Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Gaius added the last ingredient for the potion into the flask and lit the flame beneath it. Retrieving quill, ink and parchment from the cupboard, he settled on the bench until he was comfortable—well, reasonably comfortable. Merlin had already made the potions and remedies for the morning’s rounds and then slipped out of their dimly-lit chamber, slipping past him while he’d lain in his cot, trying not to disturb the air as he spirited out the door. Gaius placed a piece of parchment in front of him and reached from the quill, dipping it into the ink pot.

The scratch of the quill was slow, measured, the slight tremor in his hand ruining his once perfect penmanship. The words spilling out came easy enough to Gaius, writing from his heart, sharing feelings through the comfort of distance. If he could only say them to her personally, perhaps his heart would not ache as much as his bones.

My beloved Alice,

All hopes my words find you well, my dearest, for I have weathered yet another storm in Camelot. News may have reached Escetir that Morgana and the Southron warlord Helios were defeated in a great battle to retake Camelot. All of our enemies were vanquished by King Arthur, our courageous allies, and a new breed of valiant knights. Morgana ’s time has come and gone and she was near to meeting her very end.

Oh, my dear, as fantastical as this may sound, the great dragon snatched her from the very platform just as she faced the executioner. What a frightful spectacle that must have been, for I was recovering in my chamber and did not witness it; but it ’s unfathomable to the mind. We would have been rid of her and at last have peace in the land had it not been so.

Morgana ’s path of destruction left many dead and I, myself, was held captive during her terrible reign. Many of us suffered starvation, needless brutality, and abject humiliation under the cruel hand of the Southrons and I fear it will take us time to recover and restore our battered souls as much as our beleaguered city. But do not fret, my love. A new day is on the horizon for all of Camelot.

Our young king married his long love, Guinevere, in a private ceremony and in the royal library no less, which I am sorrowful to say I could not attend. Camelot has been without a true queen for twenty-six years and that alone gives us reason enough to rejoice.

I miss you, dear Alice; and as much as I desire to be with you and start a new life, I must remain in Camelot. Merlin needs me now more than ever and despite my new role as his mentor, I know he still has much to learn from me, and that is encouraging enough to balm my dreary spirit.

Stay well, my love. I continue to count the days since our last parting and I will continue to do so until you and I are united once more. You are precious to me.

Eternally with Love,

Gaius

Returning the quill to the ink pot, he moved the candle closer to glance over his written words. The letter would reach Escetir in a few hours by pigeon and then Alice in Airaldii within a day by rider. She would be expecting it, perhaps worried for him since this missive was overdue. He had different things to tell her before Gwen’s banishment and Morgana’s invasion, tidings of love and hope, but now he couldn’t find the courage to confess that the king released him from service.

Gaius sighed, his thoughts warring between trying to read the letter and Arthur’s order regarding him. So, carefully folding the parchment, he wrote Alice’s name and location on the smooth side before securing the fold with wax and his modest pheasant seal. His fingers radiated with pain as he stuffed it into a pocket on his robe.

Stretching a little for the cup of water on the other side of the candle, he sipped a few drops before lowing his arm onto the table. His shoulders slumped.

He was sure Arthur believed it was a kindness he was doing by easing his responsibilities. Perhaps, his steps have slowed in pace and his back was ever sore, but his mind was still as sharp as ever. Gaius swallowed, his throat dry once more. He’d never intended to do anything less than what he has ever done: to be in the service of the crown, to counsel the king, to help the sick and injured.

The last time his king had wrongfully released him from service, he’d packed up his horse and headed out of town almost immediately after. Older now, he was, indeed, weary at times. His good years in Camelot had blessed him with a fullness of life, with honor and status and the wages of a free man, and all at the cost of unsustainable love. Alice was his love lost, then found; then lost again, their only form of contact through letters every few months. For either of them to cross their kingdom’s boundary could lead one of them to death if not both of them.

No. Holding to hope now that Arthur’s easing of the laws on magic, it could mean a pardon for Alice and allow her to return to Camelot. Would the king forgive Alice, for she was coerced by the Manticore to attempt to assassinate his father? Or forget that she had mysteriously escaped the dungeons and execution? He’d tried to tell Arthur and Uther that the woman had been in the thralls of the magical creature, but his defense of her had held no sway on either of them.

Surely, Gaius had enough coin to settle any place he chose and live quite comfortably with Alice, both of them practicing their special kind of magic—him doing the healing and she making the potions. The generous stipend Arthur portioned him for retirement was more than enough to sustain his meager needs now. The rest saved for him and Alice.

A dog barked outside as the sounds of construction and repair began to drift into the air and Gaius looked toward the window, bands of sunlight spilling in. These were exciting times for the once servant, having wanted what he and Arthur were now heading toward for so many years and with nothing to obstructed them. Oh, yes. Merlin deserved a better life having suffered, grieved, and lost so much for one so young. It was his time, and as much as Gaius knew that dusk would be upon him someday, he couldn’t leave his boy now. He longed to be with Alice, but the journey they’d embarked upon was just as important to him as it was to Merlin, Arthur, Gwen, and his kingdom.

Gaius exhaled. As with all change, he knew it would take time for him to heal in both body and spirit. He would do his best to mentor Merlin, counsel Arthur, and encourage Gwen until he was utterly spent.

But Alice.

The potion for his aching joints bubbled from the flame, reminding him that it ready for consumption or else evaporate entirely if left unattended. Its healing properties would take effect as he traversed through the crowds already filling the lanes. Gaius pushed himself to stand, his knees a little wobbly, but crossed the floor to blow out the fire. He would have to wait for it to cool before heading for the dovecote so he returned to the bench and eased down again.

The distress over his lost role and love crept into his thoughts again, but for now, he’d do his part for the kingdom as best he could and start his climb out of his own pit of depression.

Chapter Text

Morgana’s hut seemed like home to Mordred in so few days. Sitting on the hard dirt floor, he leaned against the only cot in the room, his legs crossed and bottom sore from the long hours sitting on it. He gently closed the old leather tome that had captured his attention since he found it, traced the vertical band on the soft cover with a reverence.

Dodd spat another string of curses from across the room, fussing over his drawings of Camelot castle’s interior set atop a small table he’d conjured from a wood block. The parchment he’d made from wood chips and water. His cleverness had amazed Mordred. He hadn’t learned to use his magic this way.

“This shouldn’t be here,” Dodd said aloud.

Mordred didn’t bother to look up nor respond to the silver-haired sorcerer as he uttered a spell to fix whatever he thought was wrong. Instead, his eyes roamed across the intricate design and detail of the book. The raised flower patterns blossoming flowing swirls, the vivid drawings and archaic script on each page conveying just how precious it was. It had also once belonged to Morgana.

There were many books left behind by her, and Mordred was instinctively drawn to them. He couldn’t read the strange script, yet the ancient tomes hummed with power, sending tingles across his skin as if beckoning him to read their mysteries.

Dodd had told him that the answer to capturing the king and queen was within the pages these books, some of the same enchantments he’d learned from a swamp witch years ago.

Mordred’s people were nomadic forest dwellers, and passed down their rituals and knowledge through teaching, stories and songs. Their beliefs and customs, the natural world and its wonders, their origins and history, the names of every tree, and herb, and animal—all were learned by hearing and repetition.

Their most sacred spells and potions were written on scrolls, but those few were reserved only for the elders and their apprentices, who would teach them to the people of the tribes. It had been so for generations. They had no need to bind their extensive knowledge and honored legacies in leather or cloth; moving such volumes from one location to the next was seen as an unnecessary burden.

The Great Purge had decimated many of their communities. The Pendragons eliminated even more over time and Mordred wondered if his culture could have been preserved like the scribbles in these books. He knew the stories told of druid heroes fighting and dying for their way of life. His fingers tightened on the leather, clenching it. If only he had learned to read more than just runes and druid symbols, then perhaps he could have preserved some of the knowledge for his people.

“Pixie piss,” Dodd swore again, interrupting Mordred’s internal battle. “It’s taken me four days to draw the interior plan of the citadel, and these blasted sketches are still not aligned right. This is draining me.” His shoulders slump, his fingers massaged his forehead, his temple.

It doesn’t have to be perfect, Mordred thought.

“You’re drawing. At least you didn’t spend first few days clearing out decayed specimens, spoiled herbs, and questionable liquids, or sweep rodent droppings.”

“You complained through it all, my young and lazy friend.”

“As did you,” Mordred reminded him. “If you’d just let me conjure some wind, it would have quickly cleared most of it out.”

Keeping the door propped open had dissipated the smell somewhat or—Mordred figured—he’d just gotten used to it.

“You would have mucked up my drawings,” Dodd retorted. “Besides, Killian contributed our part to the workload by hunting and dressing his kills.”

Mordred made a face and Dodd returned his attention to his drawings.

“Yeah, well, I had to cook them,” he said under his breath.

“I heard you,” Daid said without looking around. “You groused through that as well.”

He sighed and turned to look at him. “Mordred, my share is plotting against our enemies, which is no small feat especially since our list of targets is long.”

“Yes. Arthur, Merlin, Maxwell, and Gwen.” The queen was always last when Mordred listed their names. He liked her despite her part in Morgana’s capture and near execution. As one of Dodd’s most hated enemies though, he believed she’d be one of the first to die.

“And anyone else who stands in our way: knights, soldiers, servants.”

“Our odds are not favorable.” He heard the doubt in his own voice and lowered his gaze when Dodd cast a disdainful glance his way.

“We must be smarter. Merlin and Maxwell will be formidable enough, and even if we do manage to eliminate them first, we’ll have an army on alert and tighten their security around our other two targets. No. We go for the king and queen first. Their absence will cause much disruption, and perhaps that’s when we’ll have an opportunity strike against those hypocritical sorcerers. They wouldn’t expect another attack so soon and that will be our advantage.”

“A well-aimed arrow to the head or the heart would stop Maxwell and Merlin.” Mordred glanced at the other sorcerer, who had turned back to his work and was bent over the table again, scrutinizing the diagrams.

“Only if we strike simultaneously, and I’m not sure how fast you are with a bow, even with magic.”

“I don’t need a bow.” This time, his voice had lost all doubt, a look of approval from Dodd rewarding his ominous tone.

“Indeed,” the sorcerer replied with a wry and satisfied grin. “We’ll take that under consideration as part of the strategy.”

Mordred knew Dodd harbored no doubt they’d prevail against their enemies even though he didn’t know his exact plans. The man was strange to him, his looks and temperament so opposite to the brutish and hardened Killian. His company was enjoyable though, mostly pleasant at times, making Mordred smirk every now and again as he delighted in the perfection of his own works. If they weren’t plotting the death of a beloved king and queen, Mordred would have thought Dodd was drafting the grand design of his own castle, meticulous in detail and worth fretting over every element.

“Come here,” summoned Dodd.

Mordred set the book aside and approached the table. So far there were six sheets of parchment, each representing a different level of the castle.

Just as he’d done with the other finished pages, Dodd sprinkled a fine red dust that he’d concocted over the wet ink and then blew the excess off with one puff of air. He stacked them all atop each other.

“Watch this,” he said with a mischievous grin, his gray orbs sparkling with glee.

He passed a hand over the papers, his fingers bending and spreading like gnarled claws as he incanted a spell, gold flashing in his eyes.

The ink shimmered in red and gold flecks, and then lifted off the pages to form a perfect three-dimensional representation of the citadel’s guts—at least, to the best of Dodd’s recollection. There were still a few blank, undefined spaces here and there, but the detail of each layer was close enough for them to find their way within it.

“This bottom layer, here,” Dodd said, pointing to a great open space with rows of columns across the entire floor. glistening in red magic ink.

“That’s the crypt. Killian fought Knight Maxwell there. The other side, this blank area, leads from the dungeons down to catacombs that are said to have once imprisoned a dragon. I’ve seen the monstrous chains that once held something captive there, and the remains of animal carcasses. And some very large droppings.”

“It’s true. I know it is,” Mordred said. “I didn’t know where he was, but I was close enough to hear his voice in my head when I was in Camelot. He knew my name. He didn’t like me.”

Back then, he’d been frightened, but he has since learned enough about the dragon to not fear him—though he still has no explanation as to why the dragon seemed annoyed with his presence.

He studied the map for a moment, astonished at its detail. He’d stolen into these walls one other time following the band of renegades he’d taken up as they killed their way into the castle. He’d led Alvarr directly to Morgana’s private chambers, more killing along the way. He pointed at a room on the second floor of the Dodd’s magnificent magical map.

“These were Morgana’s chambers, where she hid me as a child and took care of me.”

Mordred was suddenly warm, memories of being in her presence flooding his thoughts. Gravely ill with an infected wound inflicted by a guard’s lance, he didn’t remember much at the beginning except the sweet smell of frankincense and seeing in his haze who he’d believed were Epona and Druantia watching over him.

He’d healed after a few days, and with his head less groggy and vision clearer, he sadly realized that the two women caring for him were not sacred druid goddesses, and still recalled his thankfulness for Morgana and Gwen protecting him through to the end. So had Arthur and Merlin. Mordred shook the bitter-sweet memory away. They were enemies now. Their past good deeds won’t save them.

“Hmm,” Dodd replied. “She resided in the old king’s chambers on the third level when she was last there. This top floor was blocked off limits and I never got around to breaking into it. I wonder what’s up there.” He paused for a moment to ponder the thought and then sighed it away with a wave of his hand. “No matter. This is our destination for now: the vault.”

Mordred shifted to get a better look at the open space on the western wall of the fifth level. It was quite a distance for Morgana to have traveled to steal the Crystal of Neahtid for them and then to return with it unnoticed.

“What do we need from there? Do you think it will be guarded?”

“It wasn’t guarded when I was there and it’s full of precious treasures that rightfully belong to us. When Arthur is gone and the Old Religion restored, we’ll reclaim them all. For now, these are all we need.”

He handed Mordred one of the parchments made from wood and water, a list with more scribbles. He looked at Dodd.

“I-I can’t read words, only druid runes and symbols.”

Dodd’s face reddened, his mouth pinching into a scowl. “What have you been doing all this time with those books?”

Mordred shrugged. “Looking at the pictures. Thinking.”

Dodd clicked his tongue, snatched the parchment back, and read it aloud. “The Destiny Stone: An opal that, when exposed to flame, reveals a core of hematite. The Reacher, a copper circlet with a tourmaline stone set in the center. And the Ancient Soul’s Chest, a gold serpentine necklace with a jet stone pendant.”

He looked up, his face scrunched as he studied Mordred with a sudden concern. “These magical items have great power and I can’t do this alone. You’ll need to learn about all of them and how to use them.”

“I don’t understand. What are they for?”

Dodd pressed fingers to his forehead again, sweat droplets on his forehead, rolling down the sides of his face.

“You should lie down,” Mordred said, grabbing Dodd’s arm to ground him. “You’ve been at this for days with very little rest.”

“I need fresh fruits and vegetables to balance my constitution is all, and all that brute supplies us with are rabbits and deer! Can’t he find an orchard or garden?”

Wiping the beads of sweat from his brow with an arm, Dodd continued with a little less exuberance, answering Mordred’s question slowly.

“These are some of the treasures I remembered from the vault’s inventory scrolls. The Reacher, for example—” He pointed to the scribbles on the page, the first line. “—when placed upon the head, searches deep for lost or buried memories of the wearer.”

Mordred pictured Arthur wearing the circlet and resisting the invasion of his inner thoughts, the image sending a cold thread of dread down his back. “Does it hurt?”

“It’s generally considered benign. Most wearers use it to relive fond and loving memories, or to help recall lost or forgotten ones. I do wonder what lies in depths of Pendragon’s mind.” A darkness stirred in his grey eyes and a twisted smile came to his lips.

“And then what?” he asked, swallowing and moistening dry lips.

Dodd’s finger moved to the next line of script on the scroll. “Well, this one—the Ancient Soul’s Chest—steals and makes copies of souls, and then stores them in the jet stone.”

Mordred recoiled with step back. “Stealing souls? I don’t understand.” 

“You will. This last one.” He pointed to the third line of strange words, a tormented glaze twisting his features. “The Destiny Stone captures the last moments of life from those that have crossed over.”

Choking on his words, goosebumps rose on Mordred’s arms. “How—how does any of this help us?”

“By themselves, they have their own unique properties for one specific purpose. Used together, they become an apparatus far more treacherous and powerful that will summon terror for the king. Behold.”

Dodd produced an illusion of Arthur in a misty cloud, bound to a table and wearing a circlet with three stones. Guttural screams filled the hovel, the king’s eyes wide and feral, his body writhing in exquisite agony.

Mordred hitched a shuttering breath and cupped his mouth, speechless by the horror. “They will kill Arthur?” he asked after a moment.

“They will.” Dodd’s laugh was genuinely wicked. “But I’m not planning to eliminate Arthur just once and so quickly.”

The illusion faded, Arthur’s agonized screams echoing in Mordred’s mind. He met Dodd’s tormented gaze, a twisted grin on his lips.

“No, we’ll make him suffer as he’s never suffered before. Him and his beloved Guinevere.”

Chapter Text

Merlin surveyed Morgana’s vengeance alongside Arthur, the utter devastation of the crops in the northern fields, his heart full of sorrow for the reckless waste of their much-needed food.

Grain fields in the valley hungrily consumed by fire offered no hope of a comfortable winter. Burned and rotted fruit lay at the trunks of fire-scarred orchard trees. Vegetable gardens were roasted to an inedible crispiness. The summer harvest that so many depended upon spread ruined by a vengeful queen intent on starving the people into submission. Merlin strode into the field a few paces from Arthur, the acrid odor of decayed produce stinging his nostrils. Brittle ash crackled under his boots on the wasteland.

Picked over by scavengers, a few desperate foragers in the distance still hunted the razed fields and groves for edible morsels. A hard winter was coming for Camelot and its surrounding villages if he failed in restoring the harvest to full yield. Merlin grimaced, his throat as dry as the burnt earth around him. 

The king crouched on his haunches, sifted through the remains of wheat. “Are we doing the right thing?” he asked. 

Merlin glanced over his shoulder. A deep frown pulled at Arthur’s as a few burnt wheat heads crumbled in his glove. He returned his gaze to the fields. 

“Are we not deceiving the people to serve our objectives?” Arthur wiped the debris from his gloves. “We risk our honor by doing this.”

“Conspiring to deceive the people, even for a good cause, is wrong,” Merlin replied. “More than honor is at stake, Arthur. We could very well end up like the harvest. But we know the risks.” He just hoped the ends justified the means.

Arthur inhaled. “With the magic laws changed, there are as many opposed to it as there are that’s grateful. The kingdom is simmering with unrest, the council is divided, and civil disorder isn’t far behind.”

“No one said it would be easy, Arthur.” He could have said something a little more helpful. He tugged at the collar of his new red tunic and flexed his shoulders against the stiff fabric, so unlike the comfort and ease of movement his old, worn-in clothes had given him.

Arthur looked up at him, eyes squinting in the early morning sun. “You once told me that destinies were troublesome things.” Merlin pulled his gaze from the devastated fields to gaze at him. “I believe you now.” 

Tirelessly bombarding him with countless questions these past four days, Arthur thirst was unquenchable for information on magic, its cultures, temples and sects, rituals and history. What enchanted beasts roamed the land or could be conjured up? How many sorcerers lived in Camelot? Where are the druids’ sacred grounds? He poured over ancient tomes, soaking up the details.

Now the hour had passed and so much was unknown, the weight of Arthur’s decisions rested fully on him. He turned his focus to maps and reports, questioned his knights on defensive tactics and quizzed his advisors on rationing food supplies, preparing for the coming unrest like a commander leading his troops into battle.

Merlin could see the weight in his friend’s clear blue eyes, a burden he had once carried alone. He turned his gaze back to the wretched fields.

“I’m sorry, Arthur.” A weak reply, but it was all he could offer.

Arthur scooped up another handful of wheat heads and watched them crumble through his fingers again. 

“If what the dragon said is true,” he said after a moment, “then we need Morgana.” 

Merlin winced. It was a bitter subject to broach with Arthur, but they needed to discuss it. “It seems that way.”

Arthur stood then, tall and rigid, and pinned him with a hard stare. “I would rather die before allowing that witch to serve Albion.” 

Merlin jerked, his forehead lining with concern. “Don’t say that.”

“You know what she’s capable of. Gwen—”

“As long as Morgana is bound with Hades’ Grip, she’s no threat.” 

“I won’t let that woman near my wife again, or this kingdom.” Arthur cast cold, fierce eyes upon him. “If I ever see her again, I might run her through myself.”

Merlin sighed, his lips thin and shaking his head. “You can’t fight prophecy, Arthur. The Triple Goddess has spoken.”

“I don’t follow the Old Religion,” he rebuked.

“Arthur, whenever I tried to prevent something from happening, the actions I took only unfolded the prophecy that I didn’t want to come true. It was foretold, inevitable no matter what I did.”

“What am I supposed to do, then?” Arthur brushed off his soiled gloves then rested a hand on Excalibur, his stare intense. “Answer me.”

“There’s nothing you can do but accept it.”

“So, I pardon her? Forgive her?” Arthur had spoken over Merlin’s reply, his voice ever rising to be heard. “Welcome her with open arms and wait for dagger in my back, or Gwen’s?” 

“No! Of course not.”

“Why is she still alive, Merlin?” he snapped.

Arthur’s outburst hit Merlin as if he had physically struck him, pulling back with a jolt and searching for words, searching his king’s fiery blue eyes. Was Arthur’s compassion completely drained for Morgana? 

“I… understand your resistance, but it… it doesn’t matter now, Arthur.” Was it fear? “The fact is – she wasn’t meant to die and she is written into the future of Albion.”

“I can see no use for her. She’s a murderer and deserves the sword. There’s no place for her here.”

“I don’t trust her, either, Arthur.”

Merlin had seen Morgana’s brokenness the night before her execution, in utter despair as her long raven-black hair was shorn and she dressed in nothing more than a thin cotton shift. She had moved him in that moment and yet the next day alongside Arthur, Gwen, and the rest of the kingdom, he had stood in judgment of her and waited for her end to come. He admonished himself and Kilgharrah for being so wrong about her.

“She must be worthy of something,” he said with humility. “So the gods say.”

Arthur scoffed, heading toward the horses. “Maybe once, but not anymore. She hasn’t been for a long while.”

Understanding Arthur’s rage toward Morgana, Merlin struggled with his own hostility and compassion for her as fate’s plaything. Ashamed for standing in judgment and waiting for her execution, he soundly believed that she was meant to live.

Arthur was keeping her alive, too.

Merlin had carted a wagon full of supplies for Morgana to the king’s private lake yesterday, taking Elyan and Galahad with him upon Arthur’s insistence. Galahad’s wide eyes followed Kilgharrah’s every move, his mouth hanging open in awe. He bobbed on his toes, peppering the dragon with endless questions in an excited voice.

Elyan stood rigid, one hand fixed on his sword hilt. His gaze remained locked on the dragon, his eyes narrow and distrustful. Even when speaking to Merlin, he kept Kilgharrah in his peripheral vision at all times. When Merlin told the dragon that he didn’t have the book, Kilgharrah gripped the cart with one clawed foot without any further words and went on his way. 

“I’m going to see her,” Merlin blurted out. “Today—maybe.”

The king stopped short, his shoulders tensing. Turning to face Merlin, another storm brewed behind his eyes. “You know where she is?”

“No.” Merlin swallowed as Arthur approached him, guilt choking his dry throat. “The dragon will take me to her.”

Arthur’s eyebrows rose into his hair, his lips tightened in a frown. “You’ve ridden the dragon?”

“When times were dire, yes.”

Arthur threw his arms up. “Why not?” Rolling his eyes, he placed his hands on his hips. “Well? Why do you need to see her?”

“She, uh, she’s requested something that I haven’t been able to find. I was wondering if all her possessions were destroyed.”

Arthur’s jaw tightened, his shoulders stiff. He spun on his heel, strode a few paces away, wheat crunching under his boots. Merlin saw his relax and he turned back with eyes calm as the sea. 

“There was something,” he admitted. “I wanted so much to burn it with the rest of her things, but Gwen stopped me. She remembered seeing Morgana with it when she first arrived as her servant. Said that if Morgana kept it after all this time, it must be something to cherish.”

Merlin closed the distance between them, his eyes wide and fists clenched as anticipation swelled in his chest. “What is it?”

“A book,” Arthur said softly.

Chapter Text

Escetir’s territory, over half the size of Camelot, its centered capitol Airaldii far enough away from its borders to prepare for attack from any side. The king’s castle, Graeme Longe, was named to intimidate with its dreary stone walls, a fortress with few windows, formidably towering above the towns around it, more a symbol of fear than security. Its halls were equally bleak and dark, choked with dread and shadow for near a decade.

The throne room was equally grim, its plain glass windows draped closed to keep the sunlight out, from warming the interior. Designed to purposely assert his power, this was how Escetir’s kings preferred the atmosphere.

King Lot Rynart sat on a throne of iron and stone, covered with furs, reading a message, an iron crown on his head. His piercing dark eyes studied the letter, a strand of hair falling across his weathered face. A slow grin formed on his face.

The captain of his elite Black Guard sat adjacent him, his warrior-like physique relaxed, his calculating gaze eying him with anticipation while gently swirling wine in a fine pewter goblet. He was also married to Lot’s daughter, Gisella.

Uncle to the late King Cenred, Lot hadn’t received an invitation to Queen Guinevere’s coronation. He didn’t expect one. As an enemy, he knew a summons would never come. Yet he and the rest of Airaldii couldn’t avoid the royal announcement trumpeted from their own ramparts a few days earlier and none surprised to learn of Pendragon’s choice of queen.

He’d heard the rumors of the Pendragon affair from his own spies years ago and that news had pleased him. A servant with no experience nor royal blood was sure to destabilize his adversary’s kingdom. And just today, his spies confirmed even better news in the letter he held in chain and leather gauntlets. Though still vexed over the incident now a fortnight past, Lot managed to widen his smile and read the letter again.

“Well, sire?” Sir Bernewyn asked, placing his goblet on the small serving stand between them and then stroking his closely shaved beard. His son-in-law was a few years younger than Pendragon and sometimes just as arrogant. But he was intelligent, calculating and brave and that pleased Lot.

Lot was also firm that Bernewyn never use the term “father” when speaking to him, not even in private. Knowing that he’d never hear the word again with his own son’s voice, Lot wouldn’t hear it from no other man. His stony glare of displeasure had cut deep enough the first time Bernewyn tempted using the familial term.

“They’ve confirmed that Pendragon took refuge in Ealdor a fortnight ago.”

The bold incursion bristled under Lot’s skin. He carefully closed the scroll and rose from the throne, his height imposing and shoulders broad. Two strides brought him before the iron-grated fire by the throne, the heat warming his skin, warming his chain mail and trousers. He wrapped his arms behind his back, the scroll still in hand.

“The soldiers that crossed the border terrorized the villagers, setting fires, destroying property. No deaths.”

He rounded the fire pit slowly and his gaze mesmerized by the dance of the flames. Silver streaked dark brown hair that fell past his shoulders and spotted his carefully groomed beard and mustache. Just under two meters tall—a favorable characteristic of Rynart men—he towered over most, and as natural as that had always been, it pleased him that Bernewyn, and nearly everyone else, had to look up to meet his eyes.

“Early reports claim the attack was led by Pendragon’s uncle and Southron mercenaries,” Bernewyn said, his blue eyes tracking the king’s slow circle of the pit. “And this did occur under Morgana’s rule—not Arthur’s.”

Few people had the guts to challenge Lot – Bernewyn was one of them, another agreeable trait for the man who married his daughter – as long as he knew well to keep his place.

“A trivial distinction,” Lot snarled without looking away from the flames. “Still a Pendragon.”

“My lord liege, all the villagers claimed that Arthur convinced most of them to take shelter in the nearby caves, saving many lives. Only a few remained behind and couldn’t contain the many fires that were set.”

Bernewyn continued to annoyingly advocate for his enemy, deliberating through the circumstances that Pendragon had probably also reasoned out.

“That matters little in the scheme of things,” Lot said, not persuaded. “Pendragon violated the treaty and I’m going to deprive Camelot because of it.”

“Well then,” he said, finally ceasing his defense. “Let us not forget that tongues wagged about Pendragon defending Ealdor against Kenan a few years back. They were also our citizens.”

“That warlord and his small band of brigands was a nuisance, but I haven’t. My nephew cared very little for the border villages—only for their taxes, but that should not have stopped him from demanding recompense from Uther when his son broke treaty then.”

Exiled from Airaldii by his brother, King Gideon, before Cenred came to power, Lot still had eyes and ears telling him the happenings in court from the day he left. Gideon was a fool. Cenred, a privileged and volatile boy all his life, was unpredictable, despite the many hours Lot had spent with him to instill some sense of honor. Their relationship had never been warm.

“What a fool he turned out to be, too.”

Lot pulled his eyes away from the flames, glanced at two white banners hanging high behind his throne, the proud emblem of a serpent writhing on each. A serpent can strangle a dragon, he whispered in his heart, staring hard at them that they seemed to come to life and slither upon the cloth. Or drown it in deep waters.

“It’s time Pendragon answered for violating our treaty.”

“No one would dispute your grievances against Camelot, my liege.”

Bernewyn joined him by the fire pit and spread his hands above it, the crackle of wood conceding to flame and ash, filling the silence.

Lot’s thoughts drifted to Cyneheard Wymane, a smaller castle southeast of the Feorre mountain range. Banished eight years ago with his family, they traveled two arduous weeks to the luxurious estate, angry and grieved all the same. Along with a small retinue of courtiers and servants, they’d been confined to the ample royal grounds. Guards that had once been under their command now kept them imprisoned that detracted from the beauty and freedom of the estate.

Falsely accused of plotting against his distrustful king-brother and then exiled, those had been bitter years for a soldier of his caliber—the kingdom he loved snatched from his reach and his reputation spoiled. Retaining the privilege of royalty, the luxury of a home, and the comfort of family, he was still imprisoned and it stung nonetheless.

Comfort of family.

The scroll crinkled in Lot’s crushing grip, an ache burning to his depths. In that gilded cage, his son, Johan, had succumbed to diphtheria. Eleanor, his wife, wilted like a flower until she was gone not long after. Gisella was the only precious thing left to him.

Everything dies.

The king’s eyes drifted down to the high chair of Escetir. His rigid throne crouched on the raised dais like a great iron beast. Thick wolf hides, killed by him during his time at Cyneheard Wymane, served as a cushion for him. Until word came of Cenred’s death, he’d wondered if he would ever see his beloved Airaldii and the great throne again.

“That coward.” Bernewyn’s scoff dragged Lot’s thoughts out of memories and back into the present. “Running from a girl.”

Whatever Bernewyn had been saying coalesced into meaning and Lot turned to his son-in-law, shifting his stance, creasing his thick brows.

“Do you not recall Cenred’s alliance with Morgause?” he asked, his deep voice filling the empty hall and resonating with reproof. “He practically handed the kingdom to that ‘girl’.”

Lot's jaw tightened as he smacked the scroll against his hand, heat rising in his cheeks. He pointed the scroll at Bernewyn.

“That ‘girl’ bewitched and murdered my nephew, cursed our army of thousands, and then overthrew another great kingdom with her so-called Immortal Army. So do not be deceived, boy. Women can be just as ruthless as men and Morgause's sister is no different. Lady Morgana is a powerful sorceress not to be underestimated. That ‘girl’ took Camelot twice.”

The captain, as he’d expected, held his own. “And lost it twice.”

“Indeed,” Lot scowled, taking a deep breath. “It’s hard to keep a thing taken by force if you don’t have the fortitude to hold it. She did us a favor.”

“King Arthur has powerful allies, sire.”

The parchment crinkled again as Lot ground his teeth, setting his jaw. “So do we, but we can always use more. Send scouts to search for Morgana Pendragon. I would like a word with her. Make sure they’re well-armed. Summon the magician to go with them just to be sure.”

“You believe the reports about the Great Dragon?”

“I have no reason not to. But she’s an enemy of Camelot as well—perhaps we can work together.”

“I’ll ensure your orders are followed to the letter, sire.”

Orders. He’d been king for only two short years and commanding others came naturally to him. But his ascension came with a weak throne: he had no army, dwindled resources, and a mostly depleted treasury—a perfect start for a ruinous reign, invasion from enemies from without, or a coup from enemies within.

Airaldii was vulnerable and he recognized his inexperience as a sovereign. He was a military man aware of his own weaknesses. He’d intentionally surrounded himself with men of quality; men who were as fiercely protective of Escetir as he was, those with a backbone enough to help raise his kingdom from its knees.

The king seated himself on the throne again. “Summon a scribe. We’ll dispatch an emissary to Camelot with the facts and my demands.” Draping his arms on the armrests, the corner of Lot's mouth twitched upward in a half smile. “Pendragon is dealing with something different now, Berne.”

“What will you demand for recompense?”

“Some gold and what is rightfully mine.”

“The Forest of Ascetir,” Bernewyn stated.

“Escetir Forest,” Lot corrected almost with a growl.

He’d despised the Pendragons ever since the treaty that was struck between King Gideon and King Uther over a decade ago that had cost them Escetir Forest. It was renamed The Forest of Ascetir by the Pendragons upon the sealing of the accord and this had infuriated Lot even more.

He had many fond memories of that forest: playing in it as a small lad, hunting in it as young boy, marching through it as a squire. He’d even kissed a girl for the first time in those woods. What made it more strategic was that Escetir Forest had once extended their borders to the back door of Camelot proper. Upon the signing of the treaty a decade ago, the arm of their territory had been severed, decreasing their enemy’s reach towards them. It was an ill-conceived treaty and Lot savored the opportunity to take it back.

