah to sense it too…

Merlin set his jaw. “That doesn’t change anything. He has magic. He’s a druid. He’s just like me.”

A low growl rumbled from the dragon’s throat. “You and the boy are as different as day and night.”

Something about the way he said it made the hair on the back of Merlin’s neck stand up.

“What does that mean?” he demanded.

Kilgharrah exhaled, wings shifting restlessly. “Heed my words, Merlin.”

And then, without another word, the dragon launched himself into the sky, powerful wings sending waves of air rushing past Merlin as he soared out of sight.

Merlin stood there for a moment, staring after him.

Then he scoffed. “Well, screw that. ”

Whatever Kilgharrah was on about, it didn’t matter. He wasn’t about to abandon the boy. Dragons may be wise advisors, but that’s it, they were advisors, and Merlin could choose not to take their advice.

Not now.

Not ever.

—

Arthur was going to kill his servant. And Morgana.

How dare they keep this from him? How could they harbor the druid boy and not tell him? Morgana, of all people—she knew him. They had grown up together. Had she not noticed the way his attitude toward magic had shifted over the years? How he had begun to question his father’s relentless persecution?

And Merlin— Merlin!

Had he not earned Merlin’s trust by now? Had he not risked his life for him time and time again? Shown him that he was different from Uther? That he could be better? And yet, when it came down to it, Merlin still didn’t trust him enough to tell him the truth. Not about this, not about his magic!

Arthur exhaled sharply, forcing himself to calm down. It would get him nowhere to storm into Morgana’s chambers and start shouting. He needed to think, to breathe —or at the very least, hit something. The training grounds. That was a good place to start.

Lost in thought, he barely noticed someone stepping into his path until they collided.

“Oh! Sire, I’m so sorry, I wasn’t watching where I was going,” Gwen said quickly, taking a step back.

Arthur huffed, rubbing his forehead. “You’re fine, Guinevere.” Then, almost as an afterthought, he narrowed his eyes at her. “Oh, I suppose you knew about this whole plot too?”

Gwen hesitated. “Excu—oh, um… yes, well, Morgana did tell me you had found out.” She swallowed and pressed on. “But, sire, you have to understand, they—”

“ Not here. ” Arthur interrupted, casting a glance around the corridor. He spoke louder, in a voice that carried, “You’re knowledgeable with armor, correct? Help me put on my gear at the training grounds—my useless servant is nowhere to be found.”

His acting skills were questionable at best, but no one would dare question the prince.

They walked in silence to the training grounds, where Arthur took a seat on a bench while Gwen set about gathering his gear. Once he was certain they were alone, he leaned in. “You were saying?”

Gwen straightened, as if steeling herself. “Merlin and Morgana… they’re good people, Arthur. They couldn’t just stand by and watch the King execute a helpless boy. What else were they supposed to do?” She fidgeted with the straps of his armor. “Now that he’s well, we’re trying to find a way to get him out of Camelot safely. Merlin says he has a plan, but we’re still figuring out how to—”

“Guinevere.” Arthur stopped her, his voice calmer now.

She looked at him anxiously.

“I know how caring Merlin is.” He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. “He has risked his life for me more times than I can count. His loyalty knows no bounds. If this is what he believes is right… then I trust him.” He hesitated, then added grudgingly, “And I suppose Morgana can’t be wrong all the time.”

Gwen gave him a look.

Arthur held her gaze stubbornly, but after a moment, her expression softened.

“So…” she asked tentatively. “You’re going to help us?”

Arthur extended his arms so she could start fastening his armor. As she worked, he muttered, “I should at least hear this insane plan that Merlin of all people came up with first.” A beat. Then, almost reluctantly, “But… yes. I’ll help.”

He barely had time to register the movement before Gwen hugged him.

Arthur froze.

She had been in Camelot for years, always in Morgana’s orbit, always kind and steady, but they had never had much physical contact. He wasn’t quite sure what to do with his hands.

Gwen seemed to realize it at the same time. She pulled back hastily, looking flustered. “Oh—sorry. I just… get huggy when I’m excited.”

Arthur blinked at her, then huffed out a breath, shaking his head.

“Get on with it, Guinevere. I’d like to be fully armed before Merlin manages to make this whole thing worse.”

She grinned and got back to work.

—

Merlin was so uncomfortable.

Everyone was staring at him—Arthur, Morgana, Gwen. Even the druid boy, wide-eyed and hopeful, was looking at him like he had all the answers. He didn’t. He really, really didn’t.

And Arthur—Arthur was staring at him expectantly, arms crossed, brows drawn together in that way that meant he was either irritated or impatient. Or both.

Merlin could smell him from here. The distinct scent of sweat and leather, the faint tang of iron—Arthur had been at the training grounds. He only went there outside of practice hours when he was upset.

Which meant this —all of this—had truly bothered him.

Merlin swallowed. He hadn’t meant to upset Arthur. He’d never meant to put him in this position. But what else was he supposed to do? Let a child die? He couldn’t force Arthur to choose between defying his father or upholding a law that neither of them truly believed in. It wasn’t fair to him—

"Merlin."

Arthur’s voice cut sharply through his thoughts.

“I’m not waiting here all day,” he said flatly.

Right. Focus.

“Uh, right,” Merlin stammered, shifting his weight awkwardly. “Well… there’s a secret door in the armory. It leads to the lower town.”

Arthur’s frown deepened. “How do you know about—”

“Shhh!” Morgana smacked his arm.

Arthur shot her an incredulous look, but she just waved at Merlin to continue.

“We can take the boy out that way,” Merlin said.

“I’ll do it,” Morgana and Arthur said at the same time.

Merlin winced. That wasn’t going to go well.

“Out of the question!” Arthur snapped.

“He’s my responsibility!” Morgana shot back.

Arthur scoffed. “From what I heard ,” he said, giving Morgana a pointed look, “it was Merlin who dragged you all into this in the first place.”

Morgana narrowed her eyes. “Meaning?”

“Meaning, it’s his responsibility,” Arthur said simply. “And since Merlin is my servant, that makes it my responsibility.”

Morgana opened her mouth to argue, but arthur lifted his chin stubbornly, and for once, she had nothing to say.

Then, smugly, Arthur reached into his belt and pulled out a ring of iron keys, dangling them in the air. “Besides,” he added, “I have the keys.”

Morgana lunged for them. Arthur, already expecting it, held them up just beyond her reach, smirking.

She glared. “You insufferable —”

“Excuse me,” Gwen interjected, exasperated. “Can we let Merlin continue?”

Arthur huffed, but lowered the keys.

Merlin hesitated, then pushed forward. “The door exits into the lower town. We can sneak him out through there.”

“It won’t work,” Arthur said after some thought.

Everyone turned to him.

“Why not?” Merlin asked.

“Uther has already doubled the guards. That includes the lower town.” Arthur’s expression darkened, but he was already thinking, strategizing. Then, suddenly, his eyes lit up.

“We’ll take him through the burial vaults,” he decided. “There’s a tunnel that leads beyond the city walls. No guards, no patrols.”

Merlin perked up. “That’s brilliant !”

Arthur ignored the praise and turned to Gwen. “Get my horse from the stables and meet me there.”

She nodded, “Of course.”

“What can I do?” Merlin asked eagerly, practically bouncing on his heels.

Arthur was just as animated now, focused and determined. “There’s a grate covering the tunnel entrance. Bring a rope and a grappling hook to pull it off.”

Merlin’s grin widened. “I’ve always wanted to use a grappling hook!”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Try not to kill yourself with it before we even get to the tunnel.”

They were really going to do this.

Arthur was going to do it. He was going to defy his father, help them save this boy.

Merlin’s heart pounded with excitement. He couldn’t wait.

“Excuse me,” Morgana began. “Am I meant to just do nothing?”

“Please, Morgana. You are very important, I assure you.” Arthur said sarcastically.

She raised an eyebrow at him.

“You will be distracting the King.”

—

Morgana fastened the final clasp of her gown, smoothing her hands over the deep emerald fabric. A second dinner with Uther this week—another performance, another carefully placed distraction. This was the plan. Keep him occupied. She must ensure that he is preoccupied and unlikely to notice any unusual activity in the castle. Her role is crucial—if she fails to hold his attention, everything could fall apart.

She let out a slow breath, pushing away the weight of it.

Behind her, Gwen adjusted the folds of Morgana’s cloak, her fingers deft and steady as always. She had been here from the beginning, helping without hesitation, without question. Morgana had asked so much of her, and Gwen had given even more.

She was always so... amazing.

Morgana turned, touched by the thought, and placed a gentle hand over Gwen’s. “Thank you.”

Gwen looked up, startled, but whatever smile she might have given in return didn’t reach her eyes. There was something else there—hesitation, unease.

Morgana’s brow furrowed. “What’s wrong?”

Gwen bit her lip, clearly weighing her words. Then, carefully, she said, “You’re risking so much for this boy. But you don’t know anything about him. You don’t even know his name.”

Morgana had been expecting this.

She clasped her hands together, standing a little straighter. “There’s a bond between us,” she said simply.

Gwen’s expression didn’t change. “Stronger than the bond you have with Uther?”

The question struck something deep inside her.

Morgana had thought about this. She had turned it over again and again in her mind, questioning why she felt such an inexplicable pull toward this boy. Why she was willing to lie, to betray , for him. And yet, there was no doubt in her heart.

“It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt before,” she admitted, her voice quieter now, almost reverent.

For the first time, Gwen’s face hardened. Her usual warmth was gone, replaced by something unreadable.

“I understand,” she said evenly.

Then, without another word, she turned toward the door.

Morgana blinked. “Gwen—?”