“Ten thousand pieces of gold and Escetir Forest. Nothing less.”

Bernewyn shook his head. “Audacious, Lot. Pendragon will refuse.”

Lot huffed with a smile. “If he does, he tempts war and Camelot is barely recovered from their battle with Morgana and King Helios. Trust me, Berne. He’ll return every parcel of that forest, and Escetir will once again become the territory of my kingdom.”

Chapter Text

“A book,” Arthur said, striding toward the horses near the devastated fields. “A book on manners.” His lips curled into a soft smile.

He pictured a young Morgana with unruly black hair, grinning mischievously as she dared him to sneak extra honey cakes from the kitchens. He stole it, hand trembling, grabbing one for her, too. They’d snickered through the entire incident as they hid beneath one of the stairwells and ate the cates, terrified and thrilled at the same time. That was a long time ago, before darkness and betrayal strained their childhood bond.

“Manners?” Merlin squeaked, stumbling on the uneven ground. Arthur caught his arm, steadied him gently. He nodded with gratitude, Arthur flicking his head slightly, unaccustomed to openly showing his deep care for Merlin.

“Um,” Merlin said, resuming their walk to the horses, looking as awkward as Arthur felt. They resumed their walk “Do you know why she values it?”

“Lady Vivienne wrote it especially for her.” Sadness laced his words. He wondered what such a treasure from his mother would have meant to him. “Inside the margins are handwritten, personal messages to Morgana.”

“Lady Vivienne of Tintagel.” Merlin blew air threw his lips. “That is something special.”

“Morgana was clutching it when she arrived here for the first time Lord Gorlois’ death. I teased her incessantly over it. Told her that I didn’t think she even knew how to read since she had the manners of a ferret.” He chuckled. “I was eight years old. She was ten.”

Arthur paused, the sounds around them filling the silence: a horse’s neigh, a crow’s caw, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. He looked at Merlin, his emotions a mixture of pain and warmth.

“She told me that it was given to her by Gorlois years after Lady Vivienne died. It was one of the few connections she had to her mother … more than I’ve ever had to mine.”

Merlin had been blessed with the love of a mother his entire life; he’d never known his, had never filled that space that belonged especially to mothers. Morgana had lost Vivienne after only two meager years. It was no wonder he saw the value of Morgana’s treasure even if only a moment ago he’d wanted to kill her.

Merlin’s face softened as he laid a gentle hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “You have mementos from her now.”

Some of Queen Ygraine’s effects were recovered in the abandoned royal apartments that he and Gwen now occupied, almost afraid to open the dusty chest locked away. It was almost like the thrill of stealing the honey cakes for him and Morgana. He’d opened it alone, not even Merlin was present.

Tears streaked his cheeks as he carefully removed the objects: an ivory comb, a silver hand mirror, an old doll, a few books, and an embroidered gown, sentimental things that hinted at who she was. The small treasure trove still brought him a little closer to the mother he never knew and always yearned for.

“Yes, I suppose.” Shuffling his feet, shoulders slumped slightly, his usual confident posture faltering into a sense of loss.

“Do you …” His voice was almost a whisper, his gaze angled downwards and not quite meeting Merlin’s eyes. “That woman we saw in Morgause’s lair – do you think she was my mother?”

His question hung in the air, tinged with barely restrained longing. Years ago, Morgause had conjured his mother from the Vale, her only purpose to reveal the secret of his birth long since buried and forbidden to be spoken of. That Uther was responsible for her death because of a pact he’d made with Nimueh. To sow discord between them. Fury had consumed him that day, his blade one stroke from killing his father.

"Arthur..." he began, his tone soft. He placed another supportive hand on Arthur's shoulder. "I cannot imagine how meaningful it was for you to see her, if only for a moment."

Arthur's lowered gaze, but Merlin ducked his head to meet his, offering an understanding smile. "Yes, I truly believe that was your mother you saw that day. Her love for you was bright as the sun."

His grip tightened, giving him a reassuring squeeze. "No magic could ever replicate a mother's love so purely. What you felt in your heart tells you the truth – that was Queen Ygraine."

The strands of pearls woven in Ygraine's coifed blonde hair and a pale blue gown as beautiful as the queen flooded his thoughts. Rushing into his longing arms was more than he could ever wish for and he didn't want to let go.

"She will always be with you, Arthur." Merlin's voice radiated gentle optimism, leaving no room for doubt or second-guessing. "Hold onto that feeling of the wholeness she gave you, brief though it was. Let it give you strength, and know that you carry her love wherever you go."

Merlin smiled kindly, providing him some measure of comfort and closure. He'd carried tormented guilt for believing he caused his mother's death all his life. Learning that it was Uther's selfishness and deal with Nimueh that had sealed Ygraine's fate. He shook away the memories, no longer wanting to experience the pain and anguish that had unfolded that day.

“Well,” he said softly. “At least I was able to see her once. To hold her.”

Merlin bobbed his head. “There’s nothing more precious than that. I assure you.”

Arthur nodded. “It’s all right, then,” he said, sighing away the moment to let the king reemerge.

-----------------

They returned to the castle saying little to each other. After Arthur had grudgingly handed over the book, Merlin wrestled with one question: Should he look at its contents? He pondered it all the way to the king’s lake, where he would summon the dragon to take him to Morgana. Having tethered the horse, he placed his hand in his pocket. Feeling strangely reassured by the soft leather covering of the well-preserved book, he pulled it from his pocket. He’d call for the dragon in a moment.

It was a small, innocuous thing the size of a pamphlet, no embossed lettering or family crest to draw attention or decorative images to entice the eye. It was an unimpressive, brown leather-bound book.

His fingers tingled as they grasped the worn leather cover. A battle raged within him, his curiosity flaring hotly, urging him to peek inside, to learn Morgana’s secrets. Yet his conscience pushed back screaming that this book was deeply personal, not meant for prying eyes.

Still, should he open it? The temptation to know exploded within him. He flipped the cover open and read the title page.

“The Essentials of Etiquette for Our Young Maiden of Tintagel by Lady Vivienne La Fay.”

It felt like an invasion, an unveiling of secrets not meant for his eyes. He bit his lip, hesitating, but then turned the page.

“‘For my dearest, Morgana. Many will offer you advice in your lifetime: accept it with grace and prudence. May these few words from my heart find a place in yours and lead you to happiness and success. From your loving mother in the year of our Lord six hundred and seventy.’”

He didn’t have to think hard about that date, and his heart constricted with sorrowful realization. “Morgana was born that year,” he said softly.

Carefully paging through the book, his heart pounded looking at the simple, yet beautifully colored imagery bursting from the inside of its pages. Flowers, butterflies, and other images that would delight a child were paired with elegant script on etiquette for young ladies. He glimpsed the handwritten notes in the margins, some of the script not as polished as others.

“These notes were written by Morgana,” he told himself, “Private, longing messages for her deceased mother and father.”

With a shaky exhale, he snapped the book shut, his face reddening, his heart aching from a child’s pain written on pages that no one else should read. How alone she must have felt, an orphan in a strange new home.

Tears blur his vision. Morgana was just as fragile as the next person and sometimes he forgot that she hadn’t always been evil. She was misguided. Her gaunt face and eyes sunken with dark circles the day before her execution flashed in his mind. He could feel her despair. He imagined the little girl who wrote those notes sitting on that stool getting her hair sheared off, the book clutched in her tiny hands, tears streaming down her cheeks. He’d never realized how heavily this loss weighed on Morgana, how it shaped her.

Recalling his words spoken to Arthur earlier today, that she must be worthy of something so say the gods. How he truly believed them now.

And although she had broken his trust, he knew that could be reforged with time, if it ever came at all. She has value, he thought.

“She isn’t lost entirely,” he said to himself, cementing his new perspective. “She has value.”

Chapter Text

Morgana scanned the provisions she’d arranged on the stone floor, laid out and ordered as best she could in the shallow cave. Her living space had to be share with dragons., only a hundred meters deep from the cave entrance and half as wide. Kilgharrah usually nested outside near the entrance, ever watchful, in meditation, or mentoring Aithusa.

He’d never shown interest in conversing with her and when they did, it usually ended in bitter confrontation. Today, he’d flown off somewhere the moment she rose from another fitful night of sleep to begin her dull, daily routine passing time away. Hopelessness abounded. If it had not been for the company of the baby dragon, the bleakness of her isolation would drive her mad.

She glanced at the white baby dragon, curled beside the fire several meters from her cot, and she smiled, her eyes softening. Aithusa was fond of her and nestled her tiny head against Morgana sometimes, purring as a young dragon should when she was happy.

The tiny creature comforted her, too, instilling in her something akin to belonging, maybe even love. It’d been a long time since she’d cared for something, and after some of the horrible things Kilgharrah had said about her half-sister, she was starting to doubt now whether her affection for Morgause had ever been real. She fidgeted the bracelet on her wrist when her stomach rumbled, jarring any further notions of love from her thoughts. She looked over her supplies again.

The first cart of provisions sent by Camelot had only essentials, including a small bevy of caged doves for eating. She had no idea how to prepare fowl for consumption without magic and Kilgharrah left it to her to figure it out. Though he did lend his fire to cook them, he laughed when she finally figured out to properly pluck the feathers before roasting them on the spit.

She settled for the hard cheese and apple for breakfast. Retrieving the paring knife, the food, and a water skin, she sat on the cot that had come with the supplies, the wool blanket she used for covering tossed aside. Cutting into the fruit, she wondered how long Arthur would provide for her. Forever was unlikely, but not so her punishment. What did the Triple Goddess want of her? What must she do as penance while imprisoned on an isolated mountain peak?

Morgana wiped apple juice that trickled down her chin with the hem of her apron. She’d been wearing only a shift when the dragon had rescued her from the executioner’s block. The dingy wool blanket he must have stolen from who-knew-where was the only other garment she’d had, and she was sure the dragon took pleasure in her discomfort those first miserable days.

The peasant clothes and shoes also included were comfortable, less confining than her noble-class finery, but degrees lower than her fashionable tastes. The patched shawl was a warm relief for her head, her scalp more exposed to the cold air of the mountain top.

A comb and brush were also packed with the goods and just looking at them had ignited her fury. With a piteous roar, she’d hurled the grooming pair into a dark patch of the cave and wailed atop her meager possessions. She’d frightened Aithusa that day, the little dragon scampering over to her parent for comfort.

Kilgharrah though, had snickered with delight, the low rumble of his spiteful glee heard even through her heaving sobs. She sliced the apple and bit into the piece, her eyes slipping to the comb and brush still in the unceremonious spot where she’d thrown them in emotional despair a week ago.

Kilgharrah’s absence was a small blessing for her, despite the loneliness. The distrust and hatred of each other kept them on opposite sides of the camp. He despised her and she abhorred him. He blamed her for their predicament and had made it clear that his rescue of her was by no means an act of kindness, mercy, or allegiance on his part.

You are the only reason keeping Albion from rising.

He minced no words, and his cruel assertions against Morgause troubled her also, unveiling doubting questions about their sisterly relationship. His accusations about their misuse of power planted seeds of skepticism that now invaded her dreams, stirring uncertainty about her very existence.

She cut another piece of apple and chewed it, the crunch stirring the caged doves under the blanket. She was alive, but to what end? To fade into obscurity alone and cursed while Arthur and Gwen ascended into glory? Death would be better than living with that knowledge. But she was alive, and aided by her enemies to remain so, thanks be to the goddess.

It didn’t help that Kilgharrah hadn’t returned with her mother’s gift when he’d brought the second load of supplies. She was desperate for it, but feared that Arthur and Gwen had likely destroyed it and any other remaining remnants of her. That was what she’d tried to do to Gwen’s belongings when she’d taken over the castle. The only thing she’d treasured more than herself was that book. It would have brought another kind of comfort to her that surpassed the life-sustaining supplies.

Morgana finished her meal, discarding the core in the fire pit and leaving the knife on the cot. She strode to the entrance, staying closer to one side as she always did because Kilgharrah usually nested on the other side and partially blocking the opening; he wasn’t there today.

She could hear the moan of the wind before reaching the mouth, its constant song of isolation dominant in the lingering silence. The sky was clear above the ring of clouds hugging jagged mountain peaks. Gusts of crisp air bit into her. Hugging herself, she started the return to the warmer insides only to see Kilgharrah in the distance, soaring across the skies of their desolation.

She grimaced, in no mood for his acerbic countenance. He’d just make the day turn even sourer.

Morgana blinked. As he drew closer, she could see a rider on his back. Suddenly growing cold, she shivered.

“Merlin.”

Her lips trembled; her heart pounded in her chest. He’d invaded her dreams, too. Recurring, conflicting nightmares that made no sense.

In one dream, she was in his arms and they kissed with a desire she’d never felt. In another, he slew her with that fancy sword Arthur had wielded when he snatched Camelot from her.

Both outcomes were hellish, repulsive. Surely not visions, but warnings. Her pulse spiked and she backed farther into the shadows. Was Merlin coming to kill her now? She couldn’t stop him. Kilgharrah wouldn’t stop him. She had hoped to never lay eyes on him again.

She darted inside and desperately searched for a weapon, but all she laid eyes on that could do any damage was the paring knife, and it wouldn’t do much harm. She prowled with wide eyes, trapped; no magic, no allies, and nowhere to run. She dashed for the paring knife on the cot. Anything was better than nothing. Perhaps, she’d take an eye before he ended her.

Morgana crept toward the entrance, staying close to the cave walls and in the shadows as best she could. Kilgharrah’s thick neck and great torso shielded the rider from view as his great hind legs touched ground and massive wings collapsed into his sides when he came to rest.

Merlin. Her mouth deepened into sneer as she glared at them.

The creature had carried her in his clawed foot like a sack of grain. With Merlin, his dragon lord, he gave the privilege of riding him. Her enemy jumped the short distance and landed steadily on his feet.

“Thank you,” he apparently said to the dragon.

The knife slipped from her grasp and clinked inertly on the stone ground, for she could swear that Kilgharrah bowed his head to the man. Swallowing, she was at their mercy.

She watched him intently as he glanced curiously around her strange prison. Vivid memories of his innocent, ever-presence flooded her thoughts again.

Each time something went right for the oppressed, Merlin had been there. When something went wrong for the wicked, unarmed Merlin was not far away from the scene. It was as if every unexplained event that caused her to fail came into focus. Morgana quaked with fury, grinding her teeth.

“I was a fool. Made to look inept.”

At every turn, Merlin had been two paces ahead of her, there to thwart her plans. Her lips thinned into a deep frown and her jaw hurt from grinding her teeth so fiercely. How could she not have seen it?

Aithusa squawked happily behind her, the lithe creature bouncing past her and out of the cave, her thin wings flapping wildly and giving her lift along the way. She trilled with delight approaching Merlin.

Resentment simmered within Morgana as she watched Aithusa eagerly greet him. Of course the young dragon would recognize Merlin and not fear him. He was her dragon lord, too.

Merlin laughed as he petted her gently, speaking to her as if the poor thing could speak back to him. Morgana’s fists balled as tight as her clenched teeth, her eyes burning in their sockets as her jealousy boiled over. Still, she couldn’t move, glued to the spot that could very well be the last place she’d stand on earth.

She noticed Merlin’s bright smile, his eyes tender as he nurtured the creature with his kindness, but his gentleness did not move her. She knew that, while he was capable of extreme compassion, he was also capable of extreme violence, proving that he was as dangerous as he was deceptive.

Her eyes wandered to his clothes. They were different, much finer than what he used to wear; and they suited him. Things had truly changed for the servant.

How he’d deceived them all. What would Arthur do, she wondered, if he found out what she knew about his manservant?

Merlin glanced away from the baby dragon and looked directly at her standing inside the cave, near the mouth of it. Her breath hitched; she lifted her chin, holding his gaze and standing firm.

After the briefest pause, he came toward her. She noticed that even his walk was different, confident and regal, an arrogant combination she’d seen before. His eyes swept over her and she pulled her shoulders straighter. She felt as plain and simple as she appeared, degrees below her once noble station, but she still had her dignity—and a paring knife at her feet.

His eyes glistened. He wore a small smile. “Hello, Morgana.”

Chapter Text

Merlin’s smile waned as he studied Morgana, her shorn, unkempt hair, fair skin draped in peasant clothing, no glamor highlighting the brooding blue eyes glaring back at him. How different this image was from the powerful sorceress and queen who had brought Camelot to its knees.

In his fine clothes and ascension in status, he now stood equal to the woman Fate had destined as his mortal enemy. The one foretold to defeat Arthur had been defeated instead. Destiny was a fickle mistress.

Part of Merlin was grateful her threat had been contained. But seeing Morgana diminished like this brought him no joy or vindication. Only uncertainty of how to mend their fractured paths.

He yearned to reach out, offer kindness, rebuild what was lost. But acrimony and resentment still simmered behind her eyes. She saw an enemy where once had been friendship. Could that trust ever be restored?

Merlin’s eyes flitted to her head. She touched her hair, her cheeks flushing.

She removed the shawl from around her shoulders. Covering her head, she tied a loose knot, the ends falling behind her shoulders. Her arms now exposed, the Hades’ Grip glistened in the light of day on Morgana’s wrist.

Merlin’s gaze floated to the bracelet, its power enduring, true to its penalty nature if any magic was used while wearing it. The sight of dried blood on twisted spikes made him involuntarily clench his fist.

He’d witnessed Arthur seal that merciless binding with his lifeblood, condemning Morgana to have her magic sealed away, perhaps indefinitely. At the time, Merlin agreed such ruthlessness was necessary to contain her threat.

Now, the bracelet seemed only to cause Morgana more pain on top of her punishment. Looking at its cruel embrace, part of Merlin wondered if there was another way, if she could be turned from animosity and made to see the goodness in herself and her friends again.

But he also knew the cost of her unchecked power. Could she ever be trusted to walk freely as a sorceress once more? The Hades’ Grip offered no easy answers, only thorny truths.

“You deceived everyone,” Morgana said, drawing his focus. “You have magic. Does Arthur know?”

Merlin flushed, nodded once. “He does.”

Morgana’s voiced pitched in disbelief. “And you’re still alive?”

“Much has changed, Morgana.” He searched her face. “I know it may be hard to believe, but I never wanted any of this to happen.”

“Empty words, especially from you.” She gestured sharply at the binding on her wrist. “Is this what you wanted for me?”

Merlin’s throat tightened at the rebuke. He opened his mouth but found no adequate response. How could he explain the impossible choices between her freedom and the kingdom’s safety? That even now, he grieved to see her bright spirit trapped and diminished?

“I’ve always cared,” he insisted, though the words rang hollow even to himself. “Until you turned against us.”

“Lies,” she spat. “You wanted me dead. Have you come to finish what Arthur couldn’t?”

Merlin recoiled, stunned by the accusation. “No, I—”

She brushed past him, stepping out of the cave and into the brisk air. “What do you want, Merlin?”

“I wanted to give you this,” he said, withdrawing the book from his tunic as he followed her.

Her eyes filled with involuntary tears as she recognized it. Reaching out her hands, she took the leather-bound treasure, the one link left to her distant mother.

“Thank you,” she whispered. For a moment the hostile mask fell away, revealing the vulnerable girl beneath.

Merlin pressed on carefully, hoping this crack in her armor was a chance for her to see the dawn of Albion’s rise. “Arthur and Gwen married. She will be crowned queen soon.”

Morgana’s face shuttered at the news. Merlin watched regret and resignation war across her features before she masked them. Gripping the book to her chest, she turned and paced in brooding silence.

Merlin hesitated, then steeled his nerve. “There’s more, Morgana.” He had one last truth to reveal that few knew, his final bid to regain her trust. Surely she would understand once she was told?

Morgana glanced back. “Let me guess - you’re a dragonlord, too?”

He gave a solemn chuckle. “I suppose that couldn’t be missed.”

She lifted her chin, not amused. “You killed Agravaine. But war makes killers of us all.”

“This war brought only loss to innocents, Morgana.” Merlin met her gaze. “Can we not seek a better path?”

Her lip curled into a sneer. “Lecturing me, Merlin?”

“There must be peace between us,” he gently urged. “Albion needs you.”

“As your pawn?” Morgana hissed, startling him momentarily.

He searched her face for any glimmer of the friend she had been. But her eyes were cold, distrustful. Kilgharrah’s warnings rang in Merlin’s mind, yet he pushed onwards.

“This cave can’t be your destiny. You still have a part to play.”

“I don’t think so.”

Merlin’s heart sank at her indifferent tone. Yet, he still had one last hope, one final secret he would unveil in hopes to regain her trust.

Taking a deep breath, his shoulders back, Merlin steadied himself. With the weight of secrecy lifted by Arthur, he was free to fully explore the depths of his powers. Maxwell was teaching him an art that Merlin innately knew he’d already possessed. Magic tingled inside him, warming him.

“You have searched long for one with a particular name.” His voice commanding, he stared at her intently. “One the druids speak of in reverence.”

Her brows drew together, confused yet attentive. Merlin pressed on.

“Some call him the Beginning and the End.” He took a step toward her, planting his feet apart with assurance. “He’s known by many names as a great sorcerer. He is one of legends.”

Comprehension crept across Morgana’s face, her lips twitching. “No.”

Merlin peered into her eyes, confidence growing in him, his magic ready to burst free. “I am the one you seek, Morgana.”

“You can’t be.” She shrank from him, her expression twisted with distress.

Merlin held her gaze steadily. “I am Emrys.”

His voice rang with authority, his eyes blazing gold and a slight, knowing smile on his lips as the old and young Emrys flashed before her.

Her lips parted in a silent gasp, color draining from her face. She swayed slightly as if her legs had turned to water. He watched her processed his words, fear, shock, and rage brewing in her eyes before suddenly focusing on him.

She quickly strode forward, striking him across the face with her palm. The sound rang out sharply, but he did not retaliate.

“The great deceiver,” Morgana hissed. Her hands were shaking and she looked on the verge of tears. “Leave me.”

Merlin’s cheek stung, but he held her furious gaze. “I only ever wanted to help you.”

Another blow snapped his head back. In his peripherals, he saw Aithusa cower and Kilgharrah stir in anger.

“You’re a liar,” Morgana snarled.

Merlin stood firm, his voice calm. “Please listen. Magic is free now, things are changing...”

But Morgana was beyond hearing, circling him like a predator. “I’m supposed to trust Arthur? He’s likely to round us all up and execute us, just like Uther did countless times. He’s no better than father.”

“Do you really believe that?”

She stopped a few paces from him, and threw daggers with her eyes. “Yes!” she shouted. “As long as I’m bound with this—” she snapped up her arm in Hades’ Grip. “—I have no reason to believe anything less.”

Speechless, his Adam’s Apple bobbed in his throat. He sighed, casting his gaze upon a mountain peak.

“Will he free me from this punishment?” she asked with calm.

Hesitant knowing Arthur's disdain for her, he could only reply truthfully. “It may take time to rebuild his trust.”

“Then nothing has changed for me.” She started her prowl again.

“That’s not true, Morgana.” He took a pensive step toward her and she stopped to look at him. “The Triple Goddess spared you for a reason. All we know is that you have a part in the future of our kingdom.”

“We shall see, Merlin.” Her tone was icy, penetrating his skin.

“You must have faith,” he said softly, assuring her to believe him. “Your time is not yet over.”

She scowled in silence, acrimony oozing from her.

Resigned to his failure, but desiring to do more for her, he glanced at her shawl tied to her head. Lifting a hand, his magic awakening, he hoped that restoring her shorn hair to luxurious locks would offer one small comfort.

But Morgana drew back from his touch. “No. You may not. It’s fitting for the circumstance.”

Her rejection stung and Merlin simply let his hand fall as she shouldered past him, her book pressed to her chest and returned inside the cave, sparing neither Kilgharrah nor Aithusa another glance.

His lips drew thin. They were still far from healing.

With a heavy heart, he walked back to Kilgharrah in the brisk wind, his olive branch turned to ashes.

The flap of the dragon’s wings echoed Merlin’s bitter disappointment, his confidence slipping into the nether. He had tried, yet their two paths remained painfully diverged. Would they ever come together again as allies? As friends?

What did time hold for their opposing, yet entwined fates?

Chapter Text

The clink of their blades was measured between each strike. Where Gwen’s footwork was cautious, Isolde’s was deliberate and practiced. The lush green training field, illuminated by braziers and a few lit torches on spikes, was empty this time of evening. An occasional passerby would slow and cast curious glances their way.

Fredrick patrolled close to the outer fortress walls, watching them from the clearest vantage. Her personal guard, vigilant and ever protective, was never too far from her. The air of tension between him and Arthur had dissipated and Gwen was happy for that, for he was like a father to her.

“Swing high,” Isolde instructed after a parry with her blunted sword.

Women had a right to defend themselves in the art of swordplay; she’d wielded steel in life-or-death situations many times, had practiced with Arthur at an abandoned mill-house. His training had helped to protect herself through her exile, but it wasn’t until her encounter with Morgana that she realized she needed to be even better. Her emotions had gotten the best of her then and she’d almost lost her head.

Swing left. Swing right. High counter cut. Parry. Low.

“Good,” said Isolde, swinging low to block the counter cut. “Your footwork needs improvement, though. Step lightly, Gwen. Don’t force your movements.”

Gwen tensed. Parry. Strike. “Arthur calls it sloppy footwork.”

Parry. Block. Seeing an opening, she shoved Isolde back with her shoulder and full body weight. Isolde slid smoothly to a stop, losing neither balance, sword, nor poise.

“Well done,” Isolde said. “That’s an effective tactic that may buy you some time, but that’s Arthur’s style.” They both laughed and then relaxed their stances, dropping their practice swords point down. “Brute force won’t work if your opponent is two or three times your size. Here’s what I would do with an opening like that. Attack.”

Gwen performed a few offensive moves, slowly increasing the intensity of her swings and motions. Isolde defended with ease, using her footwork to evade rather than parry. Feinting left, she side-stepped Gwen’s over-extend thrust and slapped the flat of her blade against Gwen’s hamstring.

“You’re down,” said Isolde. “Leaving me open for a kill.” She pointed the tip of the sword at Gwen’s rib cage near the heart. “I could skewer you as well had I a dagger in my other hand. Here’s a vulnerable spot, too.”

She quickly repositioned the sword dangerously close to Gwen’s neck, her arm steady and eyes piercing, daring Gwen to move.

“Don’t give your opponent a chance to strike back. If you have a true and lethal mark, take it.”

“In that case, I yield,” Gwen said. From her periphery, Fredrick’s posture had tensed, but he didn’t advance any closer to them. Isolde stood fast, keeping her at bay.

Gwen considered yanking Isolde’s long, golden braid in return for her intimidation tactic, but instead simply nodded before Isolde backed up and took a defensive position. She glanced at her bodyguard, who had already returned to his patrolling.

“Okay,” Isolde said. “Now, your turn.”

They executed a few maneuvers and various forms of final blows. By the end of the session, Gwen’s confidence to incapacitate an opponent was high. But she was tired and growing hungry.

“I truly appreciate practicing with you,” she said during a short respite. “It’s invigorating. Training with Arthur was beneficial, but there were times when concentration on the sword had been far from our thoughts.”

“You were both vulnerable then. A perfect opening to take advantage.”

Gwen smiled. With her new trainer, there were no gray areas, no distractions.

“I did once,” she said, heat rushing to her face. “I’d slipped and fallen. He helped me up, pulled me close to him, staring at me with the warmest eyes I’d ever seen. Oh, how I wanted to kiss him, Isolde. Instead, I slide my sword between us, the point right under his chin.”

“Good for you,” Isolde said with a genuine smile. She lifted her sword. “Now, en garde.”

Their blades clashed again as they danced around each other, sweat pooling above Gwen’s lip and down her temples.

“You never gave up hope,” Isolde said during a parry, sparring more furiously. “A once-exiled commoner, now queen of Camelot.”

Distracted by her words, Gwen cut too high and left herself open. Isolde shoved her with full body weight imitating Gwen’s earlier move.

She crashed hard on her back, grunting on impact with the ground. She slammed both her fists down, her chest heaving and cheeks burning.

Isolde stared warily at Fredrick as he strode towards them. “Is he always that jumpy?”

Gwen followed her gaze. Casting a stern glare from her fallen position halted his steps. He hesitated, his lips thinned, and then backed away.

“You did that on purpose,” Gwen groaned, coming up on her elbows, dismissing Isolde’s question.

“I said it was effective,” she said, smiling mischievously. “You must think swiftly; use all your weapons.” Isolde reached for her and pulled her to her feet.

Next time, Gwen thought. I will yank your lovely hair. She brushed grass petals from her back side and legs

“How are you?” Isolde asked, watching her warily.

“I’m fine.” Gwen said, straightening her buck-skinned tunic. “My pride is bruised, but I’ll recover.” She scooped up her sword. “Five-minute respite?”

“Sure.” They sat next to their sack of gear, Gwen on a bench, Isolde on the grassy ground, one knee propped up. They removed their gloves and then sipped water from their skins.

“You seem happy, Gwen.” Isolde swiped the back of her hand across her mouth, then corked the water skin. “Are you?”

Gwen fiddled with the leather skin before corking it, avoiding eye contact with Isolde. Her life was like a tempest, fast and furious and churning the turmoil inside her. She would not share her fears.

“I never thought anything would become of it because of our stations. No matter how much we loved each other, we knew that the world would never accept us. But it has, hasn’t it?”

“Love finds a way,” Isolde said gently.

“He promised me the world, and now he’s given it to me. He is my husband and I’m his wife.”

“You were destined to be together.”

Gwen exhaled deeply and smiled, releasing tension from her knotted muscles. It warmed her to speak of Arthur, her love for him as constant as the stars. She adored him. But he couldn’t solve her problems. Gwen bit into her lower lip, her smile faded.

“What’s wrong?” Isolde asked.

She put the handkerchief away, rifled around the sack, again evading Isolde’s gaze. “I never said anything was wrong.”

“Your expression just said that something was.”

Gwen clenched her jaw, annoyance tingling her nerves. Isolde stared at her, thick eyebrows raised with expectation.

Gwen thinned her lips and corked her waterskin. Shoulders relaxing, she realized that it was good to have a friend challenge her assumptions again.

“I wanted to be Arthur's wife more than be his queen. I never imagined what it meant to be both. After we married, it finally struck me that I had a great responsibility to respect this position of authority. As frightened as I am as the ‘peasant queen’, all eyes are upon me, waiting for any misstep.” Now keenly aware, she knew that some of her subjects circled like hungry vultures to pick over her left-over carcass, after the wolves had ripped her apart and devoured her flesh.

Yet, during their secret courtship, Arthur allowed her to study the books and scrolls he’d studied. Two years in the library exposed her to a bigger world: literature, art, mathematics, history, farming, infrastructure, even politics. She was fascinated with the subjects and absorbed as much knowledge as she could, even asking Arthur questions about something she learned every now and again. In his way, Gwen now realized, Arthur had been preparing her to be a queen.

“You seem to be handling it well, though I can see a few dark lines under your eyes. Are you sleeping well.”

Gwen fidgeted with her sack, averting her eyes before she considered to answer with a half-truth. “Frankly, ruling over so many has given me fitful rest and it’s only been a fortnight.”

It took effort to dismiss fleeting thoughts of her night terrors emerging during her waking hours. The pain inflicted by Morgana and her weeks enslaved still pursued her in dreams.

Dig the hole. Carry the pole. The sting of the whip master's leather cracked loud, tearing her flesh. His dagger slashed her cheek, the scent of her blood flooded her senses.

Plant the pole. Start a new hole. Sweat from the chase burned into her doe eyes as men hunted her, a fiery bolt piercing her thigh.

Red flowed everywhere and smothered her to death.

These same terrors stalked her each night, a strange, frenetic beat drumming in her ears until she bled out.

She hugged herself, shuttering aside the sudden flashbacks with a shake of her head. All that Merlin's sleeping draughts did was keep her deeper and longer in those terrifying places.

And she was tired.

“Gwen?”

“Hm?” She had drifted again, but grateful she was only in Isolde’s presence.

“I said that I don’t envy you, but are you sure that’s it entirely?”

“What do you mean? Of course, it is,” she insisted, resentment in her voice.

Isolde rose from the ground and joined her on the bench. She took Gwen’s hands into hers.

“Gwen, you’re newly married and you’ve immersed yourselves into the onerous concerns of monarchy from day the onset. You’ve hardly had the time to get to know each other intimately. There’s so much to be learned in that special time, a bonding that transcends everything. It’s really where all the fun begins.” Isolde nudged her with a soft shoulder bump and wiggled her brows playfully, her eyes mischievous again.

Gwen relaxed with a laugh, blushing. She’d been terrified for a moment in the bath, but later, as Arthur’s hands roamed to places no one else had ever touched, hers hungrily caressed his toned skin and rippled muscles, scars from wounds and calloused hands that reminded her of a servant.

She and Arthur’s paths rarely crossed outside council meetings or audiences with people now, but she was sharing them with him. At night, she longed for his touch, opened her desire to him. Blissful sleep came for a short time before deeper slumber summoned her demons. She restrained a shutter and focused her drifting attention back to Isolde.

“Is that what you and Tristan did? Run away and forget all your troubles for a time?” Isolde laughed, but Gwen saw something deeper behind her large, hazel eyes.

“Something like that,” she said mysteriously. “That’s a story for another time. This is about you and Arthur. Is there any way you could remove yourselves from the burdens of the kingdom and enjoy the newness of matrimony for a short time? There must be someone else around here that can run the place during your absence.”

Gwen was shaking her head before Isolde finished. Isolde was becoming a dear friend and she wished she could bring her into the confidence of Arthur and his knights’ plans. But the fewer people involved in their dangerous secrets, the lesser the damage if the details of their plans were ever exposed or if they outright failed.