“You’re all ready,” Gwen said over her shoulder. “I have to get Arthur’s horse and meet him and Merlin.”

And just like that, she was gone.

Morgana stared after her, the lingering silence pressing in around her.

She had expected Gwen’s concern. She had expected worry , maybe even gentle scolding.

But she hadn’t expected this .

She hadn’t expected Gwen to leave her standing there, confused, unsettled, and more alone than she’d felt in a long time.

—

Merlin crouched beside the grate, the cold iron rusted but still firmly in place. Gwen stood beside him, her hands clenched in the fabric of her dress as she eyed the horse warily, standing as far away from it as possible.

"You didn’t bring anything to help you pry off the grate?" she asked, her voice hushed but urgent.

Merlin smirked. "I did bring something." With a flick of his wrist and a golden flash in his eyes, the grate wrenched free with a low groan, the metal tumbling aside.

Gwen let out a breath. "Oh. Right. I forget you can do that sometimes."

They shared a quiet laugh, but it was cut short as a dim light flickered from within the tunnel. Footsteps echoed against the stone.

Merlin and Gwen darted into the shadows, holding their breath.

"Merlin?" a voice called softly. A moment later, two figures emerged from the tunnel—Arthur, guiding the druid boy along.

"Right here," Merlin whispered, stepping forward.

Gwen followed, leading the horse—though the way she held the reins at arm’s length made it clear she was only barely tolerating its presence.

Arthur wasted no time. He swung into the saddle and pulled the boy up behind him in one smooth motion.

"If my father asks where I am," he said, voice low but firm, "I’ve gone on a hunting trip."

Then, without another word, he spurred the horse forward, disappearing into the night.

“Goodbye, Emrys.”

—

Arthur had never met a druid before—not like this. In his younger years, he had stormed their camps under his father’s orders, wielding a sword against people he barely understood. It was something he would always regret. But now, for the first time, he wasn’t facing them as an enemy. He was returning one of their own.

Three hooded figures emerged from the trees as Arthur dismounted, the boy clutching his cloak tightly. Their presence was silent but commanding, the air around them thick with an unspoken understanding.

The tallest among them stepped forward, lowering his hood to reveal a lined but kind face. "We are forever indebted to you, Arthur Pendragon, for returning the boy to us," he said solemnly. He pulled the child into a protective embrace, his relief evident.

Arthur shifted uncomfortably. "You must not let it be known that it was I who returned him to you," he said, voice low but firm. If word reached his father, there would be dire consequences.

The man nodded. "You have my word. No one shall know."

They turned to leave, but something held Arthur back. A question lingering in the back of his mind.

"Wait," he called after them. The boy paused, looking up at him with wide, knowing eyes. "I don’t even know your name."

The child hesitated, glancing at the elder for permission. The man gave a small nod.

"My name is Mordred," the boy said at last, his voice soft but steady.

Arthur smiled, unaware of the weight that name would one day carry. "Good luck, Mordred."

The boy dipped his head in farewell, smiling at him, then turned and disappeared into the forest.

Chapter Text

Merlin was in the market with Arthur, though "with" was a generous term. Arthur had insisted on accompanying him on his deliveries for Gaius, claiming it was to ensure Merlin was “actually working.” But with Arthur around, the work was going slower than ever.

Merlin suspected the prince didn’t actually get out much. Beyond patrolling with the knights, Arthur rarely had the chance to explore the town, to see the people he served beyond the walls of the castle. And, truthfully, Merlin enjoyed watching him take it all in—the way he lingered at the market stalls, fingers skimming over fabrics and trinkets, how he subtly listened in on the laughter and gossip of passing villagers. It made Arthur seem… more human.

Merlin was taking in the sight when he heard it.

A familiar whistle.

His head whipped around, heart stuttering in his chest as he scanned the crowd, searching—

Then he saw her.

His mother.

“Mama!” he cried, startling Arthur—who had been preoccupied inspecting a merchant’s wares—and took off running.

Hunith barely had time to brace herself before Merlin swept her into his arms, lifting her off the ground in a fierce embrace. She let out a surprised laugh, clutching onto him just as tightly.

Barely had he set her down when another body collided with him—a fiery little redhead, arms wrapping around his waist with all the strength of someone far too small to knock him over but determined to try anyway.

“Eira!” Merlin laughed, lifting her up effortlessly. “What are you two doing here?”

“She found out I was coming to see you,” Hunith chuckled, “and wouldn’t let me go without her.”

Eira beamed, gripping the front of Merlin’s tunic. “You missed my birthday,” she huffed, though the sparkle in her eyes told him she wasn’t really upset.

Merlin’s heart twisted. “I know, my heart,” he said softly. “I’m sorry.”

Her expression melted into a grin as she tugged at the fabric of his neckerchief. “You’re wearing it!” she gasped.

“Of course I am,” he said. “It was a gift, wasn’t it?”