“Not possible. Though I would love a holiday away from Camelot, our absence would send the wrong message. We need to be here with our people especially since magic is lawful now. There’s too much ahead of us to do, too much in the balance. We cannot abandon our posts.”

Isolde pursed her lips in disapproval, admonishing Gwen with her eyes. “Now you sound like Arthur.” She placed a hand gently over Gwen’s. “But leadership suits you and I do understand. I still worry for you. Others may not be looking for it because they see a queen, but I see you as a friend, and I know that you are weary, even right now.”

Gwen exhaled a quiet sigh. “I am, a little. And I’m hungry. I feel my emotions are rampaging, and it’s draining me. Arthur isn’t pleased that I’ve taken so much on myself, and yesterday, I lost my temper with him for insisting once again to hire a maidservant and appoint my ladies in waiting. To be honest, I trust none of the noble maidens in Camelot, at least not enough to bring them into the royal sphere of influence; nor can I depend on any of the commoner maidens, especially those I knew before becoming queen.”

Gwen's jaw cinched as she snatched up her gloves, barely resisting the urge to hurl them to the ground. I no longer consider them deserving of my friendship. The bitterness churning in her stomach made her temples throb.

“Anyway, Arthur was remarkably sweet and composed after I snapped at him; said that I was still learning what had taken him his entire life to accept: that I can’t do everything myself.”

“He’s right about that,” Isolde said with concern in voice and expression.

“I know,” she surrendered with a sigh, relinquishing her anger and plopping her hands in her lap. “I hired a maidservant this morning. She’ll be starting in a few days.”

“Well, that’s good news. Just in time for the coronation.”

“I suppose. I just need time to adjust to the idea of her.”

She had been selecting random girls each day, measuring their skills and character. The one she finally chose, Sefa, was sweet and modest, and reminded Gwen of herself. Her recent arrival with her father to Camelot also helped her stand out. Gwen sighed again, massaging the bridge of her nose.

Isolde placed a hand on her knee. “Perhaps we should continue in a few days.”

Gwen rolled her eyes. She really could use rest and hoped tonight’s physical activity would be sufficient to exhaust her body as well as her mind. Yet she wanted to practice a while longer, push through the fatigue.

As she was about to say so, movement to the left caught her attention, as well as Fredrick’s, who stood at alert again.

Gwen smiled when two peasant maidens crossed the training field, wooden swords in hands, gowns modestly girded above old, worn boots.

Isolde followed her line of sight, and then smiled as the maidens curtsied to the queen. Chins held high with purpose, the young women gripped their practice swords with white-knuckled intensity.

“I don’t think so, Lady Isolde,” Gwen said, smiling and clapping Isolde on the back. Standing, she retrieved her gloves and sword. “We must set a good example for Camelot’s newest type of warriors. Let’s get back to it, shall we?”

Chapter Text

Arthur strode into the royal chambers, the links of his chain mail clinking as he moved. George trailed behind him as he unbuckled his sword belt and set the gilded weapon on the edge of his desk, maneuvering around stacks of magical texts and scrolls. Troubled by the news of a young boy’s tragic death, yet another weight now thrust upon his mounting concerns.

“That will be all for now, George,” Arthur said. “Wait outside. The queen should return in a moment or two.”

George dipped his head briskly and promptly left the chambers. A perfect model of anticipatory servitude, his abilities, though oddly fixated on polished brass, finally gave Arthur the orderly benefit he deserved.

“Percival’s report from last night.”

Arthur unrolled the scroll, read the first few entries about disturbances in both towns before the lines blurred and his accumulating pressures raced through his mind – the magic laws, Guinevere and her night terrors, Merlin’s secret, the crops, a child’s tragic death, civil unrest, Old Religion prophecies. Was he Sisyphus, doomed to roll the same boulder uphill only to chase it down and start again?

The creak of the chamber doors abated his piling anxiety when they swept open, the sound of light footfalls and the swish of a gown bringing a small smile to lips. He rose from behind the desk to greet Guinevere, radiant in a dark blue satin gown and sparkling jewelry to match its richness.

“My queen,” he said as she approached with a stack of crushed parchments and scrolls in hands and the crease between her brows betraying worry. His smile cooled.

“The council chamber will be three times as full today,” Guinevere said, her tone flat. “We’ll be able to gauge the reactions of the classes to your news about Emrys. It’ll be a fair representation of how the rest of the kingdom will respond.”

She set the parchments and scrolls on his desk and he coiled his arms around her, kissed her forehead. She wrapped her arms around him, yet stood rigid.

“I know,” he sighed, feeling tension emanating from her. He released her and plopped back into his chair. “Clergy, noblemen, merchants, commoners. And Lord Badawi Zahir leading the charge. I can feel conflict escalating already.”

He thought of the grieving parents from that morning after Zahir had met with them, stroking their sorrow into a rage that drove another family from their home. Patrols also reported other rising grumblings as the man echoed divisive cries across the city.

“Lord Badawi won’t let anyone forget that the livelihood of a farmer was lost and that a child was killed with magic. He preys on people’s grief and fans it into flames of fear.” Disdain crept into Gwen’s tone. “And no doubt he’ll exploit these tragedies again today.”

Arthur grimaced. Badawi’s inflammatory words were clearly swelling discontent, stoking embers of fear and distrust among the people into burning animosity. How much further would the lord inflame tensions before the city erupted?

“The kingdom grieves with these families.”   

“Not all are remorseful,” Gwen continued. “That family was chased off by a mob, their daughter may be haunted forever for what she did. More tragedy will come.” Bitterness oozed from each clipped word.

Arthur rose to pace, straining to keep his composure. Not even a fortnight since his decree and already such turmoil? So many tears and fears and hatreds roiled just below the surface, ready to explode at any spark.

And Gwen – how far away she seemed now, her words battering him mercilessly.

“People are frightened,” Gwen said, her tone sharp. “They have concerns, real or imagined. They need your assurances.”

Arthur recoiled as she pressed closer, demanding if he could stop an eruption. His heart twisted to hear contempt towards his life’s central duty – protecting her, protecting Camelot.

“I’m prepared, Guinevere,” he rasped, perhaps too defensively, too stridently. What choice did he have but to face unrest head on? Yet, crushing rebellions meant his men against his people, an unfavorable herald to start a golden age – he would not allow a stubborn lord to unravel all they were willing to sacrifice for Albion’s future peace.

“Are you?” That same edge in her voice again laced her reprimand. “Many have reasons to be angry, not just Lord Badawi. Those of us who have lost loved ones falsely accused of sorcery.”

Arthur inhaled, an old wound opening and bleeding out.

“Thomas.”

He’d attempted to make amends by posthumously pardoning Gwen’s father of the sorcery charges that had led to his death six years earlier. Yet, her pain was still fresh and raw.

“There are countless others like me, Arthur. How much torment and humiliation must I endure? If there can there be no justice for me, then grant me vengeance.” Her shifting tones and rapid swings between bitterness, anguish, and retribution stunned Arthur.

She spun away, taking a few steps to put distance between them. “How can we possibly trust sorcerers?” she wept, visibly trembling. “Who knows if some of them are just as powerful as Morg…”

Morgana. Another delicate topic avoided by her in the waking hours.

Arthur stood inert, at a loss for words. A muscle feathered in his jaw as he grappled with his own buried atrocities – the men, women, and children that he’d executed – the innocent lives he’d ended. Though night terrors plagued him infrequently, he’d grown to accept them. Now he tried to learn from them and avoid the same mistakes. Torn by her tears, he advanced towards her.

Upon hearing the clink of his chain mail, Gwen stepped further away. He halted, and tugged at his bottom lip with his teeth, his hands on his hips. Her breathing quickened as she tried to rein in her tears and emotions.

The sight of her trembling form wrenched his heart. She looked every bit the doe ready to bolt, just as she had when Morgana’s vile sorcery against her was uncovered. She had almost fled then, nearly slipping away to Longstead. Only his raw desperation had kept her in Camelot.

Now here they were, scarcely into their reign, and Arthur tasted the same haunting fear. The terror of her retreating into herself and disappearing from his side. He could not fail her. He must be the anchor keeping her from the dark abyss within.

“Guinevere,” he said after another painful moment of silence. “Morgana can’t hurt you ever again. I promise you: when this is all over, I will execute her myself. I will protect you.”

He desperately wanted her to believe him, for what he promised was not an indulgence for her vengeance, but a balm to soothe it. He’d do the dirty work to keep her virtuous and pure for as long as he could.

Guinevere was silent for a long moment. When she spoke again, her voice was softer, lacking the venom of before.

“I did not truly mean it, what I said about wanting vengeance. I was overwrought with anger and pain. The thought of more bloodshed, of sinking to her level....” She trailed off, conflicted.

Arthur tempted another cautious step closer. “I know how the soul darkens when pain and sorrow are allowed to flourish, Guinevere. Please tell me what truly concerns you.”

Gwen dabbed at her cheeks and turned to him, an embroidered handkerchief grasped tightly in her fist, now pressed against her stomach, eyes glossy with a veneer of poise veiling the turmoil behind them.

“With all that is happening, all that you must do, you have your own burdens to bear, Arthur. I don’t want to distract you with mine.” Her voice quivered, but her gaze remained steady.

One last gentle step forward and then he stood in front of her, his whole being aching with her. “I would worry less knowing that you are well. You’re troubled and that troubles me.”

“I don’t want your pity, Arthur,” she bit out, resentment glinting in her eyes. “No one can truly understand. Least of all you.”

Her words pierced his heart, confirmed his fears that she still harbored some degree of blame toward him. By God, he hadn’t fully absolved himself, so why should she? But as painful as it was, he reached for her and held her by the arms, his hands gently rubbing them. This time he would stop her retreat, would stand stalwart against the ghosts driving her toward the edge.

“All right, then. But you’re not being fair to me.” She lowered her gaze. “You’re not giving me a chance. Look at me.” Arthur gently tilted her chin to gaze into her eyes.

“If all I can do is listen and hold you in my arms, then that is what I will do. If you need to hurt me with words and recriminations, you have my permission for that, too. I’m here for you. You are not alone. You’re safe now. We’re not through this, Guinevere, until you are through it. Let me help you. Just tell me what can I do.”

Guinevere held his gaze. After a moment, her anger melted away and she blinked back more tears.

“Oh, Arthur. I try to hide it, but I feel as if a part of me is dying.” Wrapping her arms around him, she rested her head against his chest, her breathing slowing to the rhythm of his. “There’s so much to unravel, so many threads that keep tangling across each other. One painful memory only leads to another. It’s hard to reconcile my thoughts and feelings at times. How can I possibly explain them to you?”

Relieved at the morsel of trust she’d finally extended, Arthur’s heart ached, both in sympathy and in guilt. He bore some responsibility for what she had suffered. If only he had been wiser, had seen the truth sooner, her pain would have been spared. He rocked her gently in his arms. They must move forward.

“Let’s start with just one memory. Any one. We’ll work through it. And when it’s conquered, we’ll move on to the next. However long it takes, we’ll do it together.”

As she nodded into his chest, Arthur rested a tentative hand on her head, fingers sinking into her soft brown locks. A simple gesture of comfort, yet intimacy bloomed anew each time they touched. And yet, in some moments of closeness, an invisible barrier lingered – her true self guarded against him and the world.

He yearned to reclaim the profound connection they once held. If baring her anguished soul was the only pathway back to her heart, he would walk it gladly. Even with the sins of his past poised to haunt them both.

With great care, Arthur smoothed back a strand of hair from her temple. No matter the pain still echoing, this felt like a first step - the beginning of banishing the ghosts driving them apart. One memory at a time.

“It isn’t easy for me to share my problems with others,” she said softly. “I’ve always been there for everyone else.”

Always the rock when chaos swirled, Arthur mused. Even now, barely recovered from her own exile and agony, she stood stalwart as he grappled questions of magic and other blind spots with her. Shame prodded him now – that he had failed to shield her fully from the scourges of magic…and from himself. Not this time. He would help shoulder whatever ghosts haunted her.

“Listen to me, my love. Do not think you’re not worth others taking care of you.”

She afforded him a weak, but sincere smile as she nodded her head.

Arthur pecked her cheek and withdrew. He lifted Excalibur from the tabletop and buckled it around him. Guinevere pressed down her bodice and skirt with her hands, dried the last of her tears.

“We’re late,” she said, gathering her papers from his desktop, the tension seeming to slip like raindrops on rose petals, as if her previous outbursts had never surfaced.

“The king and queen are never late,” he reminded her with a smile.

As Gwen attempted a faint smile and took his arm, Arthur felt his own mask settle into place. A public facade that barely concealed the churning worries within. Hers was a polished disguise as well – yet now he knew painful secrets lurked underneath.

Should he feel hope that she trusted him enough to expose those wounds? Or more troubled that she still refortified barriers against the outside world?

No, he resolved, what mattered most was the promise now blooming between them. He would slowly unravel the threads tangling her, stand steadfast despite old ghosts that may haunt them both. And each glimmer of the remarkable woman he loved would be enough to outshine the darkness.

Zahir’s chaos still required immediate attention. But with Guinevere, Arthur could practice eternal patience. Their route may wind and shake, but he would walk it faithfully by her side.

Chapter Text

“Sorcery brings only chaos!” Al-Sayyid Al-Ajal Badawi Zahir’s voice boomed over the concurring and dissenting opinions rippling amongst those allied with him and those vehemently opposed. His silk purple long-coat, fastened to the high-collared neck rustled as he took measured steps around the chamber, sleek black boots marking his noble status. “It is the work of the devil!” The councilors in the Lesser Hall surged to their feet in outcry.

Merlin rubbed sweaty palms against his trousers as the angry shouts echoed off the stone walls. His gaze darted between arguing merchants, clerics, lords, and commoners. He glanced at an impassive Arthur observing the arguments erupting around him. Flanking him and Gwen – set apart from the councilors in high chairs – the knights stood vigilant and poised for action. Gwaine rolled his eyes.

“We must not abandon the good works undertaken by King Uther thirty years ago,” Bishop Joseph protested, cheeks flushed as red as his hair. With a slow blink, Gwen pressed her lips into a thin line.

“A child perished today thanks to your sanctioned magic! Not two days before, fire sparked by a novice witch burned down a farmer’s barn and fields.” Lord Badawi thrust an accusing finger at Arthur. “This sorcerous menace must be stopped!”

Arthur’s head turned a fraction quicker than normal, his eyes slightly narrowed. Elyan shifted uneasily and Lord Badawi’s bold accost of his sovereign sent prickles down Merlin’s spine. The man’s exploitation of recent misfortunes made magic appear to be wreaking havoc.

Arthur’s jaw cinched almost imperceptibly. “Those were tragic accidents, Lord Badawi,” he replied, his tone level. “Not intentional attacks. The patrols found no evidence of foul play in either case.”

The Egyptian lord straightened his shoulders, black waves of silver-streaked hair touching them. “No one knows their capabilities, sire,” Badawi sneered, “nor how much power they possess or the extreme damage they could inflict now that they are sanctioned to practice their devilry. You invite vile powers into the heart of Camelot!”

Arthur’s shoulders visibly tense, his back ramrod straight. Merlin’s lips thinned.

Magic is in the fabric of the world, he thought. It has never left Camelot.

Geoffrey said, “The spilling of innocent blood will cease because of the king’s decree.”

“Innocent?” retorted Badawi. “We were cleansing the land! Now it will rot ever faster with magic unleased!”

A muscle in Arthur’s cheek feathered as his eyes trailed Badawi. Fredrick frowned deeply, a groan escaping.

“Magic can be used for good,” Gaius stressed from his seat, and shouts of opposition and agreement rose again.

“There is nothing good about sorcery!” Lord Badawi pinned Gaius with a scornful stare before he shifted his gaze to Arthur. “I beseech you, King Arthur. Do not allow magic to flourish in our great kingdom.”

“It is done, Lord Badawi,” Arthur replied, a slight bite in his voice. “That issue is not up for debate.”

Badawi’s lips twitched between his finely trimmed beard and mustache and black eyes blazed with contempt upon the king.

“Magic is a gift to the world,” Seamus spoke. The clothmaker pushed through an opening to face off with the Egyptian.

“Allah himself declared that sorcerers shall not be permitted to live,” replied Badawi. “King Uther recognized this evil and forbade its corruption to spread amongst the righteous.”

As shouting escalated, Arthur’s knights stepped forward, hands on sword hilts as Seamus and Badawi exchanged heated words.

Heaven help us!” implored Bishop Joseph.

Merlin exhaled softly, his shoulders slightly slumping as built-up tension leaked from his body. Arthur’s fists clenched on the armrest but then relaxed immediately.

“No one deserves to be persecuted for what they believe,” shouted Viscount Pierrefonds. “Can you not show tolerance, Lord Badawi?”

“The new law is fair and just, Your Majesty,” Geoffrey said.

“They should be rounded up and executed!” shouted Aelfric, the reeve.

Seamus seized the floor, water brimming in his eyes. “My … my son of fifteen summers has magic.” Gasps and whispers flowed across the room. “He’s never harmed a soul. Would you execute him, my lord?”

“‘Do not turn to mediums or necromancers –’” Badawi began, reciting biblical scripture to defend the righteousness of his faith.

As the knights stepped back to position, Gwaine shook his head, Percival remaining rigid in place. Arthur and Gwen exchanged a solemn glance while Merlin lowered his gaze, his lips clamped. Scripture of condemnation was a favorite weapon for dissenters of magic.

“‘Do not seek them out, and so make yourselves unclean by them!’” Badawi bellowed.

“I can no longer live by the old ways,” Seamus cried. “We must accept change.”

“‘I am the Lord your God!’” Badawi swung his sword without relent, spinning on his heels to face the room.

“Enough!” Arthur slammed a fist on his armrest, his anger unleased and startling everyone. Merlin caught his breath; the grumbling ceased, and all eyes turned to the king.

“Return to your seats at once,” commanded Arthur, restraint barely caging the steel in his voice.

Badawi’s hard gaze remained on Arthur for a moment before he looked away and seated himself. The other men returned to their sections and, after a moment, the Lesser Hall settled into an uneasy silence.

Arthur made a slow perusal of the room, his gaze sharp, his authority demanding everyone’s attention. Merlin rubbed his thumbs against his fingers anxiously, his hands in a loose fist. Elyan glanced at him with sullen eyes. Things hadn’t been the same between them since Elyan learned of his magic, their friendship now strained. He regretted that – he still admired his fortitude and sense of honor.

“Lord Badawi,” Arthur said. “You believe that all sorcerers are evil.”

Badawi stood to address the king, his chin high. “I do, my lord liege.”

“And if a child who has seen only a few summers is discovered to have magical gifts, your solution is to execute him or her without feeling or consideration? To drown them in a well, perhaps?” Merlin’s heart cinched. Those were unmerciful orders Arthur had also been commanded to do by his father.

“Allah –”

“Has mercy – which is far greater than our cruel deeds of the past. All of us has sinned, yet He has forgiven us – sorcerers and men alike. Do you have more authority to judge than He?” The tone in Arthur’s voice deepened to the one with the most authority in the room. “Or me?”

“Allah does not suffer sorcerers nor their pagan gods.” Badawi’s reply was weak and Merlin smiled inwardly.

“And I will no longer suffer the ignorance of men blinded by hatred and prejudice. One of God’s greatest commandments is to love thy neighbor, is it not, Lord Badawi?”

He shifted uncomfortably. “It is, King Arthur.”

“And we shall do so henceforth. Be seated.”

Merlin released a breath and smiled at the finality of Arthur’s words. Badawi sat, deflated, yet simmered in defeat.

Arthur’s focus returned the councilors. “Gentlemen, magic has become entwined in all our lives, though often shrouded in superstition and fear. This ignorance has pitted brother against brother, neighbor against neighbor. Too many have perished over virtues they cannot control.

“I wish for us all to examine our sensibilities, to heal wounds from within so enemies cannot devour us from without.

“To those who have lost loved ones in my father’s war on sorcery, I appeal to your compassion. Apprehension will not vanish instantly. But in time, I urge you will embrace the unique gifts in every citizen.

“The new century nears. Dark clouds have long covered Camelot, but a new dawn is possible. There is no going back – only forward into light.”

Hope surged within Merlin as Arthur’s stirring words lingered in the air. A small, proud smile pulled at his lips. This was the Once and Future King he had waited for.  

“The persecutions have ended,” stated Gwen. “The bloodshed has ceased. We desire nothing more than peace within our communities, especially our magical ones.”

“Magic has always been in the world,” Gaius added. “And always will be.” Merlin’s smile broadened having had that thought not five minutes ago.

“Gaius.” Badawi’s tone turned hostile again and Merlin’s smile dropped as the man stood up, leveling his dark eyes on his mentor and friend.

“You and my father were supporters of Uther during the Great Purge. I was a young man when we arrived in Camelot, but I do remember. My father embraced you as a sword of Allah because you held to the same principles as he. Now look at you, lapping at another king’s heels and waving the banner of the Lord’s enemy. You’re a traitor and a coward.”

Murmurs of disapproval swelled, heads shaking at the brazen insult flung so crudely. Gaius’ jaw dropped in shock, his cheeks flushing on his paling face. Merlin clenched his jaw, his hands curled into fists. He glared at the nobleman.

Lord Badawi’s got a foul mouth, he thought. Some quality time as a pig might silence him for a spell.

Arthur raised a placating hand and the room quieted.

“You will show courtesy in my court, Lord Badawi,” Arthur warned, a cutting edge to his voice. “Temper your words or find yourself expelled from the affairs of this council.”

Badawi stiffened, his sensitivity to expulsion evident on his face. Many knew that his family was driven from their home in Alexandria after a failed rebellion against Arab conquerors and that they could never return to Egypt.

“Forgive my disrespect, King Arthur – Gaius.” He bowed stiffly, his scorn unveiled and palpable.

“I…” Gaius began, casting pensive glances around. His eyes finally rested on Badawi. “I’ve always done what was best for the kingdom.”

“And you think that pardons you, physician?”

“It can when we open our hearts to reconciliation," said Gwen. "Gaius has proven his loyalty time and again - though all have moments we come to regret.”

Elyan scoff quietly beside him and Merlin eased a skewed glance his way. Something was terribly wrong with him and unsettled Merlin.

Badawi paused a beat as he sharpened his blade for Gwen. “As you have done, my queen? After so many assaults against you and your family? In front of Allah and all here, you are willing to forgive the sorcerers responsible for your suffering?”

Shocked gasps echoed around the hall. Merlin thinned his lips, Arthur jerked forward, and Gwen placed a gentle hand on his forearm. Fredrick glanced with worry to her.

Gwen raised her chin, her voice steady and sure. “I must.” Her eyes did not leave Badawi’s, nor did she reveal any weakness in her countenance. “For the sake of my kingdom and my citizens.”

“We could not have asked for a worthier testimony.” Arthur reached for Gwen’s hand, his gaze sober. “The queen and her family have suffered much at the hands of sorcery. Let her bravery and her virtuous heart be a testament to all.” Elyan sighed with a soft groan, shuffled his feet.

Releasing Gwen’s hand, Arthur returned his attention to the councilors. “We are not ignorant toward magic nor the dangers that we face, but if we allow this state of constant fear to continue to fester, we blind ourselves from seeing what magic truly has to offer.”

Arthur gazed steadily around the chamber; his hands gripped the armrests. “There is a man among us that can enlighten us on the virtues of magic.”

Merlin froze, his heart raced. The moment was finally here, but was the world ready for Emrys? Was he?

“What do you mean, sire?” Badawi asked slowly.

“I’ve recently learned that there is someone who has watched over Camelot for many years, protecting us without us ever knowing. A sorcerer by the name of Emrys.”

“That is outrageous!” Badawi bristled with the sudden outburst of other voices. Merlin’s knees knocked as he laced his shaking hands, hoping no one noticed.

“It is indeed,” Arthur said, his voice competing with the uproar, “considering that we’ve tried to execute him on several occasions – Silence!” Arthur shouted, glaring around the room until all went quiet. “Another outburst and this meeting is over.”

Arthur waited another moment in the tense stillness. When he spoke, his voice was composed, his features relaxed. “It must be known that our pursuit of this man has never stopped him from believing in the ideals of what Camelot will one day become.”

“You speak as if you know him.” Badawi was genuinely confused.

Merlin suddenly couldn’t breathe; his knees became watery. Steadying his stance, he swallowed the lump in his throat.

“We all know him,” he said with certainty, “but I chanced a parley with him a few months ago in search of information, before my father died.”

“You’ve consorted…?”

“I have,” Arthur challenged, his expression and tone daring anyone to object.

“You believe this sorcerer is good?” Badawi asked incredulously.

“I do.” Arthur leaned forward, elbows on knees and fingers laced. “He cured the sleeping curse of ‘94 when we were rendered defenseless by a dark sorceress. He opposed her, fought against his own kind to save Camelot. He has done this repeatedly, my lords, I assure you.”

Merlin tensed, his eyebrows knitted together. How could Arthur know the details of that incident? His eyes slide to Excalibur. Did Arthur also know what he had been forced to do to save them?

Badawi appeared flabbergasted when Merlin looked back up. “He is responsible for such salvation?” the lord asked, his fire diminished.

“He carries the hope of many – that magic will flourish again.” Arthur extended a scroll to him. “This is a chronicle of Emrys’ deeds that has come to my attention, Lord Badawi. Read it. You will find it interesting and enlightening. It is not fiction.”

Badawi stepped forward to receive the scroll. He unrolled it and read the boldly scripted title across the top. “Emrys.” His eyes flicked to Arthur before he scanned the rest of the words silently.

“There will be copies available for each of you,” Arthur said, “as well as postings around the kingdom.”

Badawi studied the scroll, people murmuring around him. He closed it, clutched it in his fist. “Will this sorcerer be summoned before the council?”

“We’re searching for him. When found, I’ll embrace him as friend and court sorcerer.”

Those words washed over Merlin, affirming how profoundly Arthur had transformed. This was not the close-minded prince he’d met all those years ago.

“Abandon your father’s legacy?” Badawi asked, stunned.

Arthur stood tall, taking Gwen’s hand as she rose. “We’ll build a new legacy – with courage, compassion and justice.”

Breathing rampant as they left the hall and the voices rumbling behind them, Merlin focused on one thing: Badawi’s provocations were troublesome, but his dream was at last coming true.

Chapter Text

A tense energy suffused his royal chambers as he sipped from his goblet. Seated in front of the hearth, the taste of the sweet wine was dulled by the councilors’ outrage, his dour mood, and the discussion yet to come. Arthur stared at the fire flickering unsteady light rather than warmth, fragmented shadows dancing around the somber room.

Gwen sat unnaturally still beside him, her eyes downcast, fingertips tapping nervously on the armrest. A heavy silence filled the chambers, punctuated occasionally by exhales from Elyan or Merlin seated at the long table with Fredrick and Geoffrey. Gaius, arms tucked behind his back and fingers laced, stared through a paned window nearby, his lips pressed in a deep frown. They waited under a shroud of gloom for Percival, Ranulf, and Gwaine to arrive.

His gaze slid to George preparing goblets for the men with smooth and confident efficiency. The silver jug clinked jarringly against the metal goblets to Arthur, the pouring of the liquid into them just as unnerving in the quiet. George glided across the short distance to the long table and placed filled goblets in front of the men and four empty seats before returning to the serving table.

Merlin sighed again and Arthur squeezed his goblet tighter, turning his knuckles white. He glanced at Gwen just as she looked at him, her lips thinning. Releasing a silent breath, he bit back anxiety slowly creeping across his skull.

“The council meeting was a disaster,” he quietly admitted to Gwen.

“You handled it well, Arthur,” she replied softly.

“I disagree. Lord Badawi took control of my court and exposed a level of hostility that should not have escalated as far as it had. I should have stopped him sooner.”

He ground his teeth. He’d truly wanted to see what would unfold during the meeting, and to his dismay, the councilors had become feral, proving that some weren’t ready for his reforms. He hoped his final call for compassion would sway doubting hearts.

“We’ll endure,” Gwen assured him. “No one expects this to be easy.” She looked away and so did he, his lips twitching into a pout. Merlin had said those same words to him not too long ago.

He sipped his wine, his sight returning to George. His new servant had proven loyal, but Arthur could not fully confide in him as he had Merlin – he didn’t know if that day would ever come. For now, they could trust no one outside his inner circle.

“George,” Arthur said. “Bring more wine and food for everyone, please.”

“Right away, sire.” George tilted his head and swept out of the chambers, closing the doors behind him.

“Arthur –” Merlin began tightly, his blue eyes blazing with an intensity that Arthur had seen many times before. He raised a palm, ignored the weightiness Merlin had placed on his name.

“Let us wait for Percival, Gwaine, and Ranulf,” he said. “We must all be present.”

Merlin’s lips stretched, but he acquiesced with a reluctant nod.

Gwen shifted in her chair, turning to bring Gaius into her vision. “How are you, Gaius?”

The old physician glanced over at them, eyes hollow and frown deep. “I’m fine, Gwen.” He looked away again, his assurance not convincing Arthur. By the look on Gwen’s face, she hadn’t believed him either.

Arthur said, “Badawi’s attack on your character was not anticipated nor was it fair.”

This time Gaius took careful steps to turn around and face him and Gwen. His chin was lifted, but sadness and guilt clouded old, greying eyes.

“It isn’t as though I had not thought the same of myself. I … did unthinkable things in the early days of the purge. Sometimes, I need to be reminded of that.”

Merlin’s chair scraped the floor as he suddenly rose to his feet. “You also did great things.”

He approached Gaius and gently squeezed the man’s shoulder. “You stayed behind, protected those that you could from within. Don’t let that be overshadowed.” He guided Gaius to the table, aiding him to an empty chair next to Elyan. “Badawi had no right to judge you nor anyone else.”

A rap sounded at the doors, and just like old habits, Merlin rushed to answer it. Percival entered followed by Gwaine, who sat at the first vacant seat at the table. He picked up the goblet waiting for him and drank as the first knight approached him and Gwen.

Percival dipped his head. “The castle is secure, sire. Ranulf is on the way.”

“Thank you, Percival.”

His first knight lingered, conflict in his eyes before retreating to the table to sit at the opposite end – the chair where Arthur usually sat. He didn’t reach for the goblet of wine set for him, but instead, and just like everyone else, glanced toward them expectantly.

Another knock on the door and Sir Ranulf strode into the chambers when Merlin opened it. “Apologies for my tardiness, Your Majesties,” he said with a bow before taking the seat at Percival’s left.

Arthur nodded then and took a deep, centering breath as the room settled. Pressing his palms together while in thought, he reluctantly invited opinions. “Let’s start with you, Merlin. Speak your mind.”

The men’s voices punctured the silence with unchecked emotions so suddenly that Arthur’s jaw dropped.

“Badawi was particularly nasty,” Merlin said, starting to pace back and forth.

“He was well-armed.” Gaius didn’t bother to look their way.

Percival shook his head. “I thought surely at any moment there would be violence.”

“I’ve never witnessed anything like that,” said Fredrick, lightly tapping his fingers against the stem of his goblet.

“Pass the wine,” Gwaine said to Fredrick, who handed him a pitcher with a roll of his eyes.

Geoffrey’s thick brows rose. “Change is never easy.”

“His rhetoric grows more inflammatory by the day,” Gwen said. “The people are frightened, confused – some look to him for simple answers.”

Arthur set his jaw, placed his goblet on the small table between him and Gwen before standing. Gwen rose, too, and he tried to smile at her, but he couldn’t.

Elyan’s snort forced his attention back into the fray. “What was the point of it? Allowing the councilors to debate? Allowing Badawi to speak at all, Arthur?”

“He’ll sway many to his side,” Geoffrey added. “Those that were uncertain are sure to follow him now.”

“That man won’t be satisfied until chaos erupts,” Gwaine said with a mouthful of bread.

“He’s a threat.” Merlin’s voice became ominous, cutting through the inferences. He fixed that same penetrating stare on Arthur – the one that always meant dreadful words would follow. “He challenged your authority, confronted you about casualties.”

Spinning on his heels to face the fire, Arthur closed his eyes, Merlin’s statement striking a nerve no one else could see.

“I’ll not stand by while he incites chaos,” Arthur replied, his tone betraying none of the turmoil within. He sensed Gwen hovering nearby, conflict no doubt warring in her eyes before she decided to let him be. He was thankful – her comfort wasn’t what he needed in this bleak hour that reminded him of threats to his authority.

“Badawi has influence, allies in all stations,” Elyan said with an icy calm.

“What can be done?” Ranulf asked. “Banning him from court only removes our ability to moderate him.”

The chamber doors creaked opened before Arthur could respond and George returned with a tray of food and drink, three other servants trailing behind him. They spaced the trays on the table and refilled goblets as Elyan retreated to the other side of the chambers, a hand massaging his neck. Arthur slowly paced in front of the hearth. Merlin paced not far from him.

“Ah, thank you, George,” Gwaine said gratefully, quickly grabbing a roasted quail and devouring it as the servant poured fresh wine into his goblet.

“You’re dismissed for the evening, George,” Arthur said.

The servants set the wine vessels on the table and George waited for them to leave. Giving a brisk bow before exiting last, he closed the doors behind him.

No one touched the food except Gwaine, a sudden belch expelling from his mouth.

“Oh, sorry,” he said with an embarrassed grin. “I ate too fast.”

Percival lifted a hesitant voice, staring at no one. “We must lessen Badawi’s credibility with the people.”

“What?” Elyan exclaimed.

“No,” Arthur said simultaneously, annoyed with the suggestion.

“You call yourself a Christian?” Elyan spat, his aim still on Percival. Gwaine stopped eating and flicked his eyes between the two.

Percival stood slowly, standing to his mountainous height. “Careful.”

“Easy,” said Ranulf. “Let us keep this civil, men.” 

“If Lord Badawi continues unchecked,” said Fredrick, “he will spark a civil conflict. We barely survived Morgana’s war not one month past.”

They began speaking over one another, their voices rising again.

Arthur held up a hand. “Friends, please!”

His plea was drowned out in the opinions that ensued, though Merlin’s words that Badawi was a threat echoed through his mind.

“He’s charismatic and persuasive,” said Gaius. “The people trust him. If we don’t act, he’ll turn the whole kingdom against magic again.”

“He’s meeting with grieving families,” Gwen said. “Stirring anger and whispers of vengeance.”

“Insurrection will ensue,” concluded Fredrick. “Sire, we must remove Badawi before this escalates out of control.”

“Tristan reported substantial thefts from the treasury,” Percival said, his face blanched. “We implicate Badawi as an accomplice.”

Again Arthur tried to cut in. “Surely we can find another way!” But the debate raged on.

“You’d ruin an innocent man’s reputation to protect your secrets,” Elyan hissed.

“Think about the long-term stability of the kingdom, Elyan,” said Gwen. “Badawi won’t stop. There will be unnecessary deaths on both sides.”

“We need to neutralize him,” said Merlin.

They continued to argue, Arthur’s thoughts grappling for responses – alternatives to the unthinkable options hurled at him. Just like the council meeting, the loss of control churned his stomach. Facing the hearth again, he scrubbed his face, wiping unwanted sweat beaded above his lip.

“We spread rumors,” suggested Geoffrey. “Enough doubt could minimize his influence.”

“I don’t disagree,” Ranulf said. “But surely there’s a less underhanded way to remove him.”

“I don’t relish dirty tactics either,” added Gwaine, spooning meat stew into a bowl.

“The future of Albion is at stake,” Gaius said. “If Badawi prevails, everything we’re working for crumbles.”

“Have you no dignity?” asked Elyan, his voice taut and angry eyes darting to everyone.

“We must be realistic, sire,” Ranulf said.

“Gentlemen, enough!” Arthur shouted, his jaw-line severe and scowl deep, quiet settling as they stared at him. “I agree with Elyan. We cannot build Albion on this deception. We must be bold for the sake of the future we all desire.”

“Then we prepare for a revolt,” Percival uttered grimly. His words summoned a foreboding certainty, silencing them all.

Arthur’s skin prickled so that had to resume his pacing to calm the anxiety racing through him. Crossing his arms, a hand scrubbed his chin. It was not solely civil unrest within his kingdom, but a rival kingdom from without was likely preparing terms that could lead to war. Camelot could not sustain two conflicts simultaneously if Lot chose now to strike. Arthur bit his lip. His choices had put both paths in motion. Many could perish because of his idealist machinations.

His pacing brought him closer to the long table, Arthur painfully aware that they had not come close to a resolution. Gwen drifted over as well and sank slowly into Merlin’s vacant chair. She reached for a plum from the untouched feast and nibbled on it pensively.

“Is there no chance of reasoning with him?” Geoffrey asked. “Perhaps, a private audience with the king and queen could provide a more conducive environment for persuasion?”

Arthur raised his head, considering Geoffrey’s question. Was there any chance of influencing Badawi at this point? Would a private audience to appeal to his faith and compassion produce an agreeable accord for both sides?

Surely, he did not believe so. Lord Badawi was beyond appeals to compassion, instead sought only domination of his extreme beliefs. He did not desire unity – only destruction of progress that offend his rigid beliefs. Reason lied buried beyond Arthur’s reach.

His steps slowed as he rounded the table, the burden of unintended consequences and hard reality biting into him. As distasteful as ruining a man felt, would it not be the most pragmatic solution? Was the future of Albion not worth some ethical compromise? Was the price for his grand vision not justification for his actions? Arthur pressed his palms on the back of Elyan’s empty chair to steady himself. No matter the rationale, such duplicity left a bitter taste.

“Why not use the same defense he uses?” said Gwaine, Arthur once more grasping – hoping – for a reasonable option.

“His god?” asked Merlin.

“From the same book, right?” Gwaine asked. “Those words cut both ways, so I’m told.”

“Yes,” said Percival, nodding slowly. “He believes that God created everything in the universe. We declare ‘All that God created is good, including magic.’ Many will understand this message, including Lord Badawi.”

“And he may not,” Arthur countered. “Lord Badawi’s heart has frozen shut to all but his own zealous visions. We cannot allow him more time to spark a civil unrest.” He exhaled, went to stand beside to Gwen, hands on hips. “It’s been a long day for each of us. For now, please eat. I’ll inform you of my decision soon.”

“We’re not done, sire,” Elyan said coldly. “There is another matter?”

Arthur massaged a temple. “Which is?”

“Merlin.” Elyan’s gaze darted to Merlin before pinning Arthur again.

“What about him?” asked Arthur, his tone level, but endurance dwindling.

“If you hide the truth about him and Emrys, then you’re no better than your father.”

Arthur’s fists curled, the last shreds of his patience unraveled, being likened to Uther striking a nerve. “My father began a war built on evil assumptions and was nothing more than the vengeful act of a frightened, ignorant man to cover his mistake. That’s not what we’re doing. We’re protecting Merlin.”

“The longer we conceal his true nature, the more difficult it will be to explain why we did it. Silencing Badawi won’t stop others from dissenting when they find out that Merlin is truly Emrys.”

Arthur jaw cinched; he struggled to compose himself, though he had no words to defend.

Elyan dug deeper into his conscience. “The risk to our honor and the loss of the people’s trust will be as damaging to Camelot as Uther’s lies had been.”

“If we hold true to each other…”

Elyan rushed him, his face twisted with contempt. “How long can you keep the deception going then, Arthur? Another thirty years?”

All heads turned to them, shock on their faces.

“Take care, brother,” Gwen warned, rising from her chair.

Arthur tensed, Elyan’s words landing blows against trust and conscience alike. As the room stared mute, possibilities swirled through Arthur’s mind – long years perpetuating the ruse, honor corrupted by concealment.

Elyan continued to strike. “It’s just another form of deception, Arthur. Your conscience may sit well with that, but you must be aware that you’re still building Albion upon a lie, no matter how noble your intentions.”

Arthur leaned in, locked gazes with Elyan. “I have no issue with deception when it comes to protecting Merlin. Do we have an understanding, Elyan?”

Elyan backed up, hostility in his eyes. “Yes, sire.”

“He’s right, Arthur,” Merlin said suddenly. “I must reveal Emrys and my magic now.”

“We will see,” Elyan bit out, arms crossed stone-faced. Little gratitude filled his voice despite the agreement. Arthur’s eyes rolled to him, muscles feathering in his jaw.

“Hiding me behind Emrys for an indeterminate amount of time – perhaps years, may not be as wise as we initially believed.”

Arthur’s shoulders knotted ever tighter, flashes of devastating outcomes for Merlin flashing through his head – deemed a threat – driven out – wounded or murdered.

“Merlin, we can’t,” he replied, bone-deep weariness and distress creeping into his voice. “I cannot gamble your safety.”

“Every step in the other direction is a gamble for us all, Arthur.”

“I said no,” Arthur uttered tightly, the words sharp and low. He and Merlin locked gazed. With all he had learned about Merlin, what he had sacrificed over the years, Arthur vowed to protect him – consequences be damned. If that meant concealing the truth forever, then so be it.

Gwen intervened, stepping closer to him and squeezing his arm. “Arthur, we cannot alter what we have yet to set in motion for Lord Badawi. But we can still walk in truth by unveiling Merlin’s role as Emrys. It’s one less burden to bear.”

“I’m grateful you want to protect me,” said Merlin. “But the longer my magic stays hidden, the more lies that will entangle us.”

“Have faith in him, sire,” urged Ranulf mildly. “He’s proved himself capable. And he has the might of the knights behind him.”

Arthur pivoted sharply, turning his back to them once more. He formed this ministry as a democracy to hear all their voices, yet truly he believed that his authority would always be the final word. Considering their sound arguments, and one less dent in their armor, what other choice did he have?

“If I were to agree,” he said slowly, still not facing them, “what do you have in mind?”

“We proceed as planned with the harvest, acknowledging Emrys with the honor. At the pointed time, I’ll stand before the council as Emrys—”

“I’m sure that will go as well as today’s council meeting,” Gwaine said, swirling the wine in his goblet, a grin on his face.

“There will be more dissension – more debate,” said Fredrick.

“I won’t make that mistake again,” Arthur said with a cutting edge. “Once my decree is sealed announcing Emrys as the new court wizard, there will be no further debate.”

Merlin straightened with a nod. “When you introduce me, I’ll transform into my younger self right before their eyes, and then we … we just let the rest play out.”

Arthur closed his eyes, rubbed his brow. “‘Just let the rest play out?’” His voice was calm, though desperation coursed through him. Was he ready for such an unknown outcome? He glanced at Gwen – her expression mixed with the same emotions that roiled inside him. She shook her head, bit into her lip.

“That would be the best course of action, sire,” Percival said, nodding, relief in his eyes.

“Are we in accordance, then?” Geoffrey asked before Arthur could protest any further. He threw his arms up, his face taut with exasperation, his lips in a hard pout.

A somber chorus of “ayes” rose, then followed by silence.

They waited for Arthur’s response, his expression conveying pure displeasure. He searched each of their faces, united yet sober, his authority now tested by the democracy of his ministers. He scrubbed his chin. Another decision pulled from his royal hands even as he was set to agree with them.

“Aye,” he said after another moment, stomach knotting. He gripped Gwen’s hand. Was he to continuously lose control in guiding Camelot’s future?

“I must go,” Elyan grumbled, massaging his neck again. “I’m on dragon duty to replenish Morgana’s supplies with Galahad tonight and deliver it to the lake.” He cast a reproachful gaze upon them, eyes full of disapproval before he stiffly spun on his heels.

“Another unsavory duty,” he muttered, leaving them in awkward silence.

Arthur watched him go, his expression a shadow of concern over Elyan’s discord.

“I’m still hungry,” Gwaine declared after a moment. He pointed to the tarts set before Fredrick. “Are you going to eat those?”

Arthur led Gwen back to their private chairs in front of the hearth as the heaviness lifted from the men and lighter conversations rose between them.

“I’m worried about Elyan,” Gwen said, seating herself, her gown rustling as she settled.

“As am I.” Arthur sat, elbows on knees, chin resting on his knuckles. “He has reasons to feel the way he does. I only hope that he forgives us when all of this is said and done.”

“Truly, it is better this way, being open and honest – at least about Merlin,” Gwen said, compassion in her eyes. “You’ve given both Elyan and Merlin a small victory tonight.”

He nodded. “But Lord Badawi will lose.”

Arthur’s plan to conceal Merlin’s identity indefinitely had fallen apart. Badawi had been in his sights, but he hadn’t planned for these threads to unravel and his authority be challenged in front of many, nor had he expected his ministers’ drastic alternatives, a blight that would certainly stain their armor ... his armor.

Arthur exhaled. This was his burden as king – to make the hard choices when required, no matter the personal cost. He must ease his people’s fears and maintain calm, else Lot could seize advantage of Camelot’s instability and tear his kingdom down. With great reluctance but clear resolve, he accepted what had to be done regarding Badawi and Merlin – though he wondered uneasily what consequences these new strands would wrought.

Chapter Text

Morgana stirred on the cot in the bleak darkness of the cave, cursing the chill. A small fire simmered in the pit near her, but she was too cold to retrieve more wood and stoke the flames. She tucked the blankets and hides securely around her, seeking more warmth within their folds. Except for the soft crackle of the fire, silence droned, unnerving her, not even the wind to howl its mocking whispers. The dragons were gone too.

Most nights she slumbered, but never really slept, the prophetic dreams that used to come lapped at the edges of unconsciousness, stirring her to wake. She couldn’t grab hold of the images flashing through her mind – any meanings to them obscured in a wisp, for the bracelet prevented those dreams from manifesting. With a soft sigh, she slowly opened her eyes to the Nothing.

That was what she called the place now – the Nothing. There was nothing for the cave, nothing for her existence – for her future. Only Aithusa provided some comfort to her – though Kilgharrah strongly objected to their budding relationship. But left alone to care for a creature she knew little about and could not communicate mostly reduced them to nothing more than mistress and pet curled at her feet.

It was a living netherworld, a solitude of perpetual cold and utter dark, and Morgana wondered how she would endure this crushing isolation. Would gentle affection remain but a faded dream? She shuddered imagining her mind unraveling thread by lonesome thread until she became a hollow waif reflected in Aithusa's blinking eyes. Perhaps a decade hence she would forget longing arms or laughter joy or sunlight warmth. Would she ever again feel the comforting touch of another human being? In this hour, she would even welcome Merlin’s.

Tears slipped from the corners of her eyes, but she wiped them away with stinging indignation. She couldn’t allow self-pity; she didn’t dare show weakness in front of the dragons, especially Kilgharrah. There were no gray areas between them – they despised one another. When they did communicate, it usually resulted with recriminations and affronts.

But water flowed, lids burning as she wept now, the silent cave broken by her staggered breathing and sobs. Closing her eyes, haunting deeds plagued her thoughts as sleep grasped for hold.

“Morgause,” she stuttered with despair, yet not for the loss of her half-sister, but for her actions – what she had borne. Morgause had urged her onto this road, turning her against all she held dear. Morgana didn’t know whether she’d already been set on that path, but Morgause had sped up her arrival upon it. One day she was friend to Arthur, Merlin, and Gwen – and a tolerant ward to Uther. The next day, and over the course of a year, they’d become her bitter enemies.

Was that what she’d sought? Had she ever considered seeking the crown before Morgause? Did being Uther’s bastard child give her claim to it? Morgause had convinced her that her birthright held power and influence – though her words now echoed hollow:

“Only if Arthur dies – whether it’s before or after Uther’s death – the crown will be yours...”

Why had she believed? Was it mere anguish toward Uther and Arthur that drove her, or deeper, selfish motivations? Was regicide solely Morgause’s desire? Or had she yearned for their power before her sister enticed treason?

“What have I done?” The questions frightened her, grief over ceding her own elusive dreams to her sister’s futile plots and blood ambition. “I’ve lost everything.”

“Not everything,” came a gentle voice from the darkness. “There’s still hope.”

“What do you mean?” Morgana asked, a warm, drowsing sensation caressing her, releasing cold tension from her body. Too tired to care from where the voice came, she gratefully received having someone to talk with.

“There’s a reason you are in Kilgharrah’s care, Morgana. You must trust the dragon.”

She scoffed with somnolent anger. “He speaks nothing but ill of me. He has little regard for my suffering.”

“I know – it is his way. The great dragon is a solitary creature of the old religion.”

“And I am a high priestess!” Her voice cracked with bitterness, her chest tightening as if stones were placed upon it.

“The difference between you and he is great. You both have abused your powers, but you, Morgana – you did not respect the authority of the goddess.”

Intensity in the voice magnified, creeping across Morgana's flesh as its gentleness subsided to biting criticism, agitating her upon the cot.

“You did not rebuild the temples and alters. You neglected to gain followers and nurture them – you tempted fate by defying the prophecy of the once and future king.”

She shrank from the scornful rebuke penetrating to core. All that the dragon had said about why she was imprisoned was true, yet she defiantly whispered one word dripping in disdain.

“Arthur.”

“The king must live!” boomed the voice, vibrations rumbling through her, the hairs on arms and legs excited with goosebumps. She shriveled, retreated between the folds as a hot coldness penetrated. Even the shadows seemed to quiver.

Its tone returned to a calming flow. “You must set aside your prideful defiance and embrace your destiny, Morgana.”

Her body involuntarily tingled. Destiny? What was destiny to her but the lonesome tick of time and the slow descent into madness?

“Trust the dragon,” it said. “The time is before you to become the bridge between the dragons and King Arthur. Without either of you, Albion will not rise.”

Why give hope where bonds are irreconcilably severed? she thought. “Arthur will never...”

“The King of Camelot is also bound by prophecy!”

The same white-hot cold splashed onto her again, sending shivers down her spine and finding no comfort within the blankets. Breath escaped her lips in the dim light.

“His desire to bring forth the golden age is earnest and undeniable – his path straight and true,” the voice continued, once more replying with tenderness. “But he has many enemies blocking his way. He will need you. Albion will need you.”

Morgana swallowed, her mouth dry, coarse. She shook her head. She could not believe. “I’m sorely out of favor with Arthur – or haven’t you noticed? He will never trust me again.”

“This much is true, but he will see the value you bring one day. Trust yourself. Trust in us.”

“Who are you?” she asked softly, though her heart warmed with an inkling.

“We are the Triple Goddess!”

Morgana’s eyes snapped open. A blinding light emanated from a blazing fire pit, several specters lithely entwining each other within it – above it. Ribbons of dazzling colors played across the stone walls, swirled in a cyclone around them, blowing effervescent robes of three ghostly women manifesting with flowing white hair. She shriveled, their icy hot vibrancy permeating the air, her body. She could not behold the goddesses and diverted her eyes, squeezing them shut.

“Bow to the will of your sovereign!”

Morgana woke with a jolt, bolting upright. Panting, wide eyes glanced around the dark cave, the goddesses’ words still echoing in her mind. She sucked in a breath, hugging the coverings tight around her shivering frame. Sweat covered her body, the vision’s glow now banished to a few embers still sparking low in the fire.

Aithusa was nestled beside the great dragon outside, shielded in the wrap of his tail, the wind eerily whispering its nightly songs. They slumbered peaceably, oblivious to the divine encounter and her violent awakening, revelations now in pursuit of her. She reclined back onto the cot, drawing the coverings, a handful clutched tight to her chin.

“A vision,” she whispered with a shutter.

Her eyes widened and she suddenly jerked her bound wrist above the covers – no blood nor pain – not a cursed vision. Relieved, she closed her eyes, exhaustion seeping back into her body.

It wasn’t like the dreams that slipped away forgotten as soon as consciousness took over. Nor the cryptic prophecies that had no context and could be misinterpreted. Each word from the goddess was etched clearly in her mind, ghostly images vibrant against her closed lids.

Trust Arthur. Know the dragons. Bow to the will of your sovereign.

Did they mean to bow to them or to Arthur?

“Never,” she spat in sleepy denial. “Never to Arthur.”

But she wanted to believe. To know she had a part in Albion’s birth kindled hope. Yet to parley with Arthur for her release and to aid him in his dream was impossible and so far out of reach.

Though, to cooperate with the dragon would not be a great feat to undertake, however uncomfortable it may become at times. She was a high priestess of the old religion and Kilgharrah, borne of it. She could bend. She could appreciate the knowledge he possessed – his thousand-year experiences. She could learn of his gift of prophesying and share her own knowledge and experiences with him? And the lost dragons he now sought? What could she do to help, to show her well intentions?

They were both here by force – the first thing they had in common. If she ever wanted her exile to end, she must find ways to build his trust and play her part, act upon what had been commanded of her. Kilgharrah had value and she would use that.

As for Arthur, the goddess had spoken, but would he ever see her as an ally and embrace her again?

Chapter Text

Castle repairs – dignitary meetings – citizens in need – quarreling councils – fraught plans with ministers – not to forget her coronation and the extensive preparations that entailed.

In their chambers now with Arthur, Gwen welcomed the quiet before another day of full responsibilities consumed her time. Paying little attention to Arthur as they ate supper, she nudged parsnips pieces around the hard-boiled egg on her plate, exhaustion permeating her.

And yet, a sense of balance had awakened in her, altered priorities to new things that now mattered most. She shifted in the chair at Arthur’s right, shuffled the roasted vegetables back where they had been … afraid to wonder how she was certain she was pregnant after only a few weeks of intimate unions with Arthur. She lifted her eyes to him as she pierced a few parsnips and chewed them. He was chatting about something while starting on the stew, but she wasn’t listening.

She pondered deeply about the man she married. Arthur’s beginnings were shrouded in mysteries she was only beginning to grasp. Was it possible that magic was not just woven in his blood, but also in his seed? she thought. Did she truly sense life quickened as they joined on their wedding night – a surreal spark of creation prickling her skin? Could traces of magic be in this child – if indeed she was pregnant – and it now seeping into her, comforting her, giving her new purpose?

The hand on her lap slid to her middle, her thoughts ricocheting wildly from ecstatic joy to terrifying possibilities. What if it was all in her imagination? And what of Morgana’s curse – could it twist something so innocent?

Lips thin, Gwen gave her head a swift shake. The fury she unleashed the day before – triggered by a young boy’s death and then stinging accusations flung at Arthur – had left her shaken. Had that truly been her speaking with such venom? Shocked by her heightened emotions, clarity had sparked on the way to council, anchoring her to their destined course, thawing her bitterness into hope. She must believe in Arthur’s vision. In their love. In this precious gift, imagined or real, now blossoming inside her.

Gwen paused still, surprised to find her enmity toward Morgana now dimmed. Her nightmares of captivity also fading, displaced by an apprehensive yet wondrous hope. In mere days, her cycle’s arrival would confirm her deepest desire or cruelly crush what now felt so real.

A knock at the door jolted her, shifting her focus to outward duties still to come – final gown fitting – approving menus and entertainment – reviewing ceremony protocols – and so much more on her list to do before Thursday.

“Come,” Arthur called.

Merlin entered the room swiftly, tall and handsome, eyes glinting with their familiar mischief. He bowed awkwardly, lips hinting at a suppressed smile. “Arthur, my queen.”

Gwen giggled and Arthur scoffed. “Good lord, Merlin,” he said. “Since when do you stand on ceremony with us?”

“Well, she was just ‘Gwen’ before. Now she’s—”

“My wife?”

“The wife of a clod-pole king, soon to be his queen.” Merlin rolled his eyes, his grin wide.

Gwen laughed again and Arthur snorted, though she caught his mouth ticking into a smile. She had missed their playful banter, and the affectionate spark in their eyes showed they had too.

“This clod-pole married the wisest and most beautiful woman in the kingdom,” Arthur said, grasping her fingers to kiss them, his eyes never leaving hers. His face scrunched as he looked back at Merlin. “And you’re just realizing that after all this time?”

Merlin shrugged. “I haven’t had time to think about it, really. Training with Galahad – court protocols – transitioning into the role of physician.”

He looked at Gwen. His expression turned sincere as he met her eyes. “I only know that I’m very proud of you, Gwen.” He smiled warmly, then shifted his gaze to Arthur. “And you, Arthur. Thank you for all you’ve done and are going to do.”

Arthur winked, thumbed to the chair beside him and Merlin sat, reaching for a bowl and then the stew.

Gwen smiled, gazed upon her friend. He looked quite handsome in the red tunic she’d had made for him. He deserved something special to go with his new responsibilities. She’d come to regard him as not simply a wizard. His magic was a special gift to all mankind Gaius had once told her, and she believed it now. The teasing over her status and Merlin’s warm words soothed her. At least here in this room, she was still just Gwen.

And yet, could she ever be only Gwen again? The weight of crown and country now awaited her shoulders too.

“Here we are,” she said after a moment, peeling a small portion of pheasant meat from bone. “The three of us at last.”

“The way it should be.” Arthur reached to tear a loaf of bread, nodding with satisfaction. He soaked up some stew gravy and popped the morsel into his mouth, the picture of contentment.

“No.” Gwen spoke softly. “We’re missing one.” Arthur paused his eager chewing, smile fading, then aggressively tore more bread.

Her chewing slowed too, her mind drifting back to simpler times – when she and Morgana shared secrets no one else knew. Morgana had taught her to read and write, bonding them beyond mistress and servant. But time had twisted something once so innocent; only memories lingered now. Gwen exhaled, letting go of the past to face the urgent days ahead.

“You saw her, then?” she asked Merlin, her stomach twisting as she pictured Morgana confined in solitude on a desolate mountain peak, deprived of human contact.

Arthur shifted beside her, his tearing hand stilled, bread forgotten. Piercing blue eyes held uncomfortable curiosity – perhaps even a glimmer of compassion – as he looked upon their friend.

Merlin nodded. “Yes.” He reached for his goblet suddenly and drank. Arthur glimpsed at her and then back to Merlin as he continued to consume the wine. Placing the goblet on the table, his Adam’s apple bobbed as the last remnants went down. Glassy eyes brimmed with sadness.

“How is she?” Gwen probed. Once so dear, her former friend had cut her deeply. And though now locked away, the whispered threats of her curse may haunt Gwen’s hopes.

“Extremely bitter,” Merlin simply replied, his gaze lowered.

“Well, she’s alive,” Arthur huffed, picking up the spoon to resume his meal. “She should be happy about that.”

Merlin flashed sorrowful eyes towards Arthur and Gwen tugged at her lower lip.

“You heard Kilgharrah’s prophesy, Arthur,” she said. “We need her.”

Arthur dropped his spoon with a clank and leaned back in the chair, surprise on his face at her seemingly sudden willingness to accept Morgana’s foretold path alongside them. He stared at her incredulously – and so did Merlin, though he gave her small reassuring nod.

“We can succeed without her,” Arthur insisted.

Gwen reached out a hand and covered his. “You’re studying about magic, Arthur,” she said, “the doctrines and mysticism of the old religion, their customs and beliefs. Knowing all that you’ve learned now, do you truly believe that?”

Arthur brooded in his way – face in a deep scowl and lips in a pout; he massaged his temple and forehead. She could not fault him though – hadn’t he vowed to shield her from that woman’s shadow? Yet destiny seemed to pry open old wounds for them both – yet he choose to lick them sore.

Arthur scrubbed his chin, his shoulders relaxing. Covering her hand with his, his expression became solemn. “I cannot promise that I can make peace with her.”

She gave Arthur’s hand a gentle squeeze. Perhaps she could stand strong for him too until destiny was reconciled within him. Though, he still had more to weigh and reconcile within fate’s design.

“Do you truly desire to fight destiny – jeopardize Albion’s future?” she pressed, then immediately regretted her words when Arthur withdrew his hands, frustration thin on his lips. He bent over his bowl and ate in silence – stubborn as the ancient oaks in the Darkling Woods.

Gwen sighed, then salted her egg before taking a small bite and reclining in her chair. Arthur always believed that he controlled his own destiny. Finding out that mystical powers greater than he had plotted his course all along bristled against his being, his manhood, his honor.

“Gwen’s, right, Arthur,” Merlin said quietly. “Kilgharrah advises patience and wisdom as events unfold. No matter what we do, we can’t alter destiny.”

Arthur waved his spoon impatiently. “Morgana must be aware of this – collaboration we’re supposed to establish,” he grumbled. “How does she feel about it?”

“The same as you, Arthur. She despises the thought – doesn’t trust us.”

“Well,” Gwen said. “At least we have a mutual starting point.”

“Seriously, Gwen – you? Of all people?” Arthur asked, tossing his arms up in frustration, persistent in his disbelief in her change. “Am I the only one who still sees the threat in her?”

“She’s now powerless,” Gwen reminded him. “You said as much yourself just yesterday.” And she knew belief was a choice – especially now.

“That doesn’t mean she’s trustworthy!” Arthur exploded, his agitation palpable as he pushed away from the table. Hands on hips, he paced a tight circle, wrestling with unseen doubts.

Gwen bit into her lip, annoyed with Arthur’s obstinate resistance to unity – if not compromise. She didn’t know why Morgana was still considered worthy, but powers grander and higher than they demanded obedience. “Who are we to defy the prophecy the gods have set forth for us?”

“They’re not my gods, nor yours, Guinevere,” Arthur said tightly. “Given another chance, she will betray us.”

“She has value that we cannot fathom right now, Arthur,” Merlin said. “She poses no threat.”

Arthur stopped and glared at them both. “She has allies” His words hung ominously.

Gwen’s breath caught, but she quickly steeled herself, sitting tall. “Greater powers compel us toward unity – no matter the past. People can change.” Her moment of clarity struck just before the council meeting had steadied her. Though Lord Badawi’s accusations had stirred her, she had emerged resolute – to stand stalwart for unity, come what may. “For now, we need only use her, not trust her.”

Merlin’s brows shot up, doubt creasing his face.

Arthur held silent, jaw clenched. His eyes betrayed the anger still churning within, yet her audacity gave him pause. They matched wills; she did not blink.

She continued after a moment, “There is much more guiding us through this – Arthur, your sword. Merlin, your magic…” Her child … She trailed off, studying Merlin. “We’ve spoken so little about your magic and your past.”

“Yes, I know,” Merlin said softly, averting his eyes.

Gwen rose and stepped over to him, looking at him warmly. Weary of defending Morgana, she was happy to divert their conversation. Taking his hand in hers, she asked softly, “Will you share some of it with us now?”

“He rides the dragon,” Arthur interjected, plopping heavily into his chair with exaggerated weariness.

Gwen clicked her tongue, though a small smile crept onto her lips. “Yes, I do recall you blurting that out last Sunday.” She met Merlin’s eyes. “What does it mean, to be a dragonlord?”

He nodded, reflecting on how to begin. They’d been friends since that day she introduced herself while he was pinned in the stocks. Even during that humiliating experience, he’d found words to make her laugh. She hoped that spark in him lasted a lifetime. She returned to her seat, and waited patiently for him while she nibbled on a honey nut cake.

“Well, I ... can commune with dragons – speak to them, summon them.” He cleared his throat, shifted in his seat. So did Arthur. “Inherited talent from my father, really.”

“Your father?” she asked. “You knew him then?”

“Yes. No – not for long.” His rims reddened; his voice quivered. “We found him a few days before he was killed.”

“Oh, Merlin,” she gasped, a hand covering her mouth.

“There was nothing I could do to save him.” He recovered after a moment, his voice firmer. “His death was the only way for me to become a dragonlord.”

“What a terrible price to pay for a gift.” She’d known her father well into her adulthood; missed him even to this day. For Merlin to have only a moment with his father broke her heart. Did the gods also orchestrate their fleeting reunion only to usher Merlin closer to his destiny? “I’m so sorry, Merlin.”

“It wasn’t easy losing him so soon after finding him.” His tears had resurfaced and Merlin wiped his face with a sleeve. Arthur’s expression was a shadow of loss and pain, too, his eyes downcast.

“I used to dream about growing up with him,” Merlin continued, “learning from him – what my life would have been had he been a part of it. Gaius is the closest I’ve come to having a father, but it isn’t the same.”

“Tell me his name,” she said softly.

“Balinor.”

Arthur said, “He was the dragonlord we sought after the great dragon was freed and attacked Camelot. I didn’t know at the time that he was Merlin’s father. I discovered that last month.”

The peril of the dragon attack came rushing back to Gwen. The raging fires, the broken peoples dropped by it from great heights, the harrowing cries of pain and agony. Her brush with the creature while trying to retrieve fresh water made her skin crawl. Only Arthur’s shouting of her name alerted her to the danger diving toward her from the black sky.

She shuddered at memories once repressed now stirred too near. “Did you ever learn who freed the dragon?” she asked with unease.

Merlin stared at the table silently, Arthur chewed his lip, glanced away.

Gwen pressed on, outrage leaking into her voice. “It was you, wasn’t it, Merlin?” Her eyes burned with wrath reliving her vulnerability beneath merciless wings and talons. “You set rampaging fury into our skies? What madness seized, unleashing such calamity upon us?” Grace could not restrain the outrage coiling inside; accusation tinged her inquiry.

“I released a creature of light and air from the madness of twenty years of captivity. Yes. I set him free.” There was no regret in his voice – only conviction in penetrating blue eyes.

“Don’t blame him, Gwen,” Arthur admonished her. “As you say, greater powers compel this unity. Maybe it was part of their plans too.”

Gwen cast him a scornful look, though she felt her cheeks flush, chastened. Arthur had the benefit of his sword to help him reconcile with their magical pasts and uncertain futures. Merlin was Magic. She was still attempting to catch up with them. She inhaled, centering herself.

“Forgive me, Merlin.” Gwen reclined in her chair, the fight ebbing out of her. His past was not hers to judge. “Everything we’ve done has led to these moments with or without the gods.”

“The good and the bad, I suppose,” Merlin added. “There’s more I need to tell you.”

Gwen reached across the table and placed a hand over her friend’s white-knuckled fist. “Whatever it is, I promise to do my best to remember where we’re headed. I want to see how all the parts of the past fit together.” She smiled and returned on her meal.

Listening intently to the telling of his deeds, their meal soon cooled forgotten. Blank spaces in Gwen’s memory filled as she listened, disjointed events now imbued with clarity and meaning. She watched understanding dawn across Arthur’s face too at times, their friend’s solitary sorrows unveiled fully into light at last.

Her eyes drifted to Arthur, his brows now relaxed, hints of a smile on his lips. She caressed her belly, imagining the tiny life they had created. However long the road ahead, they would walk it together with friends beside them. All the shadows of the past could not dim the radiant future she suddenly saw unfolding – Albion, their child, and the adventures left to come.

Chapter Text

Wind whipped around his golden, scaled armor, down his horned spine, across his great wings; it was neither cold nor comforting in the breaking light on his mountain perch. His home – though occupied by Aithusa and an unwanted guest – gave way to barrenness, his longing for skies now empty of his kind to one day be filled with them again. Morgana's presence an insult, his dragon calls going unanswered, nothing could hearten him in this moment, his fruitless effort only deepening his annoyance.

Attempting the call again, Kilgharrah closed his eyes, one word humming in his mind: “Anouilh.” As familiar as his own breath yet foreign after so many years, it was a greeting, a salutation shared only among dragons.

He hadn’t uttered nor thought of the word in such a long time that he’d almost forgotten it. It’d been only a blink of time since the noble and somewhat troubled king had informed him some dragons had survived the purge – a heartbeat ago in his endless lifespan. To breathe the dragon tongue now gave him new purpose.