She looked pleased, but then her attention shifted past his shoulder, and her eyes went comically wide. Leaning in conspiratorially—though her whisper was far too loud to be discreet—she asked, “Is that our king? Did you really find him?”

Merlin followed her gaze and had to bite back a laugh.

Arthur stood a few feet away, clearly at a loss for what to do, his usual princely confidence nowhere to be found. It was rare to see Arthur awkward, and it was absolutely delightful.

Merlin matched Eira’s overly loud whisper. “He will be,” he assured her. “But he’s got a lot of growing to do first.”

Without hesitation, Eira scrambled out of his arms and marched straight up to Arthur, throwing her arms around his middle in a fierce hug.

Arthur stiffened, looking utterly bewildered. His wide-eyed stare flicked between Merlin and Hunith, as if hoping for guidance.

Then, after a long moment, he sighed dramatically, crouching down so he was eye-level with her. “Quite a bit, I’m afraid,” he admitted. “I’d grow faster, but unfortunately… I don’t eat my vegetables.”

Eira gasped, horrified. She smacked his arm. “What do you mean you don’t eat your vegetables? Don’t you know we’re counting o—”

Merlin yelped, snatching her up before she could finish. “What she means to say is that we’re counting… up the minutes till we saw each other again!” he blurted out.

Eira squirmed in his hold, clearly unimpressed with his attempt at distraction. But she let it go, tucking herself against him with a giggle.

“This,” Merlin said, adjusting her on his hip, “is Eira. I guess you could call her my sister.”

Eira grinned. “I am his sister.”

Merlin turned next to his mother, tugging her close. “And this is my mama.”

Only then noticing the bruising on her face. He was about to ask about it when she pulled away.

Hunith smiled warmly, then reached for Arthur’s hand, clasping it in both of hers. “You must be Arthur,” she said. “I’m Hunith. He talks about you so highly in his letters, you know. It's an honor to finally meet you.”

Arthur blinked, momentarily caught off guard. He glanced down at where she held his hands, as if unaccustomed to such warmth, then smiled—small, but genuine.

“So you’re the woman responsible for raising Merlin,” he said, voice lighter than usual. “I’m honored to meet you.”

“And I you,” Hunith said sincerely. Then, with a gentle squeeze of his hands, she added, “If you don’t mind, Your Highness, I’d like to steal Merlin for the day. Have him show me around.”

She turned to Merlin, eyes bright with excitement. “Oh! You must take me to Gaius first—it’s been far too long since I’ve seen my brother.”

Merlin hesitated, glancing at Arthur for permission.

Arthur simply smirked, jerking his head toward the castle. “Go on, Merlin. I suppose I can survive without you for a day.”

Merlin grinned. “You’ll manage, I’m sure.”

With that, he turned back to his family, heart full, and led them home.

—

Merlin held Eira close, his arms tightening around her small frame as they all watched Hunith and Gaius embrace. He couldn't fathom going twenty years without seeing Eira, without watching her grow, without being there for the little moments that made up a life. The very thought made his chest tighten. Yet, the realization hit him like a physical blow—he was missing it. Or he would be.

He had already been gone a year. Already missed her birthday. Already absent from memories being made without him. What else would slip through his fingers while he was away?

The guilt twisted in his gut, sharp and unforgiving. He held Eira a little tighter, as if he could make up for lost time in that single embrace.

Gaius, smiling warmly, finally pulled away from Hunith, though his hands still rested on her arms, reluctant to let go. “What on earth are you doing here? And what happened bere?” he asked, searching her face for an answer.

Hunith hesitated, her eyes flicking between them all, the weight of her words evident in her hesitation.

Eira, ever blunt, spoke for her. “We were attacked again. This time by bully bandits.”

Merlin’s breath hitched. “Attacked?” He stepped forward, his concern eclipsing all else. “Is everyone alright?”

Hunith nodded, but her shoulders sagged as if she carried a burden too heavy for one person to bear. “Everyone is fine,” she assured him, though her voice lacked conviction. “But this isn't the first time they've come, and it won’t be the last.” She exhaled slowly, her weariness visible in every line on her face. Then, as if the weight of it all had finally caught up to her, she sank into a chair. “They keep taking our resources—our food, our clean water, everything. We won’t survive much longer if they keep coming.”

Merlin’s heart pounded in his chest. He gently set Eira down before standing beside his mother. “Why wouldn’t you tell me sooner?” His voice wavered, frustration and anguish warring within him. “I could have done something—I would have come back to help!”

Hunith cupped his face in her hands, her touch warm despite the sorrow in her eyes. “You had just left, my heart,” she murmured, pressing her forehead to his, her breath a quiet tremor against his skin. “I couldn’t drag you back so soon.”

Tears burned the back of his eyes. The thought of his mother and his people suffering while he had been here, oblivious, made him feel sick. What had he been doing in Camelot? Training, fetching Arthur’s armor, trying to keep his head above water—while his family was fighting to survive.