He pressed his thoughts outward. Dragon-speak had no range as far as he knew, much like the flight of the dragon itself – traveling great distances in an eye’s wink. He’d stretched his mind to its boundaries seeking the other minds, reaching out with hope and resolve in many directions. No reply had come; still, it was a big world.

“Anouilh,” he repeated with urgency.

Silence.

Breathing in fresh air, he opened his large golden eyes. The last stars in the west blinked out as eastern light crept slowly behind jagged mountain peaks, his vexation building. His claws gripped the rocky ledge; he yearned to believe that his kin still roamed some distant land. If they had escaped the purge, to where did they flee? Were they in some secret realm where nothing could touch them, not even their far-reaching dragon-speak? Or had they truly perished as everyone else believed?

His frustration mounting, his nostrils flared and giant wings fluttered against his side. “Perhaps, there is no power left in the word because there are no others alive to hear its call!”

A roar rumbled in his throat, his breast brightened with impending warning. Pockets of deadly gas simmered in swelling sacs of fire, ready to expel their flames. He should not rely upon the words of men. His faith in them had utterly diminished during the purge – in his twenty years of captivity. The human heart was corrupt and human words vile. Words had captured him – words had driven him to madness.

No.

Arthur was no mere man, nor Excalibur a mere sword. The prophecies rang true – this young king was destined for greatness, with the warlock and enchanted blade lighting the way. Together they would build a world of lasting peace. Dragons will return.

Kilgharrah inhaled, wrath evaporating as he exhaled wisps of smoke. He must not lose faith. Arthur spoke of dragons surviving somehow, against all odds. That fragile hope tempered his fury, cooling the fire smoldering within.

“The great king said it was so,” he breathed, conviction in his words, his bitterness tamped down. He shifted his bulk and laid his head upon his forearms, his scales scraping against rock. He sighed. “What must I do? What am I not seeing?”

Kilgharrah watched the fading wisps of clouds, adrift having no purpose, his thoughts wandering as he pondered their transient nature. Forming then dissolving to nothingness, carried on invisible winds. Much like traveling the subtle currents of the aether itself.

He blinked, scales glinting. If one followed those ephemeral trails through the void, distance and even time itself unraveled. What mysteries or forgotten kin might one find wandering far enough?

He raised his head, resolve hardened like gemstones. The aether was unbounded, infinite – perhaps his calls simply hadn't traveled far enough. He would fly deeper, stay longer, pursue every filament and trail in the endless void.

"I must fly to distances and times I’ve never dreamt before," he declared.

Shifting on his hind legs, he spread his great wings and lifted into the air. In his periphery, he saw Morgana rushing out of the entrance of the cave mouth, Aithusa scurrying past her, squawking unremittingly at him. But his mountain disappeared in a flash.

The aether, an eerie darkness devoid of sound, allowed him to slip into its realm and travel along liquid gold filaments – wispy trails snaking out to guide travelers to destinations or the dragonlords’ calls. For ancient dragons such as he, riding the glittering currents were nearly instant, even soothing. But for younger dragons, wandering astray from those golden threads left one lost forever in the dark infinities between space and time.

Kilgharrah hoped Aithusa did not try to follow. But now he must plunge far down forgotten filament-paths, his heart alight with tentative hope. If any dragon kin yet lingered out among unknown realities, he would search to the ends of time and space to find them.

Anouilh.

His mind wandered freely as he drifted through the infinite darkness alit with thousands of strands of gold, emitting hopeful greetings into the void. He pictured his lost kin soaring majestically through otherworldly skies on leathery wings. Perhaps they nested on distant and alien clifftops, guarding eggs that would hatch a new generation.

"Anouilh!" he called again … and again, straining to detect an answering whisper in the aether's endless emptiness. Yet only silence echoed in his mind, deep and profound.

Hours wore on, doubt long crept into Kilgharrah’s thoughts. Surely, they could be reached here. What if Excalibur had misled Arthur? What if the news of surviving dragons was only a ploy by an idealistic man seeking to raise his hopes, then dash them? Anger simmered in his breast. Had he allowed himself to be made a fool once more by the race of men?

He called for home.

Kilgharrah came to rest on his perch outside the mountain cave as Aithusa bounced and squawked happily beside Morgana, a cloak around her shoulders and hood drawn. The scowl on her face and frown on her lips conveyed her displeasure as she approached him. He settled, tucking his wings, ignored her deepening frown.

“Where have you been?” she asked, her lips twitching. A gust of wind whipped over them and she quaked with cold. A chuckle rippled in his throat to see her shutter with discomfort while Aithusa chittered gleefully when the air lifted her off the cliff shelf.

“That is not your concern.” His reply was gruff, his harmonics jarring her further and pleasing him to channel his frustration upon her. He crossed his arms and laid his head upon them.

“You disappear without a word for hours,” she snapped, recovering quickly he noted from his and nature’s harsh treatment of her. “When you leave me to care for your baby dragon, it then becomes my concern. You are neglecting her.”

Bitterness seeped and spitefulness ebbed from the stark reality of her words. He raised his head, his gaze drifting to Aithusa. Before the hope that other dragons lived, she had been his purpose, for her very existence was a miracle he had not foreseen nor ever imagined. She would one day be a light for Camelot.

Yet, Merlin had spent little time with her, so all fell to him the teachings of the dragon way. It would be a few years before her vocals would develop – longer if Merlin continued neglecting his dragonlord duties. Her mind had already manifested emotions in an explosion of colors and images within his. He’d forgotten how beautiful and innocent young dragon minds were. He returned his gaze to Morgana.

“I know Arthur’s revelation about other dragons is important to you,” she said, her tone softer.

“I must seek them out,” he bit out. “What else do you want?”

“I want is to return to civilization and be with my own kind, but I don’t suppose that is going to happen.” She inhaled sharply. “This is about Aithusa.”

“What about her?” he asked brusquely.

Morgana shook with indignation, but her expression quickly softened. “She tries to follow you and disappears as well, Kilgharrah. I fear for her safety when she’s gone.”

Aithusa gleefully hopped and fluttered on another current of wind. Despite leaving her in Morgana's care, she appeared well nurtured and happy nonetheless. He tilted his head.

“You care for her,” he said with astonishment, blinking slowly as revelation dawned within him.

Morgana's expression warmed as she looked at Aithusa. “I do. She's innocent in all this and deserves better.”

Kilgharrah nodded, a slight softening in his amber eyes as he studied Morgana, considered her care for the hatchling. Though still guarded, her concern for Aithusa seemed genuine.

He hadn’t cared whether Morgana ate, or had water, or was warm enough, but perhaps his resentment need not run so deep. She had restrained her scornful tongue in recent days, too. Could there be something deeper kindling behind her diminishing hostility? If she had opened her heart to Aithusa, might other goodness yet stir? She just called him by his name – a first. He inhaled softly, remained wary, uncertain of her motives. But he could not deny the subtle changes in her.

“I will teach her the ways of travel so she may one day join me in the search,” he declared. “But she must grow stronger first.”

Morgana's shoulders relaxed. She even smiled.

Hope still burned within Kilgharrah – he mustn’t ignore Arthur's revelation. But Aithusa was the future, too – the first dragon to be born in over twenty years – as far as he knew. His search for the others must wait a while longer.

“I will remain here to train her,” he said. Kilgharrah lowered his snout to nuzzle Aithusa, rumbling affectionately as she chittered. The young dragon then started nipping at his snout in play. Morgana nodded, satisfied, and returned inside the cave – Aithusa scurrying after.

Kilgharrah watched them go, then turned his gaze back to the horizon. The ache to find other dragons pulled at him. But ensuring Aithusa’s safety and training was paramount. Though it could take years, when she was ready, they would scour the aether as one.

Until then, this mountain would remain home. For them all.

Chapter Text

After declaring his business urgent with the king, Sir Bernewyn rode at the head of the Escetir envoy through the southern gates into Camelot’s middle-class town, Pendragon banners flapping mockingly in the midmorning sun. As with the occupants of the tent city outside the castle walls, its lanes also throbbed with music and revelry. No doubt King Arthur designed this ostentatious spectacle to flaunt Camelot's stability and wealth after the Southron War victory and his union to a mere serving girl.

Yet Bernewyn kept keen eyes upon the fortifications. Cressets blazing along the broad parapets. Significant forces patrolled the streets and ramparts, heavily armed. Passing through the portcullis into the citadel courtyard, he noted allied sigils, emblems, and colors blending with Camelot-crimson and black. Far more defenders than their scouts had estimated garrisoned the palace. Of course, this mass was temporary.

Only two of his envoys were allowed into the castle, the remaining four halted under guard in the courtyard. His first visit deep inside the enemy stronghold, the citadel teemed with household guards, many bearing the sigil of Camelot though some may have been conscripts from other realms. Climbing the southeast turret, he spied servant girls darting quick glances and hushed whispers at their foreign uniforms. Likely the help were forbidden from even approaching sensitive areas such as the king's council chamber ahead. Nourishments were brought in promptly as were sentries posted inside and outside the doors.

They waited.

Two hours, he waited – Camelot’s lack of decorum and respect brewed fury in Bernewyn's blood. Pacing like a caged animal when the doors parted, King Arthur entered in formal regalia flanked by crimson-caped knights, the very image of chivalry and authority. Much younger than anticipated.

Bernewyn managed a stiff bow, his eyes on Pendragon instead of lowered with humility. “I am Sir Bernewyn of Airaldii, emissary to King Lot of Escetir.”

Pendragon met his gaze directly, an air of bold confidence about him quite unlike the paranoid tyrants ruling some kingdoms. Perhaps the boy fancied himself courageous to deal plainly instead of cowering behind shields of security. Still those piercing eyes seemed to take him in full measure in an instant despite his years.

“What business brings you to Camelot during this joyous time of celebration, Sir Bernewyn? Surely, your arrival could have delayed a week.”

“Broken treaties do not pause for parties, Your Majesty. My king sends urgent matters that will not wait.” Their business in Camelot was no mystery to Pendragon’s informed eye – unless matters of border security and sovereignty had escaped the young king's attention considering the end of a war, a dragon attack, marriage, and a new queen. Their timing to provoke him was perfect.

Arthur's jaw clenched, but he smoothed his flash of annoyance. "Esteemed emissary you may be, but I dare not insult my queen by marring her coronation with critical debates. Your business will keep till next week."

Bernewyn’s lips thinned at the firm dismissal. "Time is of the essence, sire. I cannot linger idle when it took eight days’ ride to arrive."

"Then enjoy the hospitality of Camelot until I conclude affairs with my queen,” King Arthur replied, his smile not reaching his eyes. “You may even represent Escetir in the tournaments if you’re up to the challenge."

Bernewyn curled a fist, indignant at both offers. “King Arthur, I must protest.”

“Your arrival is unexpected, Sir Bernewyn,” he replied sharply. “I will not alter my plans nor my decision to accommodate what I am certain is ill news. It will wait. Sir Ranulf…”

“Yes, sire.”

“Please see our guests situated comfortably in an envoys' pavilion with the other visiting nobles – outside the city walls. Keep them under watch until I summon them.” The finality of Pendragon's tone brooked no argument. He spun smoothly on his heels, red cape swirling as he strode for the doors without further acknowledgement.

His advisor came beside him still staring at the doors as they closed behind Arthur. "The arrogance!" Lord Ioan said. “Does he not understand?”

Bernewyn slammed a fist into his palm, burning with indignation. “As if our urgent missive is some trifling matter to be delayed for a party!”

"He's even more a naive fool than we realized," Lord Ioan spat. “The pretty boy-king dancing attendance on his bride when the serious affairs of men await!”

“Have a message sent to Airaldii over the delay.” He glared at the closed doors – the unexpected impasse handed by Pendragon bristling. “Mark, my words, Ioan. This fanciful king would soon learn what realities exist beyond youthful notions of romance.”

Chapter Text

Killian, youngest son of a noble House of Gawant, pulled his hood closer. Though he still bore the look of Killian, he now wore the fine silks of a visiting lordling rather than a knight. He slipped through Camelot’s crowded lanes, spite corroding his tongue at their careless cheer. Vigilant eyes scanned all as he strove toward his destination.

The increase in fortifications along the battlements and heavily armed soldiers patrolling the streets urged caution, escape routes and hiding places marked if needed to avoid or evade. A scowl flicked. The sheer number of people throughout Camelot proper warned against haste – delay plans – perhaps a week or longer.

Still, necessity dictated an assessment of the vaults’ security. Without the artifacts, their plans may need simplifying to something less than desired that won’t satisfy their appetites for vengeance. Raucous laughter erupted nearby – a staggering man knocked into Killian, sloshing pilfered ale over his silk tunic before strangers roughly hauled the sot away. He scoffed with a throaty growl, but continued toward his destination.

Although crowds complicated matters now, he considered opportunities for advantage could emerge in time. After weeks crafting contingency schemes, they were nothing if not patient. Camelot’s gilded era would soon expire; he and Mordred would ensure that – one exquisite step at a time.

Killian crossed into the timber-framed buildings of the upper town, emerging onto a wide avenue where raised voices drew him toward a tavern brimming with tension and harsh words. Curious, his eyes flicked to the sign above it – the Red Lion.

“...your soft hearts welcome evil within the gates—within your homes!” a foreign accent bellowed as he approached. “Do not be deceived! Magic corrupts utterly. Its very existence is a plague upon the righteous and just.”

Killian’s lip curled with contempt as he peered with others gathered at the open door, glimpsing an elder nobleman – an Alexandrian by his dressed – holding court among the tavern’s refined patrons. They hung on his every impassioned word, expressions rapt.

“Stand idle no more while sorcery spreads its sinister grip on Camelot!” Mutters echoed his warning to superstitious ears. “We must take action to protect kith and kin from latent evil in our midst!”

Killian scoffed and turned back to path. He cared nothing for the venom this foreign serpent spewed against magic and its kin – in that, the misguided mob was akin to Uther’s wretched reign. Yet perhaps the poisons he spreads to the masses fuel these fervent crowds against their sanguine king, crumbling his house from the inside. The thought brought a sly smile as Killian receded into the crowds.

In the courtyard, he ascended the citadel steps, mixed with the flow of other arrivals. Passing through the check point with forged papers of nobility, he lowered the hood and reluctantly yielded his sword and dagger, bristling at being weaponless amongst his enemies.

Navigating the route Dodd had laid out from his drawings, Killian aimed upward for the vaults on the fifth floor. He wove through a throng of people – passed busy servants, nobles and commoners dressed in their best, awe and wonderment on their faces. But mostly, he noticed many heavily armed soldiers of Camelot and knights from around the realm sentried along opulent corridors.

As hard as it was for him, he smiled to appear pleasant as if he belonged in the cheerful castle alit with light and song and joy. He ran fingers along a flower garland roped on stands and running along the walls. Resisting the softness of the petals and the fragrance excited by his touch, he snatched a tankard of beer from the tray of a passing servant, taking a soothing swallow.

He turned toward the southeast corner, toward the turret. A pair of armed guards approaching split the crowd as they marched through. Killian made no eye contact, his focus on the entrance to the stairwell just ahead. The small space teemed with people too, flowing up and down the tight curves of the turret, much the same as his flight from Knight Maxwell all those weeks ago.

Exiting onto the second floor, two guards with lance and sword were stationed at the arch. He crisscrossed this level to take the northwest turret. More guards and people filled the open area, most spilling through the doors of the lesser hall – waiting for an audience with the king and queen. Knights protected those doors, their red cloaks and emblazoned dragons no doubt inspiring some and intimidating others.

With a slow roll of his eyes and jaws cinching, Killian shouldered his way through the people, the buzz of chatter and laughter vibrating the room and irritating his nerves. Entering the turret where sentries were also positioned, he noticed no stream of people flowed between the third and fourth levels – the royals keep. Yet, he ventured onward.

Just before the turn, he paused, glanced behind him and then forward, his thoughts triggering obstacles that could lay ahead. What business had he beyond the fourth level? The fifth floor would doubtless boast tighter security.

Chewing his lip, Killian eyed his pilfered tankard and the stain on his tunic as inspiration struck – the sloshing sot had indeed granted him advantage. He nearly drained the vessel with exaggerated gulps, adding theatrical swagger to his stumbling ascent around the bend.

Two lances immediately blocked his path at the entrance as he landed on the last step. Killian swayed a little, his head bouncing from one guard to the other, eyes heavy-laden.

“Turn around, sir,” one warned sternly, gaze raking over his foreign garb. “You have no business here.”

“What?” Killian feigned a wide, drunken grin and raised his tankard. “I’m here for the celebrations.” He knitted his brow and pressed his lips thin, looking around quizzically. “Where am I?”

“Some place you don’t belong,” the guard said tightly. “The celebrations are below.”

He gulped another drink. A servant from behind the sentries then appeared carrying a tray with remnants of a meal. Killian’s eyes cataloged three servings as they let the servant pass and the lances returned to impede his advance.

“Food you say?” Killian slurred, swaying to glimpse through the lances. “Might you kind sirs spare a morsel...?” He stumbled to his left, supporting himself against the wall, peering past their shoulders.

“You’re inebriated, my lord,” said the other. “Perhaps you should return to your quarters instead.”

Killian snorted indignance. “Very well, good sirs,” he replied, offering them a sloppy bow before descending.

Out of their view, he straightened his posture, shedding his drunken pretense. He descended to the third floor, tallying obstacles – at least five guards barring upper access, likely more hidden within.

He drifted through the castle, blending into celebratory groups to track sentry patterns, climbed all the turrets to each level – at least eight guards per floor. Shift changes occurred on the hour. Patrols moved at irregular intervals.

Killian lingered in an alcove, mapping routes and markings. His sharp eyes dissected spaces between guards, sentry positions at entries and exits. The crowds could aid escape, but progress would be challenged if he must move with haste. For now, patience and preparation ruled the day.

Returning to the second level, he leaned heavily against the wall, resuming his drunken act while scrutinizing the flow of petitioning subjects. Fingers flexing around a fresh tankard of ale, he quietly inventoried soldiers flanking nobility and servants alike.

His eyes drifted to the lesser hall – the hallowed chamber where his kin had been judged. What security surrounded the Pendragons within? Seeking to observe his targets, he wove among merry subjects and entered the chambers.

As expected, knights stood vigil over courtiers in finery intermingling alongside humbly dressed peasants. His gaze swept to the perimeter, flames danced on candelabras lining granite walls, six great columns splitting the chambers into three sections. Great red banners with gold dragons draped arched windows behind the thrones, fading sunlight streaming in. His eyes settled on Pendragon.

King Arthur sat resplendent on the throne, golden circlet glinting atop flaxen hair. His embroidered tunic could not hide the muscled frame of a hardened warrior beneath. Queen Guinevere sat beside him, adorned with rubies glinting from her ears and throat. Waves of brown locks flowed beneath a few banded braids. Even lacking crown, her bearing filled the hall with a luminous grace. Killian’s jaw cinched.

The dragon and his peasant queen – one who captured our mistress.

His gaze drifted to Merlin standing on Pendragon’s right – deceptively passive for a mighty sorcerer.

He who subdued Morgana.

He regarded the protection around the monarchs. A soldier stood between the queen and the seven knights flanking them – Sir Maxwell not present. His eyes flicked back to the soldier – formidable bearing – alert eyes darting over the court. Killian had bumped shoulders with him a few days ago in middle town – perhaps he too recalled faces. Focusing inward, he tapped into his innate magical gifts, concentrated on a new visage in his mind’s eye, felt a tingling sensation wash over his face. His facial structure shifted subtly, just enough that he would not be immediately recognized.

A giant knight escorted nobles before the king as Killian glided forward slowly. He recognized those men – two who’d unintentionally aided his escape last month when they’d restrained Sir Maxwell. Though his face was slightly altered he halted, needing no closer vantage near a column in the quieted hall.

“Sir John. Lady Isabella.” Arthur welcomed the elderly couple, the deep pitch of his voice carrying across the chamber. “We are pleased to see you in our court once again.”

“King Arthur. Queen Guinevere,” Sir John said with an appreciative tilt. “We are in your great debt once more. Your courage has saved this kingdom from destruction again and again.”

Killian scoffed. Sycophants, all. What of the innocents you’ve not saved, Arthur Pendragon? The practitioners whose gifts you’ve crushed rather than fostered? Yes, feed the dragon’s ego while you can. He’ll need something from which to draw strength before we finish things.

The king replied. “I could not have succeeded without my knights, our allies, and my beautiful wife.” He cast an adoring glance at his queen.

Fallacious boar. Killian scowled, his jaw flexed. My mistress whose throne you sit and power you chained – your hypocrisy sickens me. We shall open your eyes to your hollow nobility and false humility. By my blade, your sins will revisit you until you beg the mercy you never granted.

“Congratulations, Queen Guinevere.” Lady Isabella said. “I never imaged the young girl barefoot in my kitchens would rise to such greatness. We are all so very proud of you, my dear.”

The queen smiled graciously. “Please, you’ve called me Gwen since I was a child. Let us not stand on ceremony now when you have loved me as family. Thank you for coming, my lady.”

This servant now sat undeserved beside the tyrant, yet torment awaited her too. With a slow inhale, Killian vowed to bury his losses when their blood flowed and their pitiful lives were ground beneath his heel at last. When he and Mordred washed clean their rotting kingdom, and just order prevailed. The wretched subjects cheering now would weep and gnash their teeth at his righteous correction and when their rightful queen returned.

The thought warmed him like spiced wine. He eased back a step, trading an acknowledging nod with a nearby knight. Still facing forward, he slid effortlessly into the periphery of courtiers. A few graceful steps through their ranks and he passed silently into the corridor beyond, leaving them to bask in their hubris.

Night had claimed the city when he reunited with Mordred at their discreet refuge. “The celebrations are well guarded, my friend. What did you learn?” Killian asked. The boy’s reply could prove useful in the days ahead. Though other challenges still lay before them, they readied their opening moves, prepared for the right moment to set their plans in motion.

Chapter Text

Al-Sayyid Badawi’s scorn for the peasant queen was thinly veiled at times – though his highborn breeding would never allow him to voice objections publicly. The thought of royal blood mingling with common stock deeply appalled him, though having lived most of his life in Camelot after his family’s expulsion from Egypt, to not attend the coronation to the kingdom they now pledged loyalty would bring dishonor upon his house.

Standing beside his children, his gaze wandered the Great Hall. Sunlight streamed through high arched windows, the cavernous hall converted to a bower of Camelot banners and flowers – orderly rows lining walls and rafters in what he grudgingly conceded matched Alexandrian pageantry of his youth. Rustling gowns and voices whispered as anticipation swelled, hundreds gathered to honor the unlikely new queen.

Badawi glanced at King Arthur standing ready on the dais, his trusted sword glinting golden on his hip. However common his bride, none could deny the steel in Arthur’s spine or valor in his heart – near legendary for one so young. As a boy the king had been brash, even cruel on occasion. But maturity and loss had forged a tempered leader, one even Badawi conceded upheld justice for high and lowborn alike. Such even compassion could prove folly now, especially with his new magic reforms dividing the realm. Yet today, Bishop Joseph’s presence signified Arthur valued faith alongside force when wielding power by royal right. A more complex and formidable monarch than enemies might assume.

“King Arthur cuts quite the royal figure, yes?” Yaminah asked, capturing his attention with her bright smile. Her striking hazel eyes, gold kohl lining accentuated their brilliance, shone above sculpted cheekbones flushed with excitement. His daughter fingered the gold and diamond pendant at her neck, ever fixated on appearances as she eyed the well-featured king – his long high-collared tunic, black boots and red cloak also lending a commanding presence that drew her in.

“Indeed, quite dashing,” Youssef replied dryly, scratching his head of tight curls. Despite the sarcastic tone, Badawi suppressed a smile. His tall-statured heir was nearly as vain as his twin sister, he too constantly toying with the gold and diamond signet ring ever present on his slender finger, the jewels glinting as he adjusted the embroidered silk of his sleeves.

Badawi cast an endearing gaze upon his children. As always, they wore traditional Alexandrian dress – Yaminah arrayed in fine, gossamer silk contrasting Youssef's smartly tailored kaftan and embroidered robes – complementing their graceful forms. It warmed him to see some culture clung to, though the twins were often eager for Briton newness which would vex any Coptic father. And though still unmarried to his dismay, they were exact likenesses of their mother. Every now and again, he would glimpse his long dead wife in them, his heart still adrift from the loss of his beloved treasure.

Youssef flashed a wry grin, a spark in his eyes. “The queen may be born of common stock, her beauty and spirit outshine even the loftiest ladies present,” he declared. “No doubt she shall champion the people with compassion. A ruler’s heart need be more than royal blood, does it not, baba?”

His subtly challenging tone was not lost on Badawi. Such naive idealism would crumble in the harsh light of reality. What did the peasant queen know about ruling a realm, especially now with sorcerers in council and magic running rampant, unchecked by fear? She proved as naïve as Arthur and would surely reap bitterly what they sowed today.

“Perhaps, but ruling also requires wisdom.”

Already Badawi witnessed sorcerers puffed up by these so-called freedoms, spouting rights and privileges. No longer under the watchful eyes of knights and soldiers, they grew bolder displaying their vulgar crafts no matter how benign. Such slippage of sovereign control would only accelerate with an inexperienced queen sympathetic to their kind and a king soothed by misplaced trust – long would Camelot rue this coronation day. For now, the twins’ innocence blinded them to hard truths about the destinies of kings and peasants.

“The kingdoms rejoice for her ascension,” Youssef said, slightly defiant.

Badawi motioned toward Princess Mithian. “I doubt she agrees.”

Princess Mithian and King Rodor of Nemeth wasn’t smiling like most everyone else in the hall. A broken engagement with King Arthur – his love for a blacksmith’s daughter surpassing a daughter of kings – still fresh in many minds. Yet Mithian showed courage attending her rival’s marriage to the man she had been promised, and he admired her for that.

“I dare to say she would have made an excellent queen,” he whispered wistfully.

“Don’t be cruel, baba,” admonished Yaminah. Though her defense was for Queen Guinevere, looking upon Mithian, sympathy softened her features.

“True love transcends duty sometimes – something that many of us yearn though few ever acquire,” she said, a longing caressing her tone. Her glance shifted to King Arthur. "To risk regal riches for humble happiness...such fortune is rare.”

He gazed at Yaminah, the melancholy in her tone stirring his heart. He had found such abiding joy with his dear departed Amina once. Though too fleeting – her loss had cleaved his soul.

In Yaminah's sighs, he glimpsed lingering loneliness she oft kept veiled. Had the demands of station alone denied her the profound heartbond they now celebrated in Camelot's king and queen? Or had his fierce protection of their Alexandrian heritage deepened her seclusion? She dwelt in the Northern Plains – still so far from the melodious Nile, removed even from familiar Arab customs that might offer camaraderie. She remained ever the outsider here, severed from possibilities – yet also detached from the simpler girlhood left behind in Egypt's shimmering dunes.

Badawi softly squeezed his daughter's hand, wishing not for the first time to remedy the absence that shadowed her eyes on occasion. But duty and grief yet kept his own heart locked away.

Yaminah offered a final wan smile before Youssef's heedless remarks summoned Badawi's attention and sparked his irritation anew.

“She’s a fine warrior, too,” his son affirmed. “I hear she battled for Camelot’s liberation alongside Arthur and that she alone captured the Lady Morgana.”

“You are young and naive,” Badawi replied with a scoff. “Do not believe every rumor fluttering on the wind.” His eyes rolled with agitation as he surveyed the other monarchs and high lords in attendance – Bayard of Mercia, Godwin of Gawant, Annis of Gwynedd, Gregory of Clarwick, Donnchadhs of Cornwall.

Badawi grunted as he gazed upon the aged and regal Lady Judith Donnchadhs, matriarch of one of the most powerful houses in their kingdom. With Cornwall’s allegiance still treading tenuous ground, King Odin’s presence was not expected. Yet sharp eyes knew the formidable Donnchadh matron need bow before no kings this day. Even without the fiery Odin gracing the hall, Lady Judith held sway to stand in his stead, confidence rooted in bartered steel and bannermen ready to march at her word.

“Things are changing,” replied Yaminah, catching his eye. “We may be young and our ideals novel, but we hold to the future – so does the king and queen. Why must you remain in the past, baba?”

Badawi thinned his lips, lifted his eyes with impatience. Just like her mother.

Only twenty-four summers old, Yaminah did not know Queen Ygraine’s gracious rule beside King Uther – the prosperity and summery warmth her gentility cultivated for all in those fleeting golden years before tragedy stripped such radiance away. What bliss a rightful queen brought through compassion alone, uplifting peasant and noble alike…What could a servant girl ever offer to eclipse the memory of beloved Ygraine’s bounties?

“We can debate their virtues later, Yaminah.”

“Quite right, baba,” Youssef agreed as he scrubbed his clean-shaven chin. “I must soon depart Camelot and I do not wish to leave with us at odds.”

Badawi thinned his lips studying his son with a questioning stare. Youssef’s secrecy increasingly unsettled him, his Christian sensibilities whispering of trouble. His son’s vague adventures spanned months, the occasional word coming from distant towns – even foreign realms, concerning him given their influences. Though Badawi grasped the value of worldly experience, neither child now sought nor heeded his counsel as in their youth. Both guarded their intentions, drifting beyond his reach.

Yaminah too raked anxiously, releasing her pendant and glaring at her brother. “Your adventures have stretched long these past months. Where do you wander now?”

Brow raised, Youssef idly stroked his chin, contemplative eyes flicking between them. “My travels must remain my own for now, dear sister,” he replied after a moment. He winked at her and then smiled mischievously. “But have no fear – I shall certainly dance with you tonight before my departure tomorrow.”

Before she could reply, ceremonial music announced the arrival of the queen and a hush fell over the great hall. All heads turned toward the double doors as pages spread them apart.

In flowing lavender silk, Queen Guinevere entered with measured grace, an enigmatic smile playing on glossed lips. Sunlight streaming through lofty arched windows wreathed her in ethereal splendor, brown locks artfully crowned her head while the rest cascaded down a straight back. Hazel eyes shone clear and unwavering as she glided through stands of enraptured onlookers, the graceful vision kindling hope in some hearts. Each step unwavering in the face of hundreds watching drew her inexorably into radiance – toward her passage into destiny.

“Breathtaking,” Yaminah uttered.

“No glittering gem could enhance her innate splendor,” whispered Youssef, awed.

Badawi grunted begrudging assent – beauty alone did not equip one for the throne, yet she donned confidence as naturally as the crown soon to rest on her brow.

Passing their ranks, the queen approached her king at last, his grin small yet swelling chest betraying arrogant pride in elevating her to lofty heights deserving of nobility. Badawi suppressed a scoff watching Arthur bask toward his foolish destiny, extending a hand to Guinevere as she ascended the steps.

Bishop Joseph stood before them, recited scripture, a blessing, and then the oaths, validating and sanctifying her ascension on behalf of faith and God.

As Arthur assisted Guinevere to kneel, the royal page stepped forth reverently holding the dazzling crown, each embedded jewel winking in the light. The king’s hands closed firmly around the emblematic headpiece, rays setting it aglow.

Time itself slowed as he lowered the symbol of authority and power.

“I crown you, Guinevere, Queen of Camelot.” Badawi hitched a breath as the bejeweled crown rested on the softened curls of a peasant – no longer a consort, now a monarch to decree their fates.

Grasping her hand and raising it above their heads, Arthur proclaimed boldly, “Long live the queen!”

The hall resounded with thunderous applause and triumphant chorus of “Long live the Queen!” as Guinevere rose as their solemn majesty and liege. Badawi released a shuddering breath, his jaw tightening against the swell of sorrow.

Kings and peasants. The death of us all. Camelot’s future and fate now rested on shifting foundations, the once firm ground corroding by the doomed idealism of two misguided souls.

Chapter Text

The masked woman swayed before the king and queen, her ballad sweeping through the hall in haunting Gaelic tones. She wore a dress of Pendragon crimson, swirls of Camelot’s gold and red adorning her flowing outer sleeves. Her high collar and petticoat matched the vivid mask, its feathers catching the candlelight. Turning occasionally to face the audience, her melodic voice filled the space – soothing and hypnotic.

“She’s beautiful,” Hunith said softly, seated between Merlin and Gaius.

“She certainly is,” Galahad whispered to Hunith in his lean across Merlin, eyes fixated on the singer and a syrupy grin spread across his face.

He gazed with adoration upon the masked woman as her ballad ended and she curtsied before the king and queen. During her accolades, she twirled towards the audience and curtsied once more before swiftly leaving through the royal exit where Sir Tristan was stood.

Galahad tapped Merlin, pointed with his head to the arches where she had passed through. “Do you know that lovely creature?” he asked.

Merlin smacked his lips. “That’s Isolde,” he replied. “Could you not tell? And I wouldn’t let Tristan hear you speak of her that way.” Merlin smiled widely as his mother giggled.

“The story of my life,” Galahad lamented, the fascination seeping away. Even with her face concealed, he should have recognized the woman whose life he’d saved from a fatal injury a month ago. He had not found that special woman to adore and cherish—his life not permitting. Or was it the high bar he’d set that none had been able to achieve? His affections fickle, had he let slip the woman of his dreams somewhere in the past? “I’m cursed, Merlin.”

“I’m sorry, Galahad,” Merlin replied.

How often had some ethereal beauty danced across his path only for him to advance no further a than kiss on the hand after a dance? How long would he deny his restless spirit a mere chance at profound joy?

Festive music began to waft through the hall as the noise level rose and eating, talking, and laughing resumed. A few couples’ joyful dalliance near the minstrels though a more lavish ball awaited in the great hall after the feast. He watched the blissful revelry solemnly. Seeing carefree couples twirl past ignited old wounds – had commitment to duty closed him off to love’s piercing sweetness?

“Or is it fear, dear boy?” he whispered into his goblet. His gaze swept the room; he breathed a heavy sigh.