His fists clenched.

“I’m coming back.”

Hunith stiffened, beginning to protest, but he cut her off before she could form the words.

“I know what you’re going to say,” he said, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument. “But I have to make sure you’re safe. I won’t—” His voice cracked. He swallowed hard before continuing. “I won’t let you suffer alone.”

Hunith’s eyes glistened, torn between her pride in him and the fear of losing him again. Gaius stood silent, watching, his expression unreadable. Eira pressed herself into Merlin’s side, tiny hands gripping his tunic as if afraid he would disappear.

The room was heavy with unspoken words.

And Merlin knew—no matter what destiny had in store for him in Camelot, his heart would always belong to the people he left behind.

—

Merlin had finished packing. His satchel sat heavy against his shoulder, but the real weight pressing on him wasn’t the supplies—it was the conversation he still had to have.

He had to tell Arthur.

With a steadying breath, he knocked on the prince’s chamber doors, balancing the dinner tray in his hands as he waited.

“Enter,” came Arthur’s voice from within.

Merlin pushed the door open, only to pause as his eyes landed on Arthur, Morgana, and Gwen gathered around the large table. Morgana was already eating, her posture relaxed, while Gwen stood nearby, her hands resting gently in front of her. Arthur, seated at the head, looked up as Merlin entered.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were all here.” Merlin hesitated, then quickly stepped forward to set the tray down in front of Arthur. He dipped his head in a quick bow. “I’ll, um… I’ll come back later.”

“Nonsense, Merlin.” Arthur gestured him closer. “Come here. I was just telling them I met your family today.”

Merlin stiffened.

“Merlin, you never told me you had a sister!” Gwen chimed in, nudging him playfully as he moved to stand beside her.

“Oh, yeah, well… she’s not really my sister,” Merlin admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “Though don’t tell her I said that.” His lips quirked in a small smile. “Out of all the kids in my, uh, village, she’s my favorite. She lost her family a few years ago, so my mum and I took her in.”

Morgana’s expression softened, her hand pressing over her heart. “Oh, that’s awful. How did they—” She hesitated. “How did they pass?”

Merlin’s stomach twisted.

He couldn’t exactly say that the knights of Camelot were to blame. That they were just more casualties of the king’s war against magic. That his father had died the same way.

“Morgana.” Arthur shot her a look before Merlin had to answer.

Her eyes widened, guilt flashing across her face. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up painful memories.”

Merlin forced a smile, though it felt tight on his face. “It’s alright,” he lied.

The conversation was dragging longer than he’d intended. He had hoped to leave as soon as possible, but at this rate, he wouldn’t be on the road until after dark.

Arthur studied him, brow furrowing. “Alright, Merlin. Out with it.”

Merlin blinked. “What?”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “You’re quiet. That’s never a good sign.” He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “Clearly, something’s on your mind.”

Merlin faltered, glancing around at the three of them—people who, in such a short time, had become his friends.

His chest ached.

He exhaled slowly. “I have to go.”

They all straightened at once.

Arthur was the first to speak, his voice quieter now. “What?”

Merlin swallowed. “My village is being attacked by bandits. My family needs help. I can’t stay here while they suffer.” His throat tightened. “I’m going back to help.”

A heavy silence fell over the room.

Then Morgana spoke, her voice urgent. “Let’s go to Uther. Surely he’d provide aid—”

“No,” Merlin cut in quickly, his mind scrambling for an excuse. “We’re not within Camelot’s borders. My village is in Cenred’s kingdom.”

Understanding dawned on Morgana’s face, followed quickly by disappointment.

“Oh, Merlin,” Gwen whispered, her eyes brimming with concern. She stepped forward, wrapping her arms around him in a warm embrace. “I’ll miss you.”

Merlin let himself sink into the hug for a moment, drawing strength from it. Gwen pulled away with a small, sad smile before she and Morgana left, leaving only him and Arthur.

Arthur had been quiet throughout the exchange, but as the door clicked shut behind the women, he finally spoke.

“Why didn’t you ask me?”

Merlin frowned. “What?”

Arthur turned to face him fully, his blue eyes intense. “Why didn’t you ask me to help your village?”

Merlin hesitated, not sure how to answer. “I couldn’t ask you to do that,” he admitted. “Especially if your father wouldn’t approve.”

Arthur’s jaw clenched. “Damn the man,” he muttered. Then his voice rose, sharp with frustration. “What exactly do you think you’re going to do against a group of bandits, Merlin?!”

Merlin bristled. “Whatever I have to!”

Arthur inhaled deeply, steadying himself before speaking again. “When are you leaving?”

Merlin was taken aback by the sudden shift in tone. “As soon as I leave here, I suppose.”

Arthur nodded, his expression unreadable. “Take whatever supplies you need. Food, water—anything.”

Merlin opened his mouth to thank him, but Arthur waved him off with a sharp flick of his hand.