A blue aura here, a red aura there—that’s a strong one; a green one shimmering by the minstrels, tapping his foot to the rhythm. There were many auras present in the castle, the courtyards, and the lanes. Since the ban on magic was lifted, more people with magic had appeared in Camelot, or their auras had become stronger, more vivid as they grew bolder. Fear was diminishing, allowing his kin to finally shine inwardly and outwardly. Hope flourished for the oppressed even with the rising opposition of others.

His eyes flicked to the queen – even she now shone with an aura not too dissimilar from Arthur’s fiery glow – a gleaming wave of gold surrounding her. Curious what had changed in her, watching a new aura manifest and intensify each time he saw her over the last weeks.

Galahad blinked, a puff of air escaped his lips. Suppressing a warm smile, he dared to surmise that a life was growing within her – perhaps a guarded secret he should not be aware.

“All seems well in Camelot,” Hunith was saying as Galahad averted his gaze from the queen. “Everyone appears to be in harmony.”

Merlin clicked his teeth. “On the surface, mother. More bad things continue happen around the kingdom. It may become harder to convince people that magic is not evil.” He lifted his goblet and sipped mulled wine.

Galahad lowered his gaze, his countenance sinking further into despair. More incidents had been reported across the realm – destruction of property, strange apparitions, mobs – but thankfully no other lives lost save the young boy a few weeks ago.

“Arthur is fixed steadfast upon this course,” Gaius replied. “The king will not retreat from restoring magic’s rightful place, though I fear more than words are needed to sway the hearts of men.”

Galahad set his tankard on the table top. They would show more than words in a few days – prove magic’s virtues… but would it be enough? “Change is hard, Merlin,” he brooded. “Expected it to be easy, did you?”

Ironically, he hadn’t expected his Clarwick brothers to take such hard offense to his slight infraction either, the beating they served him crushing his spirit since. His bittersweet assignment to mentor and train Merlin consumed most of his time, only facing his sore comrade in the barracks upon finishing his daily duties. Even then, the air was thick with resentment – veiled insults, but Galahad refused to request different quarters. He would not show cowardice in front of them – he would not be run off like a frightened mouse from its hole.

“Easier,” Merlin admitted soberly.

“You’re being naïve again,” Galahad tersely replied.

Though Merlin was but a few summers younger, Galahad had witnessed firsthand the extraordinary power simmering below the surface – magical might echoing ages long past now awakening to greet present need. When one day his gifts emerged in full, Emrys would surely stand as a formidable champion of Albion.

Yet his innocence around the grinding arduousness of change seemed only matched by the heights of his expectations. He grasped little of the perilous terrain ahead for those seeking to reshape the world as the youthful often do. And while hope outpaced experience in his dreams, Galahad glimpsed Merlin someday donning wisdom’s mantle as readily as his unfathomable might.

He inhaled a silent breath. Still, witnessing gifts awaiting to be unleashed, Galahad was honored when his counsel earned him the chance to join Merlin’s vital mission.

Taking a drink from his goblet, Galahad’s eyes roamed the chambers again, the cheerful ambiance rising as fast as mead was disappearing. Auras brighten, people became more relaxed with the help of spirits and lively music. But across the way, Sir Gwaine sat perturbed and brooding in a conversation with Sirs Percival, Leon and Elyan.

He’d heard much about the valor of the famous knight, rumors of his legendary swordsmanship becoming stuff of legends within the ranks. Good humored too he was told, but from the looks of things, Sir Gwaine didn’t appear to be having a good time right now.

Yet, seeing Gwaine stare his way, rise and then approach after a moment, Galahad straightened with excitement – to learn directly from this legendary sword master was an opportunity he could not pass.

“I’ll see you later, Merlin,” he whispered, leaving to greet the legend.

Smiling, he stepped into Gwaine’s path, tilted his head respectfully. “Sir Gwaine – an honor, sir. I’ve heard much about your swordsman–”

Gwaine blinked, his eyes finally focusing on him. “Sir … Galahad, right? Good party, eh?” The knight smacked his shoulder but passed him by, grinning broadly.

Dumbfounded, Galahad looked beyond the retreating knight, seeing that his eye had been for a beautiful woman a few tables beyond his, auras of others all around her. But she was refined, a polished work of art like he’d not seen before. Now he wondered if Gwaine had heard a word he’d said.

Returning to his table, Galahad dropped against it with a huff beside Merlin. “I do believe Sir Gwaine is going to be disappointed – that lady is surely above his station.”

Galahad turned to find Merlin frozen, eyes fixed intently on something, jaw clenched tight. As Merlin suddenly pushed to his feet, Galahad sprang up instinctively beside him. Hunith and Gaius watched with mounting concern but held their tongues.

“Merlin?” Galahad asked, alarm rising in him as he followed Merlin’s line of sight, seeing only the casual ease of people reveling.

Yet Merlin shouldered around him, weaving through the crowd, his eyes focused on an unknown target. Galahad followed, quickening his steps to match Merlin’s stride, dodging people here and there.

“What is it?” Galahad craned his neck, stretched to see whatever it was that seemed a threat to Merlin.

There he saw it. A strong green halo, retreating into the turret so quickly that Galahad could not discern whether the entity was male or female.

“Who is that, Merlin?”

“Mordred!”

Merlin charged after the intruder, Galahad on his heels, squeezing though openings in the mass to reach the turret and then down to ground level.

Bursting into the main square, the area pulsated with people and auras. Galahad swore under his breath, whipping his gaze left and right through the throng.

“There!” Merlin pointed to a silhouette slipping through the gates.

They sprinted across the courtyard and through the gates, the sound of merriment fading behind them but then rising again as they entered the town. They dodged townspeople – couples, children, dogs – none offering assistance though knights cast wary eyes. Skidding around a corner, they pursued the form down the torch-lit alley. His aura pulsated brighter now, perhaps from fear.

Up ahead, the alley opened into a wide intersection with lanes shooting in four or five directions and people laughing in revelry. Scanning the crowd desperately, Galahad shook his head, his breathing heavy and hands on hips.

“We lost him,” he said, gulping in air. “He could have taken any of these passages. He was just too far ahead of us.”

“No!” Merlin shouted, spinning on his heels. He paced, rubbed his forehead. “It was Mordred. Why was he back here?”

Galahad bent over panting as Merlin leaned against a wall breathing heavily, his feet spread apart. Straightening after a moment, Merlin slammed a fist against the wall in frustration and then cradled it with his other hand.

His grim expression sent uneasy shivers down Galahad’s neck as he stood upright. Mordred and an unknown accomplice had attempted to rescue Morgana once. He had not been present, but from the description of the accomplice – an older sorcerer with short cropped hair and hard leather – Galahad believed he was the sorcerer with the strangest aura he’d ever encountered. The same soldier he’d fought in the crypt and who could change his appearance in a blink.

He shuddered, sweat beading down his temples. Meeting Merlin’s gaze, he saw a reflection of dread staring back at him.

In the sprawling tent city outside Camelot’s outer walls, Mordred flinched as Killian’s furious pacing stirred up dust in their cramped tent. Celebrations in the commoners’ section carried on boisterously around them – oblivious to the tension within. The hulking man came to an abrupt stop in front of him, the candle flame glinting dangerously in his eyes.

“What were you thinking, showing your face at the feast?” he snarled. “You took an unnecessary risk, you foolish boy!”

Mordred lifted his chin, stood taller, though his nerves jumped under his skin. “I wanted to see them – Merlin, Arthur, Queen Guinevere – for myself,” he replied, deepening his tone, hoping it didn’t tremble. “Study our enemies.”

Killian took a threatening step closer, his imposing shadow falling over Mordred. “That was not for you to do!”

Mordred shrank back against the tent canvas. Taking another step, Killian whispered in a guttural voice, his breath washing hot over Mordred’s face. “Your role was to wait here until I returned with the artifacts.”

His hands swept over a circlet, a broach, and a pendant glinting in the candlelight spread on a dirty cloth – the fruits of their scheme.

Mordred’s eyes widened at the glistening jewels – supposedly deadly objects – before he squared his shoulders, feigning a confidence he did not feel. “The plan worked, didn’t it?”

Killian’s eyes blazed beneath his brows. “That is not the point!” His fist pounded the air by Mordred’s head. “You disobeyed and endangered everything we have worked for!”

He jabbed a finger into Mordred’s chest, trapping him against the tent canvas. “Don’t mistake that you are my equal, boy, and can do as you please.”

Mordred’s jaw and fists clenched, but he lowered his eyes. “It will not happen again.”

“See that it does not,” Killian growled turning away, his teeth bared. He tied the bundle of jewels then stashed them in his bed roll. “Dodd will continue to monitor the king and queen’s movements as planned. You stay out of sight until you’re needed.” He swept his cloak around himself and stormed from the tent, throwing curses over his shoulder.

Mordred let out a shaky breath and sank onto the ground, glaring daggers at the tent flap. He’d never seen Killian so angry before. Trembling, he wrapped his arms around himself and let tears that suddenly welled stream down his cheeks.

He glanced at the bundled treasures barely hidden in the bedroll – powerful weapons for exacting vengeance most horrifically as Killian would tell him. Mordred shuddered, tamping down pangs of guilt for justified revenge. Yes. This was justice, he reminded himself, for all the persecution inflicted upon his people.

He looked at the tent flap. Killian’s rage terrified him – he was powerful and hardened and driven. But he had suffered too and believed in his righteous cause.

One day, though, Mordred thought, perhaps he would not need Dodd and Killian. One day, he would stand on his own.

Chapter Text

That mask didn’t fool Gwaine. There wasn’t a woman he had met that he wouldn’t recognize again. Lovely creatures: women – balms for men’s lonely souls, he thought, a grin stretching his cheeks mid-bite. Like fine wines, each marvelously unique, yet all intoxicating in their own way.

He watched Isolde curtsy and then make haste through the royal exitway, Tristan on her heels and the applause dying down. The aromas of meats, fresh bread, and sweetened fruits stirred Gwaine’s appetite as he glanced toward minstrels plucking lively tunes in the corner, accompanied by a drum keeping tempo. A few couples danced, their joy twirling carefree under the torchlight. His chewing slowed – how he envied their shared elation. Would that he might sweep across the floor with a lovely companion in perfumed locks and silk gown.

He swallowed more wine then belched before setting the goblet back on the banquet table, eliciting frowns and rolling eyes from his friends sitting with him. He scanned the lesser hall again, focusing on the decorations, the garland and flowers and the abundance of pretty maidens accentuating the place. He flashed his most charming grin to every female eye that caught his, eliciting twitters and flushing cheeks from them – regardless of their status.

“What a difference from the council meeting a week ago,” Percival said, seated next to him and nibbling at the bread on his plate. Ranulf and Elyan sat on the opposite side, though Ranulf was engaged in a conversation with Sir James, while Elyan stabbed at his meat, scowling and lost in silent brooding. “Half these people were at each other’s throats then.”

“Nothing like a celebration with good food and wine to bring people together, eh?” said Gwaine, releasing another belch.

“You’re a pig,” Elyan sneered, glaring at him. Gwaine only smiled back, flinging his freshly washed locks out of his eyes. “In any company.”

Gwaine’s smile lessened, though he still smiled. The disquieting conversation they’d had in the lower town was still fresh in his thoughts, and Elyan’s disapproving confrontations during the Arthur’s inner circle meeting told his gut that the man was deeply troubled and wasn’t afraid to hide it from anyone.

Leon approached their table, goblet in hand. His short, purple tunic – family crest over the right breast – accentuated his slim body and great height. He took stance behind their seats. “Good evening, ladies,” he hailed with a grin. “Enjoying yourselves?”

“Some of us are,” Gwaine mumbled amongst the other joyous replies, still glancing at Elyan.

“Leon,” Percival said. “I’m well pleased you and Herschel have settled your differences.”

Leon glanced over at his table – so did Gwaine. The smartly dressed young lad was seated beside the lord of the manor, eyes bright as they laughed and conversed.

“As am I,” Leon said smiling. “Though we still have much to mend between ourselves, I’m… I’m hopeful…. He’ll return to Meadow Manor with me as my ward.”

“To Sir Herschel – future knight of Camelot.” Gwaine raised his tankard high.

“Aye!” Percival readily clanked goblets in endorsement.

Leon waved his drink with an approving smile. “I’ll gladly toast to that hope.”

Elyan slowly followed suit, no mirth in his expression nor felicitations on his lips.

Gwaine tensed – this a day for revelry, not brooding in discord. He took a long draught of mead, studying Elyan in the feast’s din.

“Thank you, my friends,” said Leon. “But I’m happy for Arthur and Gwen. It’s been a long time coming for them. They deserve this.”

Upon seeing the roll of Elyan’s eyes, Gwaine held back a retort, letting his glare speak for his silence. What could he do to help his friend?

Grabbing a whole chicken, his eyes drifted past Elyan to a woman seated a few tables across. His arm froze outstretched – chicken in his grasp – annoyance with Elyan dropped. Never had he seen such elegance and grace distilled into breathtaking form. His heart thrummed like a strummed lute string – he wasn’t breathing either.

Her skin was a richer shade than Gwen’s – smooth, radiant bronze. Coarse jet hair haloed her head in a perfectly-coifed froth, the wiry strands glinting burgundy when they caught the light just so. Full lips shone glossy mahogany, temptingly ripe for a forbidden taste. Almond eyes glimmered bright, their mysterious depths hinting hidden wonders.

As she toyed with her pendant, slender neck arching, Gwaine was struck utterly breathless. A yearning warmer than summer flooded through him. Stirred by more than mere beauty – something beckoned in her graceful mien.

“Who’s that?” he asked, awe in his voice, arm with the chicken retracting as he absently ripped off a leg.

“Who?” Percival asked, craning to see around Elyan, who also turned in his seat for a glance.

Elyan scoffed and settled back facing them. “Someone above your station, Gwaine. Best keep your distance. Her family would have you flayed just looking at her the wrong way.”

“You know her?” he asked, biting into the chicken leg, Elyan’s warnings going undeterred.

“I used to see her in the towns when we were growing up. But as a commoner, I wasn’t allowed to speak to her. Who’d want to?”

“That’s Al-Sayyidah Yaminah Zahir of the Northern Plains,” said Leon. “Lord Badawi is her father—quite formidable, but staunch ally to the crown. Their family was exiled from Egypt after a failed coup in Alexandria in ‘46.”

Gwaine chuckled low in his throat, wiping his hands on a cloth. “Well, I wouldn’t care if she’s the daughter of the pharaoh or they rebelled against his favorite house cat – you must introduce me.”

“Not a chance,” Leon said adamantly, chuckling.

“Seek another,” warned Percival leaning in, then whispering, “Remember what’s ahead.”

Gwaine’s smile dropped and jaw tightened as he shifted on the bench, the muscles in his neck knotting. He’d taken an oath to silence Badawi’s rhetoric, though any action they took could also harm his family – something he had not considered. His lips thinned. He closed his eyes as a shuddering breath escaped. Pursuing the daughter of a lord under royal scrutiny... would it be wise when the course ahead was dark and uncertain?

Winning her favor might come at too high a price for either of them.

“Yeah. You’re right.” He tried a dismissive smile as he filled his goblet with mead. The reality of concealing Merlin’s identity had fully sank in – he would accept the consequences with honor. But seeking covert means to curb Lord Badawi’s influence had left him with a foul taste. This moment he was in right now urged caution over heart needs. “Bad business.”

“What’s this?” Leon asked, curiously glancing at them. Gwaine only half looked at him. Despite Leon’s former status and his close ties to them, Arthur had not disclosed their plans to him. He was too far removed and his family responsibility was recognized and honored by them all. They could not confide in him.

“Not a thing,” Gwaine lied, though smiling thinly as doubts continued to needle him. Were their veiled plans for Badawi truly honorable if others would suffer the fallout too? Would Arthur be heavy-handed with all the Zahirs once he cast his gauntlet? Remorse began to needle....

He had sworn loyalty to protect the innocent, yet found himself now embroiled in moving pawns about fate’s board for the greater good. He sighed, forced another cheerful smile for them and returned to eating, his throat thick with resentment, the chicken not as flavorsome now.

Yet, his eyes floated toward her again, Lady Yaminah conversing lightly across the hall. Though noble by birth, the intricate web of Camelot’s houses was foreign to him, having grown up far from these walls.

He’d denounced his status when he turned seventeen – when the king of Gwynedd refused to aid his ailing mother after his father had fallen in battle. When she crossed the veil too after lingering so long in sickness and despair, he became a wandering sell-sword tempted by coin, ale and the comfort of maidens. Now a knight of Camelot, he’d regained the noble status on his own, yet was still lured by the women and the wine.

Deep in thought and oblivious that he was staring at the woman, she was watching him. Gwaine blinked, yet recovered quickly with a genuinely warm smile. The dark-haired nobleman next to her leaned in and said something in her ear. She arched one brow, casting cool appraisal toward Gwaine. Temptation pulled him toward the refined beauty, though his conscience continued to gnaw him annoyingly. Was pursuing her worth the cost?

She held his gaze for only moment longer before turning away. Gwaine’s smile faded, yet the lady’s aloofness only deepened his intrigue – and purpose hardened in his breast. Unable to restrain himself, drawn like a moth to flame, he patted Percival’s arm and stood up.

A true knight backs not away from uncertainty, he mused. Risk was merely prelude to potentially sweeter rewards – he would tempt being flayed for one glimpse of paradise with her. Mind settled, he flashed Percival a waggish grin, adjusted his cape, tunic, and belt.

“Consider this a recon mission,” he said. “See you back at the barracks, ladies.”

“Gwaine, wait!” Percival said, his voice low and tone tight. Elyan scoffed loudly.

Leon asked a confused, “What’s going on?”

But he kept moving, gravitating toward her before more caution reached his ears. Ignore the voice of conscience and the warnings of your friends, his roguish side urged. He forged ahead, the temptation of meeting her overriding his good sense.

A body suddenly intercepted him, blocked his view of the mysterious woman, a man’s voice vaguely registering. “Sir Gwaine – an honor, sir. I’ve heard much about your swordsman–”

Thoughts lingering on Lady Yaminah, Gwaine struggled to place the face of the man interrupting his quest. “Sir... Galahad, right?” he finally said, smiling politely. “Good party, eh?” He smacked the young knight’s shoulder and stepped past towards his deeper allure.

The nobleman beside her rose and assisted her to stand. Her hand on his bent forearm, they walked away from the table, heading toward the doors.

“They look…intimate,” Gwaine whispered with a frown. “A damn suitor.” A damn striking suitor – truly tall, dark, and handsome.

Her companion spoke secrets into her ear once more, yet Gwaine hitched a breath as she came into full view of him. A gossamer silk gown of deepest emerald hugging lithe curves below a plush fur-lined cloak clasped at one shoulder. Braided golden sash cinched the dress high at her narrow waist. Bare arms shone like bronzed silk, the torchlight catching glints along bracelets dotted up slender wrists. A jeweled anklet wrapped one firm calf peeking from the gown’s high slit, its golden glimmer matching the delicate sandals gracing nimble feet.

Heart racing, his competition not-with-standing, he stepped into their path and bowed regally. “Fair day, my lord, my lady,” he said.

He smoothly lifted her hand and brushed his lips softly on the back of it. Her exotic, spicy perfume stirred his senses, emboldened his pursuit. “May I escort you to the Great Hall, my lady? The music would sound much better if you were to dance with me.”

“Your imprudence astounds me,” she replied coldly, retracting her hand, her evocative accent mesmerizing him. Arresting hazel eyes, brilliantly accented by gold kohl lining, assessed him coolly above elegantly sculpted cheeks. “I have an escort, sir.”

His glance flicked to her escort. Their eyes are the same color, he thought randomly, seeing that they also shared other similar yet spectacular features.

“Perhaps imprudent,” Gwaine said, returning his gaze to her, “but led by my heart – which stopped beating the moment my eyes found you across the room.” He offered his hand again. “Grant me but one dance to prove myself a gentleman?”

Her escort stepped forward, frowning and blocking his view of her, chilling Gwaine’s confidence with his cold aggression.

“Introductions are in order for that to happen, sir,” the dark man said tightly, the same foreign accent tinging his words. “I am Al-Sayyid Youssef Zahir, son of Al-Sayyid Al-Ajal Badawi Zahir, lord of Nile Manor in the Northern Plains.” He tilted his head briskly.

“Sir Gwaine Walven, knight of Camelot.” He gestured a smooth head nod. He hadn’t used his surname in many years yet felt a need to show respect. Youssef stepped aside and formally presented the Lady Yaminah.

“My sister, Al-Sayyidah Yaminah Zahir, daughter of Al-Sayyid Al-Ajal Badawi Zahir, lady of Nile Manor…”

“In the Northern Plains,” Gwaine finished silkily, thinking he’d surely blunder their titles after a few more tankards of ale. He bowed again, a smile spreading across his lips, relieved that Sir Youssef was not a rival after all.

“At your service, Al-Sayyidah Yaminah Zahir.” He cadenced her name slowly, as smooth as a morning tide, imbuing them with his charm and warmest sincerity.

A glimpse of a smile played at her lips, though a flash of profound melancholy seemed to dwell deep in her hazel eyes before they brightened again. “Delighted, Sir Gwaine Walven, knight of Camelot.”

Sweet words to his ears, he extended an elbow. “Would you do me the honor?”

“I cannot oblige, Sir Gwaine,” came her practiced refusal, one that seemed a refined dismissal to deflect admirers. “Our father is expecting us. Hatta al-liqa’a. Allah keep you safe.”

Her brother shot her a curious glance which she ignored as she glided away with him, elegant and aloof. Even in her rejection, her silky accent caressed each word, softening their bite. Gwaine’s pulse stuttered as they drifted out of view.

“Hatta al-liqa’a.” He hoped he’d remembered it correctly. He’d have to learn these foreign words – discern if they held meaning.

“By the gods, she’s magnificent,” he whispered to himself, sighing. “I just might swoon.”

A sharp smack on his back made him jump as Leon laughed beside him. “I’m returning to my family,” he said. “She didn’t fall for your charms, eh? Slipping, friend?”

“The lady doth protest, but her rebuff barely masks her true yearning for me,” he smirked. “The night is young – and I’m just getting started.” He winked at Leon, but then caught the disapproving expressions of Percival and Elyan across the way.

A pang of guilt shot through him as he dug this pit deeper. But with a hesitant step, his heart ensnared, he followed Yaminah, for she stirred something deeper than his usual desires that his friends did not understand.

Chapter Text

Arthur captured Gwen’s mouth, a moan in his throat, hands tangled in silky locks. He loved the rhythm of their bodies entwined in contrasting colors. The softness of her lips, beads of moisture on oiled skin – her scent – her roaming touches stimulating his gusts of desire. Gwen’s sighs of pleasure and whispers of his name sent fiery explosions of passion through him. Caressing her tightly – his head buried in her shoulder – he panted, he shuddered, the lasting effects of sweet bliss ebbing out of him.

After a moment, his heartbeat slowing, he looked into her eyes – hooded and glistening – sensual and beautiful. Passion still smoldering in their writhing, he kissed her tenderly.

“Good morning, Queen Guinevere,” he whispered. She moaned sweetly, gifting him that delightful smile that never failed drawing his own in kind.

“Hello, King Arthur.”

He brushed a stray curl, contentment swelling his heart to bursting with words of love he must convey. He had not been eloquent with tender whispers in the past – now they flowed with ease for her. “I love you, Gwen. All that I have is yours now,” he said softly, his tone shifting toward gravitas. “Yet you mean more to me than any of it – even Camelot – remember that.”

“Arthur...” A shadow of humility flickered over her features at his avowal, her eyes locking onto his with steadfast yet conflicting adoration mingled with a trace of melancholy.

“Truly, Guinevere – you are etched into my soul more permanently than this crown is fixed upon my head. You are the fire that warms my heart, the very air granting me breath. Without you beside me, Camelot’s splendor would become but ash and bitterness upon my tongue.”

Her eyes softened, resolve and devotion shining through. “You have my whole heart, now and always. Should we face darkness or light, joy or sorrow, in Camelot or beyond, I will stand with you. I love you, Arthur.”

Gwen pulled him to her, her lips melting into his, passion stirring once again. But he withdrew before being consumed by its flames, a soft moan escaping her throat.

“I have something for you,” he whispered. Releasing her slowly, he strode unabashed to his wardrobe and retrieved a small satin case. Her eyes watched him with longing as he returned and sat beside her reclined body, extending the case with a grin.

“This was meant for you—a wedding gift.”

Gwen shifted up, the satin sheets spilling away as she reached for it. Arthur’s mouth moistened as his smile broadened – she too bold and unafraid.

She opened it, gasped at the sapphire necklace she pulled from its case.

“It’s beautiful!”

Arthur’s smile lessened but a little, bittersweet memories washing over him like a rolling meadow mist. Merlin had helped him choose the delicate trinket the moment he decided to marry Gwen months ago. After the tragedy – her presumed loss that had cracked the foundations of his world – he hadn’t the heart to discard it. The gemstone’s royal blue glinted like Gwen’s enduring spirit, now a testament to the triumph of their love.

“Allow me…” He tenderly draped it about her graceful neck at long last and then pulled her to him, savoring her sweetness once more as all things around them dissolved.

After his intoxicating morning with Guinevere, Arthur didn’t need to joust to release any pent-up aggression, but he did grit his teeth, his body taut as a bowstring as the Escetir envoy entered his sights. De-horsing Sir Ranulf in a fearsome clash of splintering lances resulted in another broken arm for his knight and his advancement in the tourney.

Outside his tent, Arthur cast his helmet to George as Percival approached, face foreboding. He sighed, tension creeping across his shoulders as he waited, hands on hips. Percival leaned in, his hushed statement hardening Arthur’s face as he pulled back.

His gaze instinctively sought Guinevere. She shone brightly in her finery, exulting the next combatants on the field. He’d promised her a day’s respite from the shadowy discourse still churning beneath the celebrations. He’d also wanted to win this tourney for her – for them both to revel together.

Arthur’s jaw clenched. “Find Geoffrey. Council chambers. Now.”

As Percival hurried off, Arthur’s eyes flicked to Merlin, whose smile dissolved when he crooked two fingers signaling him to come. He passed words quickly with his mother and Gaius, then made his way out of the stands.

Arthur turned to George, unstrapping his armor. “Withdraw me from the tourney. My jousting is over.”

Still clad in chainmail with smears of dirt upon his face, hair disheveled from competition and haste, Arthur strode through the castle corridors teeming with tourney revelry. Though the lively atmosphere might have lightened his mood, a heavy gloom clung fast. The stately fleur-de-lis crown dangled heavy in his grip, Excalibur comfortingly at his hip.

Beside him, Merlin kept pace, glancing at him with unease. “Arthur? What’s happened?”

Arthur’s lips thinned. “A murder in the upper town last night,” he said grimly, his jaw cinching. “Sorcery seems the cause.”

“What? But... No…” Merlin stuttered. He stopped short, though Arthur didn’t break his stride toward the council chambers. Catching up to Arthur’s side, distress shadowed his face. “Lord Badawi?”

“I don’t know,” Arthur replied tightly, though the hairs on his neck rose. “But we’ll uncover facts before rendering judgments.” As they reach the doors, he turned to meet Merlin’s worried eyes. “Whatever the outcome, this will not deter us from our path.” Merlin nodded, calm settling on his features.

Arthur thrust the doors wide to see Percival and Geoffrey waiting within, their faces anxious. Gripping Excalibur’s hilt, he stepped inside, Merlin following. Arthur dropped the crown at the end of the long table as Percival met him halfway.

“What happened?” he asked, crossing his arms, his gaze boring into his first knight.

Percival’s face drained of color. He thinned his lips, taking a slow breath as if to steady some inner turmoil. He hesitated a long moment before meeting Arthur’s gaze.

“Viscount Pierrefonds was found murdered this morning in his bed chambers,” he finally uttered, each word heavy with sorrow. “Bludgeoned with an iron poker... according to the steward.”

Arthur staggered back as if dealt a physical blow, steadying himself against the table. Beside him, Merlin reeled, gripping the back of a chair with white knuckles, raw anguish in his eyes.

“His son was still in the room – blood on his hands and clothes – in shock.”

“What madness is this?” Arthur’s breath hissed through gritted teeth, fist curling at his side. “Is he arrested?!” he shouted, visibly shaking with wrath.

“Yes, sire,” Percival replied quickly, startled. “Raoul came without struggle.”

Arthur threw his head back in anguish; bit into his lower lip. It was now no wonder why the viscount had appealed for mercy to magic users in the council meeting – his life too was in danger. Swearing under his breath, if he could, he’d execute Sir Raoul himself at first light rather than wait on the confines of court and council. But the crown was judicious and exacted a patience his father never troubled with.

“Why did he do this?” Merlin asked. “Did magic…?”

“There are reports Raoul was seen in the tavern as Lord Badawi rallied dissent against magic... His words must have proved rather... persuasive….”

“You left out one important word, Percival,” Merlin said tightly, muscles feathering in his jaw, “…’again’.”

Arthur squeezed the bridge of his nose, pressure behind his eyes throbbing. More reports had come in – six homesteads beyond the citadel wall ransacked by spectral beasts, Master Aelfric, the reeve now mute since encountering a cloaked crone, strange mist brewing over the marshes that sickened a farmer. Sorcery unchecked bad enough – but with each incident, people had claimed to see Badawi meeting with the afflicted families.

Straightening, Arthur’s jaw cinched. “It’s time to cut off the head of this snake,” he bit. “Geoffrey, draft the order to arrest Al-Sayyid Al-Ajal Zahir on charges of sedition.”

Merlin jerked his head to him, apprehension in his eyes. “Arthur—”

“That’s treason, sire,” Percival said, an expression of incredulity on his face, his body tensing.

Geoffrey froze, reluctance and dismay flickering across his features. “Sire, that won’t stop the magical incidents from happening.”

Arthur flashed up a hand, his jaw tense. “It will stop Badawi from making things worse. I will not have his venom continue to infect this kingdom, Geoffrey. The order. Now.”

The bulky man hesitated before sinking into a bow, resignation weighting his shoulders. “Yes, highness.” Avoiding Arthur’s piercing look, he gathered up his roll of parchment and inkwell and withdrew, the creak of the doors loud in his wake.

Percival watched Geoffrey depart, unease furrowing his brow. As Merlin paced the length of the table anxiously, Arthur sat in the high seat, laced fingers pressed to his lips. Percival’s eyes lingered on him, somber and searching.

After a taut moment, Arthur met his gaze. “It won’t come to execution, Percival. Only some time staring at stone walls to still his wagging tongue.”

Percival shifted his stance. “The people may see Zahir’s arrest as unjust persecution, confirmation of the very fears he warns of...”

Arthur’s jaw clenched, his eyes rolling slowly into a scowl. He rose to his feet wrestling down fury. His glare was hard, unforgiving – his stride foreboding. Merlin stopped his anxious pacing, drawing nearer with evident concern.

“Need I remind you, Sir Percival,” Arthur said, his tone razor-edged, “that we plotted in shadowed chambers not long ago to end Badawi’s machinations by any means necessary?! Instead I stay the course of law and ethics and you question me?!”

Brows knitting, Merlin wiped a hand over his mouth, clearly conflicted by Arthur’s outburst –though it may be the choice upon which he’d decided. Arthur strode away, losing his fight with fury as his chest heaved. He had chosen the right path without underhanded tactics – however difficult! Damn them! he inwardly raged.

Turning back, rigidity barely containing his swirling emotions, he held Percival’s troubled gaze. Bitter disappointment welled up in him at the man’s reaction. “I asked – would you condemn me for taking the honorable path?”

Percival hesitated, discomfort crossing his face.

“Speak plainly.” Arthur stepped forward, urging with a flourish of his arm. “Your thoughts on the matter?”

“Arthur,” urged Merlin, “calm…”

He whipped his head toward Merlin, his eyes flashing daggers, jaw set tight as a bear trap. Merlin held his gaze unyielding before Arthur glared at his first knight.

Percival wet his lips, throat bobbing as he summoned words. “My thoughts war with my heart, Arthur,” he finally uttered. “I trust you and believe in your vision – but we face many challenges and threats that will test our resolve, our honor, and our deepest principles. I only pray our methods don’t betray the very ideals we aim to uphold. And that—God forgives me if I am led astray by duty.”

Arthur’s shoulders relaxed, Percival’s earnest words striking a chord, echoing doubts that daily plagued his rule. He too struggled to balance mercy and might and duty.

“I understand your concerns,” he said after more taut silence. “Truly I do. But we must be decisive to protect the peace that Lord Badawi surely does not value.”

He held Percival’s gaze unflinchingly until the other man, jaw working, bowed his head in acceptance. An uneasy accord settled over the council room as Arthur squared his shoulders beneath the burdens of power, vision, and consequences only he could fully reckon.

The chamber doors parted and George entered bearing water, quickly filling goblets. Merlin resumed his pacing as Arthur settled heavily into his high seat, squelching any lingering irritation. Resting ironclad forearms on the table, he worked his mouth into an aggrieved pout.

“Return to the celebrations, George,” Arthur said, the edge fading from his tone. Watching the cheerful servant, a pensive mood replaced impatience at the day’s gathering storms. “Spend time with your family,” he added gently.

George smiled. “Thank you, sire. They will like that.”

George’s simple life with loved ones seemed enviably uncomplicated for a moment. With a soft sigh, Arthur glanced at the royal seal weighing his finger, shining but ever constricting. He focused inward as footsteps retreated, girding himself for the difficult road ahead.

“You were never that nice to me,” Merlin said, crashing into Arthur’s gloom.

“Oh, do shut up, Merlin.” Despite everything, Arthur grinned as Merlin smiled brightly, the familiar banter welcome.