“Dismissed,” he muttered.

Merlin hesitated for a moment, trying to read the storm brewing behind Arthur’s eyes. But the prince wouldn’t meet his gaze.

“It's been an honor serving you.” Merlin turned and left.

—

Morgana stormed into Arthur’s chambers, her emerald eyes flashing with anger.

“You’re a coward for letting him go alone.”

Arthur didn’t look up. He moved about the room with purpose, shoving supplies into a bag with quick, efficient motions.

Gwen slipped in behind Morgana, her expression tight with concern.

Morgana took another step forward, voice rising. “You’ve seen how thin he is! Those bandits will snap his bones, and you know it!”

Arthur exhaled sharply, pausing for just a moment before continuing his preparations.

“Morgana…” he began, his patience thinning.

“No,” she snapped, her hands balling into fists. “I’m disappointed in you, Arthur. He’s risked his life for you—more than once! And this is how you repay him?”

Arthur stilled, his grip tightening around the strap of his bag. Then he turned to her and, with deliberate calm, gestured around the room.

“If you paid attention,” he said, voice edged with irritation, “you’d see that I’m packing.”

Morgana blinked, taking in the bags for the first time. Her righteous fury faltered—only for a moment.

“Oh.” Then, as if nothing had changed, she lifted her chin. “Well, I’m coming with you.”

“No.” Arthur and Gwen spoke in unison.

Morgana frowned. “Excuse me?”

“Neither of you should go,” Gwen said quickly, stepping closer. “Merlin is more capable than he looks. He can handle this.”

Morgana turned on her, skeptical. “You really believe that?”

“Yes,” Gwen said firmly.

Arthur pointed at Gwen. “Exactly. I’m just going to make sure he comes back.” He shouldered his bag, giving Morgana a pointed look. “A good servant is hard to come by, and I’m not intending to lose a half-decent one.”

Gwen shot him a look, but whatever argument she had died on her lips.

Morgana, realizing she was outnumbered, scoffed in frustration and swept toward the door. “Fine,” she huffed, throwing one last glare over her shoulder before disappearing into the corridor.

Gwen hesitated, then turned back to Arthur. “Don’t be too hard on him,” she said softly. “Merlin is… well, he’s a good man.”

Arthur met her gaze, something unreadable flickering in his expression.

Then, with a sigh, he slung his bag over his shoulder.

“I know,” he muttered.

Gwen lingered a moment longer before leaving him to his preparations.

He thought back to that afternoon. To Hunith.

She had taken his hands so gently, her touch warm and steady, the way a mother’s should be. She had smiled at him, soft and sincere, as if she had known him for years rather than minutes. He talks about you so highly in his letters, you know , she had said. And then, It’s an honor to finally meet you.

The words had caught him off guard, left him standing there, uncharacteristically speechless.

Honor.

No one spoke of him that way. Not as a person, not beyond the title of prince—the future king, the Pendragon heir. But Hunith had. She had seen him not as the ruler he was expected to become, but as Arthur.

And it had meant more than she could ever know.

He had never had that. Not truly. His mother had been taken before he could even remember her face, before he could know what it felt like to be held, to be comforted. Uther’s love had always been distant, locked behind expectations and discipline, never warmth.

But this—Hunith, Eira, Merlin’s family—this was something different.

And Arthur would not let anything happen to them.

—

They had made camp for the night. The fire had burned low, casting a warm glow over the small clearing. Merlin sat cross-legged beside it, absentmindedly twirling his fingers as the embers lifted and twisted into fleeting shapes—a bird, a horse, a dragon. Eira watched, giggling softly, her eyelids growing heavier with each flicker of magic.

Then—footsteps.

Merlin stiffened, his senses sharpening. He carefully eased Eira onto her makeshift bed, then reached for a heavy branch lying nearby. Weighing it in his hands, he crept away from the fire, toward the sound.

The footsteps were scattered, shifting in the darkness. Too many directions at once. His grip tightened.

Then—a sharp, unmistakable pressure at his back. The cold touch of steel.

He froze.

“I’d ask for your money, but I know you don’t have any.”

The voice was familiar.

“Arthur?!” Merlin spun around so fast he nearly smacked the prince with the branch.

Arthur batted it away with his sword like swatting an insect. “Put that down, Merlin. You look ridiculous.”

Before Merlin could fully process what was happening, Arthur had already started toward the camp.

Panic flared in Merlin’s chest.

No—Arthur couldn’t see where they were going. Not the camp. Not the people waiting for them.

Not the druids.

Merlin moved fast, stepping in front of him, blocking his path. “Wait!”

Arthur stopped just short of colliding with him, eyes narrowing. “What?”

Merlin swallowed. He had to think—quickly. “What are you doing here?”

Arthur scoffed. “What does it look like? I’m here to help.”

His tone was light, almost teasing, but Merlin barely heard it over the pounding in his ears. He forced himself to laugh, though it came out thin and unconvincing. “I—I don’t need your help.”

Arthur arched an eyebrow, unimpressed.

Realizing his mistake, Merlin scrambled to correct himself. “Not that you wouldn’t be a great help! Obviously. I just mean—it’s not necessary.”

Silence.

Arthur didn’t reply. He simply studied him, gaze sharp and searching, the firelight casting shadows across his face.

—

Arthur’s head was spinning.

Merlin didn’t want him to come. Didn’t want him to see where he lived. Didn’t want to let him in.

Arthur wasn’t sure what unsettled him more—the rejection itself, or the way it stung. It was absurd, really. He hadn’t expected Merlin to be pleased about his arrival, exactly, but he hadn’t expected him to look so… afraid. So desperate to push him away.

And why? Because Arthur thought—gods, he didn’t even know what he thought. That maybe, since Merlin wrote about him in his letters, he actually mattered? That maybe he was important to him, the way Merlin was beginning to feel important to him? That maybe Merlin would… trust him?

His chest tightened, his throat burned, but he would not let his voice falter.

“Why don’t you want me to come?” he asked, keeping his tone even.

Merlin hesitated, wringing his hands. “Because… well, I mean, I’d love to have you, but… it’s just… it’s not a good time.”

Arthur inhaled sharply. “I know about the attacks, that’s why I came.” He studied Merlin carefully. “So why don’t you want me to see where you live? Is it—” He swallowed, forcing the words out before he could second-guess them. “Is it something I’ve done?”

Merlin’s face twisted in surprise. “What? Arthur, no! You’re wonderful! You’ve done nothing! It’s—” He exhaled shakily. “It’s me. I’m wrong.”

The confession hit Arthur like a punch to the gut.

“I’m afraid that once you see where I come from, once you know, you won’t…” Merlin shook his head, gripping Arthur’s arm like he could hold him in place, as if he were slipping away. “You won’t bother with me anymore. That you’ll—I don’t know—look at me differently. That you won’t like where I live.”

Arthur furrowed his brows. “You think I’ll judge your home? Merlin, you’re a peasant—I know your village won’t be all that grand.” He scoffed. “Stop lying to me and just tell me.”

Merlin’s breath hitched. He clenched his fists. “It’s not a village,” he admitted quietly.

Arthur frowned. “Okay?”

Merlin inhaled deeply, as if bracing himself. Then, finally—

“It’s a camp… a druid camp.” He squared his shoulders, as if preparing for a blow. “I’m a druid.” He threw his arms out to his sides. “There, are you happy? You know now! Go ahead, have me executed. Chop my head off.”

Arthur just… stared.

Not because he was shocked to learn that Merlin was a druid, honestly it made a lot of sense.

But because Merlin actually thought he’d kill him over it.

Arthur let out a breath, shaking his head. “I don’t care.”

Merlin blinked at him, thrown completely off balance. “You… what?”

“I don’t care,” Arthur repeated. His grip on his sword loosened, and for the first time, he realized he had been holding it the whole time. He sheathed it. “You saw what I did for Mordred. Why would you think I’d care that you’re a druid?”

Merlin looked stunned. “You… you truly don’t care that I have magic?”

Arthur exhaled, something tight in his chest finally unraveling. “Merlin, you have saved my life far too many times for me to think you are anything but good.”

Merlin didn’t react at first. Then, in a blur of movement, he threw himself forward, arms locking around Arthur in a fierce embrace.

Arthur stiffened, startled—then, hesitantly, he wrapped his arms around Merlin and held him just as tightly.

“Besides, I already knew you had magic.”

“What?!”

—

When Eira woke the next morning, she was exactly where she was supposed to be—nestled between Mama Hunith and Merlin, safe and warm beneath the furs.

She sighed contentedly, snuggling closer to her brother. It had been to long since he’d been at her side like this, and she wasn’t about to waste a second of it.

Then, a loud, very rude snore shattered the morning quiet.

Eira’s eyes popped open. She sat up, rubbing the sleep from her face, and peered over Merlin’s shoulder.

And there, just beyond him, lay—

Arthur?

She blinked.

Arthur. The prince. Her King. In her camp. Sleeping on the ground.

Her little brow furrowed. When had that happened? And more importantly—was he supposed to be here?

She thought he still had more growing to do. That’s what Merlin said about him, right? That he had to “grow into” his throne? That he had to “grow” into the kind of king people needed?

Eira eyed him critically.

Well. This simply wouldn’t do.

Sliding carefully out of bed, she tiptoed around her aunt and over to the camp’s provisions. She rummaged through the supplies until she found what she was looking for—a mushroom, a big one. Then, just to be safe, she grabbed a second.

Armed with her precious bounty, she padded back over to the prince and plopped down beside him.

Then, she poked him.

Arthur grumbled but didn’t stir.

She poked him again.

This time, he cracked an eye open.

“What?” His voice was rough with sleep, his brow furrowed in irritation.