Sobering, he scratched his nails lightly across the top of the table. “Did you… know Pierrefonds had magic?”

Merlin tensed, his somber expression returning as he shook his head.

“When your magic is revealed, your life will be in danger,” Arthur said in measured tones. He had opposed disclosing Merlin as Emrys, aware of the ominous outcomes he—they—would face. Surely, so had his circle; yet honor weighed heavier than protecting a good friend’s life.

Arthur continued, eyes floating to Merlin as he voiced further concern. “A powerful sorcerer – secretly hidden amongst royalty for years... Many will be angry – many will accuse you of… influencing some my decisions….”

Merlin inhaled sharply as their gazes locked, his silence speaking shared parallels of conscience and thought. Arthur gave a solemn nod as he gnawed his bottom lip. He expected bitter disputes when Merlin’s identity was exposed, heated debates and justified challenges. Would they see only duplicity? Conspiracy? Believe Arthur had legalized magic solely for his friend?

Their silent gaze affirmed that his choice would indeed be seen as favoring a friend. And in truth, Merlin’s unwavering faith had steadily pushed this outcome.

But nor were Arthur’s hands yet spotless – he gazed at hardened fingers still learning justice and mercy’s intricate steps. His laws remained flawed, falling far short of perfection. And uniting Camelot would require transcending divisions between commoner and royalty, pagan and priest, sorcerers and none the like.

But Albion – the seeds of alliances were meager and fragile thus far and winning the fealty of kingdoms still detached from his vision would take more than mere words. But what then? Though an immense challenge ahead, Arthur knew he could not retreat from this calling.

Jaw clenching, he said, “Men, we must strengthen our house before Albion can dawn. Camelot must be united and though we face resistance, we will overcome those challenges you spoke of, Percival. The night will grow darker still before the light – I can assure only that.”

Across from him, Merlin gave a brisk nod, steeling himself also for the storm ahead. His first knight, too, nodded, though he cast his eyes downward.

“Percival,” Arthur continued, his tone flinty as he met his knight’s still uneasy eyes, “have your new recruits on duty soon. Things may grow volatile once Lord Badawi is in chains…. If any zealot picks up his venomous mantle, give them fair warning that if they persist, they will suffer the same fate.”

Percival shifted, distress lining his face. “Pardon, Arthur. The people may see preemption as persecution. I beg discretion in quelling unrest.”

Arthur slammed a fist, rattling the objects on the table. “I will not be defied, Percival!” he shouted.

“Elyan was seen in the tavern as well, sire!” he shot back.

“What?” Merlin asked in utter shock.

Unease stirred at Percival’s news, Arthur’s glance darting to Merlin. He cupped his mouth, scrubbed the back of his neck. Elyan in the midst of discord, yet took no action to quell it – to defend his edicts. Would Gwen’s own brother side with rabblerousing? No. No. Elyan knew well the need for order and security – perhaps he counseled patience, not damnation, if trouble had swelled.

Arthur sighed, waved a placating hand. Regretting his outburst a moment ago, he felt every bit his father’s son – ruling with an iron fist in the name of righteousness – and without all the facts. “We must have faith in Sir Elyan’s judgments.” He regarded his first knight coolly, but his shoulders remained rigid. “And let counseling wisdom be your charge, Sir Percival… But lawlessness will not be tolerated – meet it with the necessary force.”

Percival bowed, indignation set in his rigid jaw. “King Arthur.”

“Do not reveal this to the queen,” he added, guilt tugging at his conscience, his eyes diverting away now. Keeping hurtful secrets from his wife…. No – he was protecting her. “That is my duty if Elyan does not confide in her soon.”

Percival drew a deep breath. Arthur studied him, doubts needling – Could Percival’s faith in him be shaken as well? But he banished the thought. This was stalwart Percival... was it not?

“I’m in need of Fredrick and Gwaine for a ten-day journey,” Arthur added, urgency steeling his tone. “See to it they’re ready to ride in two-days’ time.”

“Yes, sire.” Percival stood, his acquiescence showing bitterly on his face. “If that’s all... your highness?”

The formality chilled, but Arthur managed an affirming glance. “That’s all. You may go.” As the doors closed, he pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. Lingering unease warred with his resolve – was this reach for unity splintering his men too?

“Percival has reason to doubt me,” he said somberly. “Elyan’s dissension… Magic rampant… My methods...”

“You do what you must,” Merlin said gently.

Like Atlas bearing the world, worries weighed heavy on Arthur’s shoulders. His most trusted questioning, silencing Badawi, Mordred seen in close proximity, Escetir’s ominous visit and his kingdom’s fragile stability… Guinevere – all chipped at Arthur’s resolve. But Merlin and Emrys – if but one thread of the intricate concealments around him unraveled, it could ruin everything despite the other challenges.

His eyes flicked to his friend, still standing though arms folded across his chest.

“Merlin – sit.”

Arthur studied the man as he came and sat at his elbow, steeling his countenance as he had for Percival’s unexpected and unwanted dissent. Would Merlin also condemn his decisions amidst flayed nerves and divided loyalties?

“You were strangely quiet – let’s have it then,” he challenged, authority masking apprehension.

Merlin’s eyes dropped, contemplation shadowing his expression. After a moment, he glanced up. “Our path stretches long with perils yet unknown,” he said. “But I believe in you, Arthur. As I believed when I first arrived in Camelot, young and foolish.”

“You’re still young and foolish,” Arthur quipped, piercing through the tense atmosphere and suppressing a smile.

Merlin grinned agreeably though his cheeks flushed. “That may be so,” he laughed. “But time and trials have forged me into Emrys and you into the Once and Future King. We’re two sides of the same coin – bonded by fire and friendship.”

Pride swelled in Arthur’s chest, lightening his somber mood. How far they had both traversed since those early days of building trust – Merlin’s actions to keep him safe while concealing his secret and Arthur’s ever-changing perceptions on the man while he warred against magic. Now Emrys counseled at Camelot’s table in freedom, his own destiny entwined with Arthur’s.

“But the waiting consumes as much as the fighting,” Merlin continued. “Truths deferred, justice denied... so many silent burdens in shadows. I understand the need, yet cannot escape the cost.”

Merlin paused, his features stilling into a solemn mask of timeless wisdom. His eyes glinted like dual flames, ancient shadows playing across his face.

Arthur went numb.

When Merlin spoke again, his voice resonated with echoes of eras long past, stunning Arthur. “These days mark a beginning long foretold. And an ending to suffering. Fear would bid me plead caution – yet my faith holds fast. The prophecies stand sure, thus, so must we.”

Eyes ablaze, Merlin held Arthur’s gaze with the conviction of ages. “Whatever comes, I am ever your servant. I will follow you until the work is finished.”

Awed, Arthur fell still, transfixed by the ancient fire in Merlin’s eyes. This was no mere serving boy but a pillar of magical might united with him through destiny’s weave. He knew not whether to embrace him or fear him.

Arthur gently grasped his shoulder – the best he could do in the moment – a fragile gesture against such wonder and might. “You hearten me when others falter, Merlin,” he said, gratitude warming his tone. “Come storms or sorrows, your loyalty remains anchor and sail.”

Gratefulness and wonder rushed through him for the gift of this bond fate saw fit to bless him with. And, yes – the assurance of formidable magic now steadfastly behind the throne. “Thank you, old friend,” he added sincerely.

After the quiet moment passed, Arthur stood tall, troubles shed for the present. There was time enough to weather doubts and navigate unclear horizons. For now, Guinevere awaited – his harbor of joy untainted by today’s blemishes – though he knew that would change soon.

“Go to your mother and enjoy the festivities,” said Arthur kindly. “I wish to share what moments of respite I can with my wife and queen.”

Arthur slipped into an alcove, splashing water on his face to remove the grime. As he tidied his hair, he calmed his churning thoughts. Striding back outside, he spotted Guinevere’s curls glinting in the royal box. The cheers of the crowd indicated the tourney finals were underway.

He climbed the stands to her side, drinking in her radiant smile as she turned, joy lighting her eyes at his arrival. Her blue gown dazzled brighter than the clear sky, the sapphire pendant at her throat matching the vivid hue.

“Arthur,” she laughed, surprise and delight in her voice as he pulled her close, cares receding. She caressed his cheek. “I’m pleased you returned just in time.”

Below, lances cracked against shields. But Arthur saw only her.

“As am I,” he murmured. No threats from outside nor within would ruin this day, all worries faded for now but her. His light. His love. His Guinevere.

Chapter Text

One more day, Gwen thought, a dusking breeze lifting her locks as she strolled through the royal gardens, Fredrick beside her. Celebrations concluded tomorrow, guests and visitors to commence their journeys to their own soil, and normal operations of the castle would resume come Monday.

What did that mean for her though – as sovereign queen?

As the sunlight cast its final rays upon the florals, Gwen gently inhaled the wild mix of fragrances, tickling her nose. She refused to let the crown on her head weigh her heavy. Though somewhat terrified and exhilarated by her readiness, she still glanced over her shoulders – wondered what was keeping Arthur as she was anxious for his comforting presence.

Torches began to light up around the garden, marking paths, creating an enchanted luminescence to the air, the floral colors, easing her back into calm. She always loved the beauty and wonders of flowers – picking them, studying their remarkable designs, pinning them in her hair. She and Leon had learned many of their names when they were younger and she serving his household. To have access to such variety, the abundance supplied her with ample joy and peace of mind. Yet, she was guiltily selfish – impatient for fewer patrons roaming her sanctuary made available to all visiting royalty and nobility.  

The crunch of heavy steps caused Gwen to turn and see Arthur and Percival approaching. Dressed in his formal crimson cloak and a blue high-collared tunic, she was pleased he wore less of his chain mail. Besides the attire elevating his already perfect features and physique, embracing him had become more comfortable and less destructive to her wardrobe. He kissed her tenderly, his hand tangling in her hair.

“I missed you,” she said sweetly.

His lips spread to that endearing smile, warming her. “Apologies, my love. Final business.”

Slipping an arm in the crook of Arthur’s elbow, she greeted Percival, though still sensing disquiet behind his calm. “You are well, Sir Percival?”

His smile small, he nodded humbly. “All’s well, Queen—”

“Don’t you dare,” she said with a wry grin, eyes narrowing.

He chuckled. “Yes, Gwen.”

Arthur laughed too. Yet, despite his smile, Gwen knew storms raged beneath the calm surface, the burdens of leadership, the costly decisions solely on his shoulders, internal battles that he sometimes shielded her from... sometimes….

They had talked through the midday feast about Viscount Pierrefonds and his son, Lord Badawi’s impending arrest, Percival’s opposition, and Merlin’s devotion. Captivated in conversation, they had unintentionally overlooked some well-wishing guests, reassuring each other through their hushed conversations and conflicting emotions.

But Arthur must learn that not only he shouldered the burdens of leadership – he was not alone, as she shared in them. Gwen was not as unaware as he may believe. Ominous troubles stirred within Camelot, discord simmered around the realm, and embitterment raged inside her brother. Lord Badawi caused more harm than good, and lawfully silencing him – even temporarily – was the best thing to smooth some rippling waves. And Elyan, well – he had ignored her requests for an audience, so she must trust that he would come to her in time. Though… perhaps, too much time would let resentment fester, sowing seeds for dire things should healing be delayed. She would seek him out soon herself.

Arthur guided her to a bench by the crimson petunias as Merlin and Sir Galahad approached. Fredrick drew closer, the men flocking around them.

“Are you prepared?” Arthur asked, standing behind her, hands comfortably, reassuringly on her shoulders.  

“Yes,” Merlin replied. “On Monday – an hour before daybreak – we’ll ride to the old millhouse and then teleport to the locations we scouted earlier. I’ll work the western edge of the fields, Galahad – the north. That positioning will allow us to channel the spell in symmetry.”

Glenmill. The old millhouse. Arthur gently squeezed her shoulder when it was mentioned and Gwen smiled softly, sweet memories flooding her – she and Arthur having met there in secret over the years romancing the sword and each other.

Galahad nodded, his dark curls stirring in a sweeping breeze. “We’ll summon the magic nearly simultaneously,” he said. “It must pour into the earth as one.”

She didn’t know Sir Galahad well nor his noble family in Clarwick, but she knew he had magic finely-tuned enough to mentor Merlin. His efforts and unwavering loyalty have made him friend to all.

Merlin added, “I’ll conjure a mist to conceal the fields until well past the morning bell.”

Arthur stiffened, she too understanding the implications. “No prying eyes until the appointed hour,” she said.

“Clever idea staged to manage the reveal,” Fredrick added.

Merlin’s glance flicked between Arthur and her. “The dissipation of the mist is to give Arthur as much time as possible to complete the council with Escetir’s envoy.”

“Very well,” said Arthur, worry now pinching his voice. He pulled a breath behind her. “How long will it take the restorative spell to take affect?”

“Right away,” said Galahad. “Though the true rate of the magic spread on so vast an area is uncertain.”

“It’ll be spectacular,” Merlin beamed, his eyes glinting knowingly, an ancient sorcerer’s profound awareness lurking within his youthful features.

“I can imagine,” said Gwen, forcing a steady tone. Magic for good deeds. Her pulse raced, fingers rubbed the side of her skirt, hope and fear swelling.

How many times had magic cruelly intruded into her life, crushing spirit, honor, and dignity? Father, Elyan, herself – all profoundly touched in some way. Trial by fire to endure, she supposed, quelling rising resentment that served no purpose – preparing her – forging her into something new. She had reconciled her fear of magic, Morgana, and of the horde with the hope of the future and Merlin. She must hold fast.

Gwen smoothly slid a hand to her stomach. And with the hope of a new life borne of love and magic with Arthur. Her cycle missed now four days past, she knew for certain she carried his child and must share the news with him… soon....

She rose and went to stand beside Arthur, her knees wobbling.

“Return to Camelot right away,” Arthur ordered them. “I want you both here with witnesses when the alarm sounds – especially if it still rings premature....”

Gwen glanced at him. If the restored harvest was discovered in the dawning hours and the bells tolled before they returned, accusations could swiftly turn volatile without their voices to temper fears. The fragrant garden aromas suddenly grew cloying with uncertainty for Gwen. Yet both sorcerers nodded, stood straighter, sharing a solemn yet exhilarated glance that belied their youth.

Then Merlin met Arthur’s gaze, no youthfulness in his features nor his voice. “The first steps are the hardest on any long road, Arthur” he said. He glanced at each of them then, his eyes alight with conviction. “But the true test lies in persevering once vigor fades.” He landed on Arthur once more. “We’ll return as swiftly as possible.”

Then they blinked, her shy friend and valiant knight emerging once more, courage steeling them for first strides toward destiny. In their eyes shone the gravity of elders who had long awaited this hour – torchlight could not dim the blaze kindling Merlin’s smile nor dampen Galahad’s proud shoulders. Gwen knew then nothing would stop them nor hinder their return, come what may. Their faith in Arthur’s vision proved as steadfast as in themselves.

“Merlin, you and I will be in council with Escetir’s emissary.” Arthur turned her to him, rubbed her arms gently. “When the bell tolls, you will reign on the throne during my negotiations. The court will look to you. Are you ready, Guinevere?”

Gwen nodded, exhaling softly though her hands shook. She did not think the day would come so soon when she would rule from the throne alone, but she gained strength meeting his gaze. “I am,” she said.

Arthur smiled solemnly with a nod as his arms dropped. Steadying himself with another breath, he squared his shoulders as he retrieved a scroll from his belt and handed it to Percival. Gwen clasped his hand, subtle reassurance against the apprehension clouding the giant knight’s eyes. She wished there was another way. Guilt stabbed at the consequences for Percival’s conscience and Lord Badawi’s fate.

“Arrest Lord Badawi before he departs for the Northern Plains – at first light tomorrow.” All eyes turned to Arthur and then to Percival.

“Yes, sire.” Percival bowed his head. But hesitancy clung to his posture as he shifted his weight.

“What is it?” Arthur asked, tensing in Gwen’s hand.

“The soldiers guarding the vault were found unconscious at shift change,” Percival confessed.

Arthur frowned. “There was a note about guards sleeping on duty in Ranulf’s morning brief,” he recalled, then focused his gaze sharply on Percival. “That perturbed me. It lacked any real details.”

“I thought it odd as well. It took time, but I discovered that they cannot recall anything beyond a bright flash beforehand. Their relief say it took some effort to rouse them – no physical or visual damage to their persons could be seen.”

The cool air prickled Gwen’s skin, quickening her pulse and eyes darting to Merlin. So did Arthur’s.

“The vault?” Arthur asked, flicking back to Percival.

“No signs of entry – door still locked; keys accounted for.”

“Maybe Galahad and I should take a look,” said Merlin. “See if there’s any magical residuals.”

Arthur’s mouth twitched but a little. “Very well,” he said after a beat. “Let us know what you find. Fredrick, inform Geoffrey to inventory the vault contents to be certain nothing was taken. It was catalogued after we liberated Camelot, so we should have an accurate accounting.”

“Yes, sire,” Fredrick said.

Arthur took a deep breath, straightened his shoulders, looked at everyone squarely. “We’re here, men; we’ve arrived; there’s no turning back after tomorrow.”

She felt the tension heighten between them – the anxious glances at one another. Gwen’s heart raced too. There was nothing left to be said about the journey they now embarked. Veiled intrigue orchestrated from the highest level of the power, secrets of the crown – she an accessory.

Arthur nodded, his expression solemn, then all dispersed except for her shadow, Fredrick.

“Fredrick, after speaking with Geoffrey,” Gwen said, clinging tighter to Arthur’s elbow, “enjoy what’s left of the celebrations in the towns if you can. I think we can manage from here.”

“My queen.” With a reluctant tilt of his head, Fredrick departed, leaving them alone in the gardens.

Arthur exhaled, drawing Gwen into his arms and holding her tightly. She relaxed in his embrace, absorbed comfort from him as well as he from her.

Pulling back, he smiled and then kissed her, his mouth sweet and warm, his lips soft. Here, under the cover of darkness and little torchlight, for the briefest of moments, it was just them. His body warmth permeated into hers. Her knees weakened and Arthur’s grip tightened around her.

Withdrawing, staring into each other’s eyes, uncertainty still lingered in his.

“What is it?” Gwen asked.

“The guards – the magic...was it Mordred…?” He breathed deeply; worry flickered in his expression.

Gwen’s brow creased. Discovering Mordred so close to them last night was another item added to Arthur’s catalog of escalating concerns. Now the possibility of thievery only heightened his pressures tremendously. What was taken, if anything? And why? What was so important to risk capture by prowling their halls?

“We’ll have to get used to more incidents in the kingdom – even for nefarious reasons. If items are missing, we’ll worry about it then. Let us handle this one thing at a time.”

His hands gently slid up and down her arms, his gaze calm and warm.

“You are wise, Queen Guinevere.” He pulled her into a deep hug, his head resting on her shoulder, his breath on her neck. “I love you.”

“Sweet words to my ears and heart, Arthur. I love you.” Loving him this morning flooded her thoughts, stirred her desire for him – his hard body’s rhythm matching hers, strong hands roaming sensual places, his mouth thirsty, whispers of her name, his moans of pleasure. She shuddered with a deep breath, yet knowing Arthur provided so much more for her than just physical needs.

He was the anchor keeping her grounded in these uncertain times and there had been so little spent together with duty demanding separation – Gwen saw him less than when she was a servant. So she cherished rare moments like these with her husband and hoped things would settle somewhat within eight months so he’d have more time with … them. Don’t be naïve, her echo reminded. A hand went to her belly and suddenly she felt chilled, shivering slightly.

“Whatever happens—” he said to her, lifting her chin “—we’re in this together.”

“Together,” she said, a small flutter suddenly stirring deep within – a different sensation than her desire for passion.

She pressed a hand to her stomach reflexively, felt another pulsating flash – stronger this time. Gwen tensed; her breathing increased.

The flutter exploded into spasms spearing through her belly. Gwen’s body trembled, her knees suddenly buckled, the gardens tilting around her. Arthur caught her before she collapsed, gripping her tightly.

“Guinevere!” He clutched her with strong hands, pulling her to his chest, color draining from his face.

“I’m all right,” she gasped, leaning into Arthur, breathless. “I’m—”

He scooped her in his arms. Onlookers glanced their way as Arthur carried her inside and deposited her onto a marble bench near the arched doorway. People were gathering closer, but kept a discreet distance.

Arthur knelt before her, concern covering his expression, his cloak pooling below him. Firmly supporting her to sit upright, he searched for something deep in her eyes that she wasn’t ready to reveal.

“Guinevere…?”

“Fine—I’m fine,” she mumbled, pressing a hand to her forehead, her stomach, Arthur’s firm grip still holding her.

“Are you sure?” he asked. “What happened? How do you feel?” His forehead creased with worry as he bombarded her with questions of concern.

Gwen shook her head gently to clear the heavy fog, a hand holding fast to her middle as the sensation passed. “The fragrance of the flowers… more overwhelming than my senses could take.” That was part of the truth. But Gwen almost believed the child rebelled against holding tight her secret. She choked back a failed smile, her mouth dry.

Arthur’s lips thinned, concern etched on his features. “I want you to see Gaius before he leaves on Sunday.”

Gwen looked at him sharply, though fleetingly wondered why he hadn’t recommended Merlin. Perhaps due to his inexperience with anything concerning women, but Arthur’s desire for physician intervention and his imposing stare pricked her skin. Was he commanding her to do something against her will? Could she disobey her king on this matter? Gwen averted her gaze downward. What if Gaius imparted ominous tidings?

“I have duties to attend as demanding as you, Arthur. There will be time for that later.”

“Guinevere—”

“I’m not a damsel in distress,” she snapped. Arthur recoiled slightly, his lips in a thin pout. Self-reproach pierced immediately, her eyes floating away from his.

“The aroma of the flowers was overpowering,” she said hesitantly. “Everything in full bloom. Please believe that.”

After a moment of studying her, he stood, pulling her up with him and steadying her with a strong arm around her waist. They walked in awkward silence, Arthur’s boots resonating in steps as loud as the guilt in her heart. He watched closely, though, glancing at her every few paces or so.

Her stomach fluttered anxiously again, Morgana’s dreaded curse resurfacing in her thoughts.

“Your seed is empty,” she had told Arthur while imprisoned in their dungeon.

Gwen shivered. Could she believe the words of a witch with no power? What if it were true? What if no child ever quickened within her and this was all just her imagination? Her deepest desire manifested in heart-breaking illusion?

Arthur slowed to hesitant steps as he felt her uncontrollable trembling, glancing at her with profound sadness and disapproval, his lips in that pout. Avoiding his gaze, she stayed focused on their torch-lit path ahead, urging their steps forward through shadows reminiscent of her heart.

No, Gwen thought to herself, her quivers subsiding. The pain she felt was real. Its presence was felt though just an inkling of a child right now. Gwen pressed a hand to her still-flat belly. How long should she wait before sharing the news with Arthur?

Not until signs proved that Morgana was wrong would she dare speak of it, even to Arthur. Not until she felt steady kicks or saw her womb swell. To give voice to it now might empower Morgana’s hex upon their hopes for heirs.

She would wait. She had no choice.

Chapter Text

Percival pulled a deep breath and then rapped on the chamber door, Gwaine, Elyan and a few soldiers with him. Gwaine, having requested relief from Lord Badawi’s arrest but summarily denied, brooded through their entire march there.

His friend must think him cruel, but he’d warned Gwaine against pursuing Lady Yaminah. However justified removing the treasonous lord, Gwaine needed to understand realities beyond his own desires and see firsthand a consequence of ignoring wiser voices.

An Egyptian servant cracked the door, then opened it fully when he saw them. “Good sirs, is there some need?” he asked, apprehension on his features.

“By order of the king,” Percival said, “we’re here to arrest Lord Zahir.”

At the servant’s fearful hesitancy, large hands pushed the door wider, Percival shouldering past the servant, but slowing to a halt immediately crossing the threshold.

Stunned by the chamber’s transformation into lavish Egyptian lodgings, his eyes roamed across graceful dove figurines, delicate lotus flowers, colorful cloths draped across furniture. A fire flickered in the hearth – a large ornate cross placed above it. Incense of myrrh and frankincense scented the apartment. Percival’s heart pierced with self-reproach over turning this glimpse of homeland into hostile foreign ground. But duty propelled him onward.

His gaze slid the servant, muscles feathering his jaw. “Summon your master at once,” he said. “Convey the king’s knights await his presence.”

As the servant rushed to obey, Gwaine muttered, “I know our vow to Arthur and each other binds us. But – now we shred a man from hearth and home….”

“Better get used to these methods, Gwaine,” Elyan bitterly scowled. “Better than some of the tactics Percival had in mind.”

Percival rolled his eyes, his lips thinning as fists curled. They knew oaths alone didn’t stay hands from vile deeds without conscience to govern them, but their blows weren’t needed to remind of doubts plaguing him too.

And yet, did some duties carry too steep a price…? What line remained he dared not cross even for a king? True, he’d thought discrediting Badawi a possible method though surely not excusable through any veil of necessity. He’d paid penance for that. But Arthur was right – on this matter, though Percival offered a silent prayer for guidance as darkness again whispered What limit to your loyalty?

“Allah bids you welcome, Sir Percival.” Lord Badawi emerged from a chamber, tying a belt around his silk embroidered night robe. He glanced long at Elyan, then flicked his gaze to Gwaine, a shadow of acrimony upon recognizing him too before returning to Percival. “What business do I have with the king’s marshal?”

Percival kept his face stoic, but guilt roiled within. “By order of King Arthur Pendragon, you are under arrest for treason against Camelot.”

Badawi blinked rapidly, otherwise poised. “By what do you mean?”

“Your volatile speech has cost the life of a subject – a sorcerer.”

“My…words – while bold – upheld truth. I cannot be held responsible for another man’s actions.” He surveyed them, his expression grim. “I never believed King Arthur would so blatantly violate the freedoms now supposedly guaranteed to all. Does censorship reign alongside magic in this new Camelot?” The last word ended in cold mockery.

“It’s not about censorship, my lord,” disputed Gwaine evenly, his gaze unyielding to Badawi’s stunned glare – though Elyan cast a scathing look at Gwaine. “It’s about a peace you undermine to disrupt.”

“Baba?” Lady Yaminah appeared, fingers untangling voluminous braids interwoven with golden ribbons. Eyes widening, her steps faltered glimpsing the knights, though her gaze lingered upon Gwaine. Silk robes shimmered as a delicate hand grasped her father’s arm, anxious features turning up toward Lord Badawi’s stern face. “What is happening?”

Gwaine shifted his feet but persisted with staunch duty to remain rigid. However, his agonized eyes remained on her.

Percival pulled a paper from his belt and snapped the royal seal, the parchment crinkling loudly as he unfolded it. Time stood still as he skimmed the words, his jaw feathering as he flicked eyes upon them – this duty by no means bringing him joy.

He read the charges. “By order of King Arthur, sovereign ruler of Camelot, Al-Sayyid Al-Ajal Badawi Zahir of the Northern Plains stands accused of treasonous speech intending to insight others to violate duly established laws protecting all citizens regardless of magical status.”

He cleared his throat, kept his eyes locked on the words. “Openly advocating defiance toward royal edicts issued by sovereign authority… And…” – he lifted solemn eyes, sorrowfully watching their crumbling features – “seeking to undermine harmonious unity among all subjects under crown jurisdiction…”

His voice trailed, diminishing in force as he read. Restraining his own shock, Percival continued reading the statement of consequence. “If found guilty of treason and sedition, you will be detained under royal guard for security of the kingdom, until such time the crown deems the public no longer imperiled by your rhetoric, at which time, freedoms may be restored.”

In the terrible silence, only crackling logs dared speak. Percival slowly folded the parchment, shame burning his cheeks for the anguish his solemn duty now carved onto loved ones faces.

The accusations left Lord Badawi mottled in confusion as he grasped for dignified words. “I intended no treason, only speak truth against folly...” Yet the tremble in his voice betrayed the marrow-deep blow.

Beside him Lady Yaminah visibly shuddered, silent tears tracking down flawless bronze skin. “How can you do this?” she asked breathlessly. She searched Gwaine’s ambivalent eyes. “Gwaine….?”

At his side, Gwaine’s jaw cinched, conflicting emotions warring on his features before he stepped toward her. Percival blocked him, a hard stare and a strong arm pressed across his chest as Gwaine returned a daring glare back.

Percival’s warning to him echoed – bad news to entangle political business with personal pursuits. Yet, it became painfully evident that affections had truly taken root, that not only did his friend harbor real feelings for the lord’s daughter – she held them for Gwaine as well.

But duty reasoning and binding his tongue, Gwaine’s jaw relaxed, his boots planted and eyes diverting from him and his lady.

Percival recalled how his affections for Kensa had blossomed when first he laid eyes upon her, yearning for a stranger hardly two words had passed between. Yet she’d captured his heart with her discerning eyes and after the war, he’d eagerly returned to her and made her his betrothed. To rip hearts beating as one asunder – could any vow demand so much?

Percival glanced at Yaminah, the beauty’s face so sad and wet. Now their hopes were shattering from Gwaine’s hard-bound fealty, a bitter trap of rules and station ensnaring their tender new bonds.

Anguish simmered, urged Percival to end this lingering misery. “Come with us, my lord!” The coldness in his voice made the hairs on his neck prickle. “You’re under arrest!”

The iron grip of the soldiers grasped Badawi’s arms, his shoulders becoming rigid.

“Baba!” Yaminah cried, a female servant rushing to her, arms wrapping around her mistress to restrain her.

“Do not touch me,” Badawi warned in a throaty voice, freeing himself with two quick jerks. “I shall walk with dignity despite this injustice.”

“No! Baba!” Yaminah broke free, clung to her father. Gwaine winced when she shot him a pleading look, vulnerability intensifying in her eyes.

Her outcries speared Percival’s spirit too, shame corroding his knightly honor and Christian tenets he upheld. Here he stood, ruining an innocent life to remove an obstacle.

Necessary evil—acceptable loss, he reminded himself angrily, the words ringing hollow and disgusting. Still, he glanced at them, weighed the man’s pride against procedure’s hurry and Percival’s own humility discerned when to grant small mercies where able.

“Prepare him a proper tunic and cloak,” he gestured the servants. “We’ll wait while you dress, my lord.”

The relief breaking across Badawi’s face pierced Percival deeper than any blade. Even curt nods held heartfelt meaning when nothing else remained. He averted his gaze briefly to cement wavering composure as the man disappeared, his daughter following him. Percival envisioned his donning of each garment signaled like armor girding for battle.

He glanced at Gwaine and Elyan. The tension between the three of them was palpable – never had his brothers been at such odds with each other.

He sighed heavily into the wordless space. When had oaths sworn in friendship’s name instead bred bitterness seeded in duty’s wake? He glimpsed rage simmering under Elyan’s stony stare... Gwaine bore a hollowed look that whispered of honor abandoned, and he was mired in guilt and shame. Only the discord before him rang true of the dissonance now poisoning bonds once harmonious.

Lord Badawi emerged resplendent in an embroidered tunic and black boots, a fur-lined cloak around his shoulders. Chin held high, solemn eyes met Percival’s. Then turning to his daughter, he pressed kisses upon both cheeks and forehead.

“Be courageous, habibti,” he said gently “All will be well. May Allah protect you, my child.”

“Baba…?”

Jaw cinched, Percival motioned Gwaine and Elyan to flank him, both dutifully obeying. “Come, my lord.”

“No…please,” Yaminah pleaded tearfully, breaking Percival’s heart. As she moved to follow, Elyan spun and blocked her path.

“Let us do our duty, my lady,” he said, his voice gentle – a tone Percival had not heard in a while.

Yaminah shot Elyan a venomous look, cheeks flaming, tears falling. Her eyes drifted to Gwaine again.

But Gwaine didn’t look at her – only stood rigid, a stone pillar locked on the horizon as muscle feathered his hard jaw. Percival turned and led them out of the chambers, his features hardening as he stepped into the corridor.

Doors creaked open; heads peeked out, their procession drawing concerned glances from nobles and servants as they marched through the halls. Percival caught sight of Lord Gregory and his wife appearing in one doorway, dismay written on their features. Across the ways, Leon and his parents watched with troubled expressions too. Percival flicked his eyes forward, focusing on the path ahead than the shocked glances of everyone they passed.

Badawi’s noble bearing stabbed his conscience, but the man’s rhetoric left a servant of magic dead, and failure to act risked further unrest. Geoffrey’s damning charges sealed unquestionable guilt. Percival saw no end to Badawi’s time in prison, though how long he would linger, only God knew.

Their footsteps marked the long stretch to the dungeon, passing Sir Raoul glaring from a cell until they rounded a few more passages to Badawi’s isolated holding. Two guards stood stiffly outside the iron-barred door.

Inside, a small barred window admitted dusty light on the cramped cell. A modest bed stood chained to the wall, straw-stuffed mattress and pillow granting scant relief from the hard stone floor. A simple table held writing supplies – ironic amenities for one accused of poisoned speech. A bucket offered crude necessity. Less wretched than typical dungeon cells but comfortless all the same. Percival wondered if gold might yet buy the lord more merciful surroundings in time. For now, this cell would be his home.

“Open it,” Percival commanded.

The guards unlocked the door as Percival turned to his prisoner. “Your trial is set five days hence,” he stated firmly.

Badawi lifted his chin. “I have nothing to fear.” Though poised, indignant eyes flashed upon them as he walked inside, his gaze landing lastly on Gwaine as he turned as faced them. “My son is away. I beg you... see my Yaminah cared for in her time of need. She has no mother to cradle her now.”

Shoulders twitching, the flame of duty dimming as father pleaded comfort for daughter, Percival looked at Gwaine.