Undeterred, Eira beamed and held up her offerings. “I have veggies for you, so you grow,” she whispered conspiratorially. “They taste better cooked, but I’m not allowed near the fire by myself yet.”

Arthur let out a long-suffering sigh, rubbing his face. Then, after a moment, he sat up properly.

“I’ll cook them up for us,” he offered. “That way, we can both grow.”

Eira grinned, delighted, and skipped over to the fire pit, clutching her mushrooms.

Just as she was about to set them down, she glanced back at Arthur—

But he wasn’t looking at her.

He was looking at Merlin.

And for some reason… he was smiling.

Hmmm.

“Do you like my brother?”

—

Merlin woke to the rich, earthy scent of something cooking over an open fire.

Still groggy, he reached out instinctively, expecting the familiar warmth of his little sister at his sides.

But—nothing.

His fingers met only empty space.

His eyes snapped open, and he bolted upright.

Arthur Pendragon—Prince of Camelot—was sitting cross-legged by the fire, casually turning something in a pan like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Across from him, Eira was perched on a log, swinging her legs as she watched Arthur with rapt attention. Hunith sat beside her, hands folded neatly in her lap, her face unreadable—but soft. At ease.

They looked… comfortable.

Like a family.

Merlin swallowed, blinking hard.

It was an odd sight, to be sure. And yet…

This was how it should be.

Arthur, not locked away in a stuffy castle, ruling from behind stone walls. Not barking orders from a gilded throne.

But here, amongst the people. His people. Protecting them. Caring for them.

Eira caught sight of him and grinned. “Merlin, do you want a mushroom?” She hopped down from the log and started toward him, hands outstretched.

Before she could take two steps, Arthur caught her wrist.

He didn’t say a word. Just gave her a look.

Eira blinked up at him, then straightened her shoulders and nodded solemnly.

Merlin’s eyes narrowed. Odd.

He folded his arms. “And what, exactly, are you two conspiring?”

“Nothing,” they said in perfect unison.

That was deeply unsettling.

“Right,” Merlin muttered, eyeing them suspiciously.

Arthur cleared his throat and turned back to the fire. “I caught your mother up to speed about… well, me being up to speed.”

Merlin’s gaze flicked to Hunith, who met his eyes with quiet understanding.

Arthur then turned to her. “How much farther?”

Hunith smiled. “We should be there by noon.”

With breakfast finished and the fire doused, they set off once more, the morning sun rising steadily behind them.

—

"Also, you can't wear your cloak."

Merlin had been prattling on since they left camp that morning—an endless list of dos and don’ts, all the things Arthur had to remember, and all the things he absolutely could not do.

"You must treat Elder Camma respectfully. You cannot take out your sword. You must not throw your things everywhere. You cannot boss people around. You must do this. You must not do that."

And now? Now, his cloak was the final straw.

Arthur stopped in his tracks, frowning. "Merlin, I am not ashamed to be a knight of Camelot. The red of my cloak represents hope—it stands for protection, for justice. I am not removing it."

Merlin came to a halt beside him, letting their companions drift ahead. From a few paces forward, Eira threw Arthur a look. Be nice, or else.

Arthur shot her one back. I am aware you’re evil.

She merely grinned and skipped away, the very picture of a treacherous little imp.

"Arthur." Merlin's voice was softer now, drawing his attention back. "These people— my people—have been attacked by the knights of Camelot for decades. That cloak, that red, means something very different here."

Arthur clenched his jaw, his pride warring with his conscience. He hated the idea of hiding who he was. But Merlin was right, and he knew it. With a huff, he yanked off the cloak and stuffed it into his pack without a word.

And yet, Merlin still smiled at him. That same, knowing, irritatingly fond smile.

"Come on!" Eira called from ahead.

Arthur swallowed hard. His heart was hammering. He had fought countless battles, faced creatures of nightmare, but now, standing at the edge of the unknown, he feared he might actually be sick.

As they crested the final hill, the camp came into view, nestled within the protective embrace of the forest. Compared to the makeshift camps Arthur had seen on hunting trips, this one was well-established, a testament to the druids’ resilience and adaptability. Tents of varying sizes dotted the landscape, some tucked beneath natural outcroppings, while others stood proudly in the open. Blankets and simple wooden structures suggested that many slept beneath the stars. The scent of cooking fires drifted toward them, mingling with the crisp evening air.

Arthur barely had time to take it all in before the reaction began.

“ Merlin! ”

The name rang out, first as a single voice, then as a chorus.

Figures emerged from tents, heads turned from cooking pots, and children abandoned their games, all converging on their small group with an excitement that caught Arthur completely off guard.

Merlin barely had time to brace himself before he was enveloped by a rush of people. Hands clapped his shoulders, arms pulled him into embraces, and a flurry of voices overlapped—

“Where have you been?”
“You didn’t send word!”
“Look at you, all grown and scruffy!”