But Gwaine cast him a cold glance – perhaps it had been cruel indeed to ignore his protests and include him after all… A foolish mistake for a commander to make. A blunder for a friend – perhaps even cracking brotherly bonds.

“She will be watched over,” Gwaine declared, stepping forward with a slight bow to Badawi. “You have my word, Al-Sayyid Al-Ajal.”

Teeth grinding, Percival turned sharply on his heel, red cloak swirling behind him as he strode away, Elyan hesitated but followed in kind though Gwaine lingered behind as the guards slammed the cell door shut. The metal clanging with finality gripped Percival’s heart; his hands curled into fists.

He climbed the stairs leading away from the dungeons quickly, but guilt followed like a haunting shadow. His prayers would be long and vigorous in his plea of repentance tonight for duty and deeds. And mayhaps even longer regarding his friends. Would Gwaine still stand ready to depart on the quest King Arthur had bid him prepare for? After ripping all hope from his grasp...?

And what of Elyan – whose mood of late disquieted him? Perchance it unwise to have assigned him as well…?

Percival shuddered not knowing what might come on the morrow. Today though, darkness descended upon him so that light could shine in Camelot.

Chapter Text

Several hours before daybreak, Arthur sat behind his desk, his intent to prepare for the diplomatic entreaty with Escetir, now moved forward with careful purpose. Instead his thoughts kept drifting to recent events – Merlin and Galahad indeed finding magical residue outside the vaults, Lord Badawi’s arrest at first light, and Gwen’s fainting spell in the garden last night. All distressing but none more so than Gwen. His deep concern for her had returned.

There was an air of difference in her as of late. She smiled and laughed more easily, worries seeming to lift from her delicate shoulders. The haunted dullness in her lovely eyes from sleepless nights had vanished over preceding days. In its place dawned a glow of vibrancy returning to warm brown depths.

Had time finally allowed soothing of old wounds? Arthur pondered the question, remembering the anguish they endured when she had been enchanted by that bracelet. Though it was not her fault, the betrayal cut deep. And what torment had she endured from Helios that she had yet to share? Could such trauma truly fade? He wanted to believe healing was possible over time. And yet he dared to think her enchanted again. Arthur shuddered. “No. No.”

While relieved at her apparent recovering vigor, an instinct deep within needled at Arthur. Something integral shifted in his wife and confidant, though its meaning eluded his grasp. And her puzzling resistance to physician care whispered of matters yet to understand.

The daybreak toll of the morning bell sounded and Arthur froze – the hour now come for Badawi’s fate to rest in Percival’s hands. He massaged his forehead – his heated orders given to Percival echoing. His faithfulness saw distasteful duties done despite doubts. A good man – seldom could duty honor virtue so starkly.

Guinevere stirred on their bed, waking as she moaned softly and rustled beneath the covers. Arthur rose from his chair and went to lie beside her as she opened her eyes. He kissed her gently on the lips, relishing her sensuality, desiring her. The heat of his body swelled, so with reluctance, he pulled away—just a little.

“Good morning, my love,” he whispered, still close to feel her warmth.

“Good morning, Arthur,” she replied, smiling at him with eyes lazy that glistened with hunger.

He longed to join her in bed – excite her with exquisite pleasure, but the servants would arrive soon and the world still would not stop for them – guests departing and an envoy to talk terms awaited.

As if she was aware of responsibilities too, Gwen extracted herself and rose on the other side just as a knock sounded at the door. Arthur stood with a sigh and strode to his desk, summoning the servants once she had retreated behind her privacy screen.

Gwen’s new maidservant entered with a pitcher of water and a tray of stoneware and goblets, a young druid maiden named Sefa. Arthur managed an encouraging nod as she slipped behind the screen to assist Gwen.

Camelot’s first known druid servants – as far as he knew. He harbored no illusions that old doubts were wholly conquered on either side. But the glittering ember of hope in Gwen’s eyes when she had advocated they set this progressive example still sparked his own. And while Gaius gave his utmost assurance, Merlin voiced no reservations – offering a blessing, his excitement palpable at this prospect for unity. Still, Arthur made note to gently probe his wife’s comfort, reassess in a few weeks’ time if all was well. For now, optimism must lead.

George arrived with the tray of food and a sealed scroll. Handing it to Arthur first, he arranged the table in quiet efficiency, the clunk of plates and clank of utensils could be heard along with the rustling of Gwen changing clothes.

Arthur glanced at the seal quickly – Donnchadhs of Cornwall – nothing registering a reason for a missive. He broke the seal and read the letter.

His face tightened with disbelief; fingers gripped the parchment. He chewed his bottom lip, rubbed his forehead.

“George,” he said, his eyes still on the message, “fetch Sir and Lady de Bois – the lesser hall in two hours.” George stopped whatever he was doing and left with expediency.

Arthur crossed to the table set with breakfast, the scroll in his hand, and plucked a grape from a bowl before seating, waiting for Gwen. It wasn’t as sweet as it should be, Lady Donnchadhs’ demands leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.

When Gwen appeared, Arthur seated himself, rigidity in his posture, avoiding her inquisitive gaze as she sat beside him.

Sefa gasped behind them as a ringing crash shattered the heavy silence – Arthur and Gwen looked toward the ruckus.

The mortified servant recoiled from the fallen serving tray, terrified eyes darting between Arthur and Gwen anxiously. “I’m sorry, your majesties! I’m-I’m…” Sefa dropped to recover the scattered dishes with a wince.

“It’s all right, Sefa,” Gwen assured the young woman, overlooking her awkward blunder with grace and patience, though her worried eyes now fixed firmly on him again. “Arthur... what is wrong?”

He slid over the damning letter. “Isolde’s in trouble,” he replied heavily.

Gwen scanned the elegant script, eyes widening with dawning sorrow. “Oh no...” Her voice a wounded whisper as fingertips gently covered trembling lips. After a fraught silence, she asked:

“What will you do?”

Arthur shook his head, his lips thinning. This would cut deep. With great effort, he met Gwen’s expectant eyes. “What I must.”

In the lesser hall, Arthur sat upon a modest throne on a short dais, Gwen graceful beside him. His most trusted – Merlin, Fredrick, and Geoffrey – stood vigil nearby. Before them, Escetir’s emissary waited alongside Camelot’s high lords, delayed from departing for home soil for this urgent council.

The envoy stood tall amidst his black-cloaked entourage, gripping a parchment. He met Arthur’s gaze directly as an equal, not a petitioner bowing before a king – bold, even for a protected member of the court. Subtle tension hummed in the air, their mutual distrust and lingering animosity palpable in the hall.

Arthur’s postponement of critical talks during the coronation – to begin six days later – had vexed the envoy also, raising diplomatic stakes. Yet to now convene this morn –with his staff scarce – this concession acknowledged Camelot’s perceived urgency in their grievance. All crafted purpose however – to conclude affairs before the harvest’s mysterious restoration come dawn Monday. The high road was oft the harder. But first to listen and seek accord – granting full fair hearing despite contrary storms on Camelot’s horizon. Arthur kept his face neutral now, gesturing permission to proceed.

Bernewyn half-bowed from the hip, a thinly veiled scowl on his face. “Our gratitude for your hospitality and the… expedience of your audience, King Arthur.”

Arthur paid him a cool gaze – bold indeed. This was no groveling subject, but a proud emissary still simmering from the imposition of delay. Arthur kept his irritation in check. He was in a difficult position, trying to balance multiple pressing issues while accommodating Escetir’s demands. If the envoy bristled at the inconvenience, too bad – the needs of Camelot came first, diplomatic feathers be damned. Only one man here was king, and Arthur would ensure this envoy did not forget it.

“King Lot sends his congratulations to the queen of Camelot and wishes you great success,” Bernewyn continued with a regal bow to Guinevere, interrupting the cutting rebuttal on the edge of Arthur’s tongue.

“Thank you,” she acknowledged, her expression stately and attentive.

Arthur buried his sharp response, taking a quiet breath. He needed to hear this news plainly before reacting.

“What else does King Lot have to say?” asked Arthur, inwardly bracing himself for the worse. Indeed, he had more than an inkling what ill news was coming.

The scroll crinkled as Bernewyn unrolled it and began to read. “His royal highness, King Lot Rynart of Escetir, brings forth the following grievances against the king of Camelot, Arthur Pendragon, and demands recompense for said grievances:

“On the fifth day of May of the year of our Lord 699, you crossed our borders and sought refuge in the village of Ealdor. A raid sanctioned by the queen of Camelot, Morgana Pendragon, was carried out by Sir Agravaine de Bois – your uncle purportedly – on the eighth day of May. In their search for you, they terrorized the town and set it to fire. Many homes and property were lost.”

A stirring went through the council members as murmurs broke out, Arthur realizing that most if not all of them not aware of the details around Sir Agravaine’s raid – that Arthur and Merlin had fled to Ealdor after Morgana and Helios conquered Camelot.

“We take comfort no lives were lost,” Arthur countered, glancing at Guinevere. She had been present in Ealdor as well, her temporary home during her exile and providing some comfort to him for a time. “Great care to secure their safety was undertaken.”

“That is not in dispute, King Arthur,” the emissary replied, his tone an even challenge.

Arthur’s jaw cinched; his lips thinned. Frustration kindled that his efforts shielding innocents went so casually ignored. As if those terrified souls huddled in the dark forest mattered not at all! Did this man think fear a trivial thing forgotten for peasants?

“The grievances against Camelot continue, highness.”

Arthur forced steady composure, nodded for him to continue. Losing temper would only seem weakness in this adversary’s shrewd eyes. The envoy clearly maneuvered to nettle, seeking loose stones in the fortress of his poise. He would not crumble so easily.

“Six years past, on the nineteenth day of October in the year of our Lord 693, you, Lady Morgana, and Lady Guinevere crossed our borders into Ealdor and killed several of our citizens one week hence, including a warlord named Kanen.”

Loud gasps and angry cries erupted from the council as Arthur diverted his eyes for a moment. Lord Aldwin shot to his feet in outrage before Lord Gregory grabbed his arm and sternly pulled him back into his seat. Shocked whispers echoed around the hall.

Arthur pressed his lips together, the truth unavoidable - he had crossed into another kingdom and engaged in conflict without consent, violating treaties. His intentions mattered not - the Crown Prince of Camelot interfering in a matter that did not concern his lands. An unauthorized aggression against Escetir, one he had gotten away with until now.

“In defense of innocents left to suffer, something any man of honor would do.” Arthur held the envoy’s gaze, anger burning beneath the surface. He would not apologize for coming to the aid of the helpless, treaty or no. “If King Cenred neglected his people, he invited foreign intervention.”  Relaxing his tightened jaw, Arthur breathed steadily.

“What happens within our kingdom is none of your concern, majesty,” Bernewyn retorted pointedly.

“There are people living there who are my friends,” Arthur replied, his voice hard and defiant, eyes boring into Bernewyn. “I protect those loyal to me, no matter what crown they live under.”

Arthur had never admitted his fondness toward Merlin’s mother and her neighbors. Twice they had accepted him, confiding in him though he wore a foreign crown. He felt Merlin’s gaze, sensing his friend’s quiet approval. But Arthur kept his eyes locked with the envoy’s. He would not be shamed for doing what was right.

Bernewyn glared at Arthur before breaking his gaze. “King Arthur, Kanen and his men were subjects of Escetir no matter their character. You had no right nor authority to murder them.”

The lords around the table grumbled, some nodding in accord. While displeasure at the envoy’s discourteous tone rang clear, others perhaps agreed with the grievance. Some may not have even known of Arthur’s infractions until now, angered by his unauthorized aggressions.

“Those… men… brutally killed an innocent farmer knowing he was not a threat and pinned a warning for us on the bolt sticking out of his back,” Arthur said tightly, reigning in the anger stirring within him. The emissary’s words had cut deep, though Arthur knew his actions had been justified, circumstances necessitating intervention. Still, had a foreign prince violated Camelot’s borders, he might have reacted the same as Lot. The treaty violations gave legitimate cause for outrage that could not be easily assuaged.

“It was not murder,” Arthur said finally. “We defended ourselves and gained meaningful friendships with the villagers.”

“The kingdom of Escetir acknowledges your relationship with Ealdor.” Bernewyn’s gaze slid to Merlin and Arthur hitched a silent breath.

May he be damned! How many more hidden enemies lurked within Camelot’s walls? He’d rooted out his uncle’s spies, but Agravaine could not have been the only one with eyes and ears among the court. Did Escetir have its own web of informants woven throughout his castle and capital?

The emissary eyes turned back to Arthur. “But King Lot also recognizes it as a violation and demands recompense.”

Arthur lifted his chin. “Which is?”

Bernewyn unrolled another scroll and read the words. “Escetir Forest is to be returned to its rightful kingdom Escetir with ten thousand gold pieces to be paid in full within one hundred twenty days.”

The lesser hall erupted in a cacophony of discord as Arthur’s nostrils flared, his eyes slitting – though whether from shock or outrage he did not know. But muscles feathered in his cinched jaw – a demand of this magnitude – tribute and land…

“This demand is outrageous!” “Preposterous!” “You mustn’t, King Arthur!”

Arthur glared at Bernewyn. A small, thin smile spread on the emissary’s lips as he rolled the parchment.

The Ridge of Ascetir lay between the forest and Lot’s territory. Surrendering such a vast and valuable amount of land would greatly diminish Camelot’s eastern border while expanding Lot’s. His reach would be dangerously closer to Camelot proper.

Arthur held up his hand, called for silence. “Am I to assume the terms include the Ridge?” he asked.

“Due to its location, King Arthur, it does.”

The murmurs rose again. Arthur raised his hand once more. Silence followed.

He shook his head, a short derisive chuckle escaping him. “Sir Bernewyn, you cannot possibly believe that Camelot would cede half its eastern territory to you and shift its border to my front gates. Such demand and expectation are folly.”

Bernewyn stiffened, his shoulders rigid.

Arthur inhaled. “The Forest of Ascetir was brokered in a treaty between my father and Lot’s father. I will not upend it.”

“Unfairly brokered,” the emissary reproved, his gaze steady and unyielding on Arthur.

Arthur leaned forward, his eyes like steel. “I will not be drawn into a decades’ old debate over bruised egos or imagined slights from the past. Take care with your next words.”

He measured the man, raking him up and down. He’d granted the emissary some concessions on protocol and the delivery of his words. Leniency must be adhered no matter how volatile the message or how fearless the messenger. But he was at his end.

At last, Bernewyn lowered his eyes.

“I shall take council and deliberate over King Lot’s…unreasonable terms,” Arthur said, reclining into the throne. “You shall have our response in a few days.”

Arthur evoked a courageous front, but inside, his gut churned as his eyes found Gwen’s. This newest threat was stacked upon simmering chaos within his kingdom. Could Camelot withstand assaults from without and from within at once? Could he?

Chapter Text

Al-Sayyidah Yaminah Zahir had granted him one delightful waltz at the queen’s celebration, and though wounded thereafter denied, he gallantly bid her fair evening with a tender kiss on her hand, then retreated from the hall as far as he could to resist the pull drawing him back. He searched for her the next day, however, before the tourney’s sword fighting competition. Finding her in the stands and enticing her playfully for a favor had spurred his victory and another fond smile from her.

Joyfully, she’d permitted her champion a stroll afterwards – though her chaperones never too far away. Yet, the heavenly moments he shared with her, conversing things of import and trivial, wandering with no destination in mind, had awakened a hope he thought unattainable by him. Every word out of her mouth stimulated his senses, her knowledge of things, her innocence of others, deepened his understanding of her.

Each look upon her roused feelings that Gwaine was sure he’d never felt. It was not just her great beauty, but the twin soul beneath it longing for the same deep connection as he. Blinded by affection, he stood poised to plunge from the edge of the pit he kept digging. He’d known the follies of passion oft before, yet for her, this leap tempted profoundly – consequences be damned. Already she’d utterly bewitched him.

And unless his deluded heart misread flashes of want in her eyes, he’d imprinted upon the lady too... stirring affections laid dormant yet masked behind elegant defenses.

The evening drew late as they lingered over their last goblets, tucked away in a quiet tavern corner. Her hazel eyes glittered in the candlelight as Gwaine spoke sweet parting words and pressed another chaste kiss to her hand. She gifted him a final enigmatic smile that seared into memory before gliding away into the evening mists.

But at dawn today, the hope they’d ignited was extinguished in a single, anguished act carried out by him and his knightly comrades. Though his effort to be relieved had been rejected straightway, his shame still burned fresh from the arrest. Yaminah’s anguished pain had pierced like arrows, he unable to move nor utter a word to comfort her, duty to Arthur holding him fast – and a strong arm of Percival halting his one feeble attempt. A fool and a coward. Could she ever forgive him?

Reassuring her father that he’d watch over her – giving his solemn vow – had not eased his conscience for his actions. At first, the ten-day journey had been a welcomed mission and he’d looked forward to a little adventure. But since meeting Yaminah and his foul deed this morning, how could he keep his newly-sworn avowal to her father so far away from her and for so long a time?  

Yet, she would not receive him after returning from the dungeon, his futile efforts blocked by servants and a hard, wooden door. The fool who squandered trust so swiftly won ignored. Had he lost her already without ever having the chance to truly love her as his heart silently pleaded?

Now, as guards spread the doors to the lesser hall, he and Fredrick marched in, his frown deeper than ever. Arthur was seated at the head of the table surrounded by councilmen, the king’s sleeves rolled to elbows, George dutifully several paces behind him, silver pitcher in hands. Parchment and maps covered the tabletop, something in front of every man, including the king. He and Fredrick stopped a respectable distance before them and awaited their orders.

“That’s less than half the territory Lot demanded,” Arthur was saying. “Less richer lands.”

Lord Gregory nodded. “Indeed, and we’ll have to resettle a few villages, towns –”

Arthur shot a glance to Geoffrey. “How many and which settlements?”

“Um… one moment, sire,” Geoffrey replied with a grunt, sifting through his parchments.

“Brecfeld, Alvedon,” Gregory recited tightly some of the larger settlements. “Ancroft – to name a few.”

“About eight villages and towns, sire,” came Geoffrey’s firm response.

The room grew silent, but Gwaine’s racing thoughts had drifted inward long before.

Damn fool, Gwaine. Fool! Idiot! …

Yaminah – gods, your anguished face haunts me… what must I do to give solace…?

Arthur demands, Yaminah grieves. Fealty severs my heart’s compass…

Damn quest! Maybe Arthur?... Yaminah waits…

Yaminah… Yaminah… what price would heaven demand—?

“Thank you both for undertaking this urgent task for me,” Arthur said, cutting through the emotions swelling and suddenly standing in front of them.

Gwaine shifted uncomfortably having not seen Arthur leave his chair nor advance to speak privately to them.

“We’re here to serve, my lord,” Fredrick promptly replied.

“There’s a young woman whom Guinevere befriended when she lived in Longstead,” Arthur continued. “I want you to escort her safely back to Camelot.”

“Sire?” Gwaine shuffled his stance again. Displeasure simmered his already roiling emotions. Were his skills now relegated to accompanying travelers?

“Mistress Jacinth?” asked Fredrick. “I remember her. Frail, but strong-willed. Gwen was quite fond of her.”

Arthur nodded. “Gwen needs friendship from one who understands burdens shouldered in common. Who can nourish her spirit as only women together might. Perspectives I regrettably lack – though strive each day to remedy.”

“A friend from darker times may well offer some light to the queen now,” said Fredrick agreeably. “I look forward to seeing her again as well.”

 “Arthur –” Gwaine said tightly, hairs prickling his skull.

“Travel swiftly but discreetly,” Arthur continued. “She’s important, men.”

Gwaine’s lips twitched, his cheeks burned. As much as he recognized Gwen’s need for female support and companionship, any knight could carry out this mission. Departing now meant abandoning all hope of keeping his vow and making amends with Yaminah – something far more urgent to him right now.

“I leave my queen under your protection, King Arthur,” Fredrick said with a bow. “Rest assured; we’ll deliver Mistress Jacinth safely to Camelot.”

Arthur nodded. “Make haste. I want you back sooner than a crow flies. Much is happening in the days ahead, and I need you both here.”

Fredrick turned to go, but Gwaine wavered as he swallowed conflict of duty and affection. “Sire, allow me to remain while another is sent.”

Arthur shook his head. “Your duty lies where I command it, Gwaine, without question or qualm. Your courageous skills are required for this task.”

“Any other knight, Arthur, but not me. Lord Badawi’s family – the Lady Yaminah...” his voice trailed off awkwardly, his body swayed in its rigidity.

Comprehension dawned on Arthur’s face before his lips thinned, a tempest brewing in his blue eyes. He turned away with controlled effort.

“Gentlemen,” he said tightly to the councilmen. “I need the hall. Please wait outside.” He nodded to his servant and George promptly streamed into the flow of the other men. Arthur turned back to them. “You too, Fredrick.”

The doors closed sharply. After a moment of taut silence, Arthur approached him, each step radiating contained rage. “Are you mad?” he demanded through a rigid jaw, his eyes blazing hot.

“I made a vow to protect her in Lord Badawi’s stead.”

Arthur blinked, taken aback. Then his face mottled red in outrage. “You swore an oath to a traitor – a man you knew a threat to this kingdom’s stability?!”

“A father begged solace for his child!” Gwaine shot back. “What would you have done?”

Arthur averted his eyes briefly, anger and disappointment at war in them. He glared at Gwaine – his wrath reigning and his voice rising in fury. “I would have you walk away under the circumstances! Gwaine, could you not see the problems you’ve courted?!”

“I gave my word!” he replied equally. “And you know nothing of my heart!”

“I know you let passion cloud reason – fleeting like always!” Arthur stepped too close, provoking him. “Would you forsake your vow to me over a maiden’s glance?! Is she so different than any of the others?!”

Gwaine grabbed a fistful of Arthur’s shirt, wrenching him near. Arthur’s livid eyes met his unflinchingly – a dare through gritted teeth as his own rage boiled. Yet he dared disparage his lady’s honor! Every muscle screamed to teach this arrogant boy a few lessons in compassion and humility. His grip tightened.

Then he blinked; the red haze passed. This was Princess – his friend and liege lord for all their quarrels. And he’d made one foolish move – he didn’t want to make another.

Breathing harshly, Gwaine uncurled his aching fists and stepped back. “She’s nothing you claim,” he rasped. “And it seems neither are you….” Arthur’s hard glare turned into a bitter pout before his features eased into an uncomfortable victory.

“I’ll depart at once, King Arthur,” Gwaine said tightly. He pivoted sharply, biting back a curse, words ineffective against the king’s cold indifference.

“Gwaine,” Arthur beckoned, sympathy and authority battling in his tone. “I’m sorry.”

He stopped, considered not facing him, but turned around reluctantly.

“Make this one for Guinevere,” the king appealed, “then return to your lady.”

Gwaine’s chest tightened as his heart splintered, eyes burning behind his lids. “Damn you, Arthur,” he said, his curse throaty, his glower unforgiving.

He left without dismissal, the bitter taste of obedience clinging, disappointment churning his gut and fury burning his blood. Clenched fists matched his clipped angry steps echoing down halls now cold and lifeless.

This abrupt departure gnawed as dereliction of duty to Lord Badawi and Lady Yaminah – nearly a fortnight away from her. Though if honest, a sliver of craven relief yielded escape from the anguish in her eyes.

But only a sliver. Relief was the coward’s way. Swallowing his resentment of Arthur and despair over departing, Gwaine hardened his resolve – Gwen first, then mending what he could with Yaminah.

Chapter Text

“Allah, be praised,” Yaminah whispered with trembling voice, knelt in prayer in her chamber, arms elevated on her bed. “You are my shelter and strength, an ever-present help in times of trouble…. I beseech you now for courage to face the challenges ahead… and be not afraid.”

A dying fire crackled in the small hearth; sweat beaded on her forehead as she repeated the prayer for strength. An hour now it had been, an ornate Coptic cross clutched in one hand, a crushed note in the fist of the other, and tears flowing unceasing.

“Allah, be praised…. You… are – my…” Her voice, sore and raw, faltered now as her body sank to prostate on the floor in wracking quivers. She could not move, the rupture of heart and ache of knotted muscles demanding their toll.

The visit to her father in the dungeon had crushed her, the conditions he must suffer while awaiting trial appalling. But the charges against him were fallacious. She’d heard no seditious words from his lips – only a truth that he believed. Though she held none of his notions on magic and sorcery, he should freely be able to speak his heart. He never meant to harm.

Struggling to rise on quaking legs, Yaminah left her private room and slowly paced the main chambers, muscles raging in protest and inner turmoil dizzying. Her hands ached too – wringing the note and the cross – it having imprinted upon her palm she’d gripped it so tightly.

She unfurled the note in her other hand, thrust upon her by her father – instructions during his absence. She’d resisted at first, fearful of the meaning behind it. His heartfelt plea compelled her – to honor his preparedness however dire. She could hear his voice as she skimmed the words through her tear-blurred vision – extend stay in Camelot with steward – manage household, financial matters – rely on Farouk and Ishka – send word to Youssef.

Youssef. She clasped her diamond pendant. He’d only just departed two days past to destinations not shared with them. It may be weeks before – if any – that he would send a letter.

And Gwaine. Father had also told her of his vow to protect her – though this had only intensified her ire towards the knight for his betrayal.

She squeezed her eyes shut, warring sentiments nearly forcing breath itself away. How to hold such caring words for a day then brutal treachery the next? This knight who stirred long dormant yearnings – did he harbor hearts both gentle and cruel? Fragments of tender moments stained by vivid memories of her adored father ripped from her by him... leaving her cradling Gwaine’s worthless promises and her baba’s precious instructions and nothing on which to hold.

Her eyes then roamed the chamber, catching the few religious symbols her father never traveled without: the graceful dove statuette, symbolizing the Holy Spirit; the glint of the scarab jewel, for its meaning of new life and resurrection; and delicate petals of lotuses from his gardens, their sacred symbol of purity. The ornate cross above the hearth of slowly dying flames… faith in the hope to come….

She drew a shuttering breath, tears once again welling in her eyelids. In the dim candlelight, shadows flickered eerie shapes of foreboding and dread upon them – the icons seeming hollow in her grief. She released the cross from her hand, its resounding clatter upon the stone floor ignored as she walked about idly. Her brother, her father, a knight she’d thought valiant – all abandoned her, the ground crumbling away where she had stood secure.

“Youssef,” she wept through a blurry haze. “Where are you? Baba and I need you desperately.”

The heat in the air could not warm her, a coldness shrouding her sense of loneliness. Shivering, she wrapped her arms around herself.

“Sir Gwaine…”

Yaminah crossed to the chaise. Even the whisper of her footsteps on the stone floor was overwhelming in the emptiness. Reclining on the plush furniture, she pulled the draped cloth from the backrest and covered herself. Closing her eyes, tears leaked from the corners, her father’s note still clutched in her hand as the other drifted to the diamond pendant that soothed her somewhat.

“Gwaine…Walven….”

Why had Allah brought this man to stir such warmth, only to then abandon her to winter’s bite? Had she been deceived by charming words, the carefree laughter that softened her poise? Or did insincerity dwell beneath the gallant surface? He’d returned to her door after imprisoning her father and begged an audience; but she forsook him, for he’d earned her full wrath. No words he could have offered to amend her anger nor mend her heart – despite the vow he’d promised her father.

A rap at the outer door startled Yaminah, drawing her shoulders rigid. But sinking again into melancholy, she knew it would not be Sir Gwaine, for he’d ceased his attempts to reach her by mid-morning. Still, if it were him again, she would not receive him. After a moment, her handmaiden appeared and curtsied.

“Who called, Ishka?”

The servant held out a sealed parchment. “A letter for you, Al-Sayyidah. From Sir Walven.”

Yaminah’s eyes dropped to the letter, then after a moment, a trembling hand reached for it. “Shokran,” she thanked softly after another pause, staring at the letter grasped in her palms with her father’s crumpled note. “Take supper now. I’ll be all right.”

Yaminah stared at the sealed parchment, her pulse quickening. Sir Walven.

Just his surname sparked turmoil. Many noblemen showed no respect or pride for carrying the family name, yet Sir Gwaine did – she admired that. His bold and provocative introduction had intrigued her from the start. And at the coronation dance – under the watchful eyes of her family – she and Gwaine had stirring conversations before his one and only waltz. But the next day, his playful banter for her favor, their day-long wanderings later – she remembered everywhere they’d roamed – he seemed truly earnest in word and deed. Worthy of future encounters.

Yet this was the same man who’d arrested her beloved father and showed little regard for her pain. The man who then begged audience at her door, supplicating apologies and professions that rang hollow to her ear. Hollow as his later absence after ceasing pursuit of her.

She drew an unsteady breath, warring with indecision as she traced the insignia pressed into the hardened wax. To break the seal would permit his words sway, his empty excuses perhaps kindling that treacherous flame she tucked away. She owed no graciousness to his pen now, no matter the honeyed phrases it may spin....

Yet hesitation stayed her hand from casting it into the fire, curiosity an insect needling her resolve. This was a respected knight, friend to king and queen, esteemed in the court of Camelot. Was he merely the callow rogue she deemed him... or could some truth dwell in his scrawled sentiments?

Taking deep breaths, she broke the seal and began reading not rushed or illegible words, but Sir Gwaine’s elegant and carefully written script:

My Dearest Al-Sayyidah,

My heart breaks that we cannot speak in person, for I have been called away on a mission for the king and queen.

I was a fool, Yaminah. Know that I took no pleasure in your father’s arrest. But not being able to comfort you during it rent my very soul, and it pained me to see you suffer. With all my failings, please forgive me. I wish for no other place to be than by your side.

His sincere words caused Yaminah to shudder, bumps rising on her skin and tears falling down her cheeks. His remorse showed clear humility for his actions and he admitted his own faults. Dwelling on his words, she cried a little longer before she could continue.

I cannot imagine the sorrow of having your father taken from you. However events unfolded, I know he must feel bereft, as must you. When I return, I swear to pursue his release. But wherever it may lead, please know, dear Yaminah, I will not ignore guilt, nor injustice, nor fail to stand by convictions I believe honorable.

Yaminah’s hand fluttered to her chest, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks at his words. Could this be genuine care and determination she now heard in his voice? She yearned to cling to this kindled hope that his intentions aligned with honor and justice as he claimed.

Until then, keep faith that wiser minds will discern the truth. Allow me to be your comfort in spirit if not in presence. You are ever in my thoughts.

With Affection,

Your humble servant, Gwaine

Emotions now raging – so thoughtful, such humility, a plea for forgiveness – fear and doubt still skirted the edges of her mind – pretty phrases could hide uglier truths. The depths of her longing wished to trust that this gallant knight sought righteousness in his actions, not cruel indifference. She drew a shuddering breath, wavering over whether stark reality would reward such fragile optimism or dash it against the stones below.

Yaminah read the letter again, lingering on certain lines – certain words that pierced through her defenses. Had she judged him too harshly? Was he worthy of her trust again after his vile actions? His words seemed sincere in their intentions, his script written with care and precision….

Folding the letter and then standing with the poise and dignity her father had instilled in her, she tucked it into her dress pocket, fingers gripping it. She would cling to that hope until Gwaine’s return and be courageous to confront him.

As her pendant glistened in the fire’s glow, Yaminah’s eyes dropped to her father’s note in her other hand, clutching it even tighter. Until then, her father’s legacy must be protected and she would follow his instructions – and then confront Youssef upon his return.

Chapter Text

Goodbye weighed heavy on Merlin’s heart that rainy morn. Before first light, he crept into his mentor’s chambers one last time, eyes tracing memories swathing every surface – vials they’d labeled, nicks in worktables from explosions gone awry, jars they’d collected through the years. This sanctuary had been their haven when dangers encircled, fears flowed freely, and secrets kept them isolated together.

But the dreary rain-soaked dawn now beckoned Gaius toward long-awaited happiness – a new life, renewed love. So Merlin swallowed self-pity’s barbs, pasting on a smile as Gaius entered cloaked for the ride, bags packed. He would focus joy today, not loss.

“The horses are ready,” he said, adjusting his traveling cloak. “Shall we?”

Gaius nodded, eyes glistening. “Let’s take the long route, my boy.”

Merlin laughed softly, picturing the king and queen huddled from the rain and patience waning awaiting them outside. “I’d love that long walk too.”

He gazed fondly around the chamber one last moment. These rooms would belong to another once he closed these doors. Someone else’s memories would fill these spaces now.

As they strolled slowly through the awakening castle, fond echoes of bygone days seemed to flicker in Merlin’s vision – brief ghosts of their younger selves hastening through these very corridors, slipping into shadowed alcoves when threats loomed. He saw transparent snapshots of secret counsel given and received within the rooms they now passed, always isolated, always vigilant together.

Glancing at Gaius, he saw the memories stirring behind his mentor’s eyes as well. The smiles, the anguish, the secret counsel conveyed year after year within these halls... a silent sorrow tinged their days of shared guardianship for those in this castle and beyond.

Stepping into the pale daylight, rain pattering the landing, the courtyard stood silent, all activity ordered to ceased. Gaius inhaled a sharp breath. Waiting knights stood sentry, their backs straight with ceremonial solemnity, Percival and Ranulf anchoring each row. Even Leon was amongst them, standing beside the first knight – a testament to Gaius’ enduring legacy. The king and queen in hooded furs waited at the end.

“Oh,” Gaius gasped, taking in the scene. “Oh my.”

Merlin urged him forward, gently grasping an arm as they descended the steps. As Gaius passed through the ranks of knights, tears threatened Merlin’s composure. His expression warred between a smile and pure sadness. He swallowed down his tears for a small smile.

Gwen stepped forward, her cheeks wet, and embraced Gaius fiercely. Over her shoulder, Gaius whispered, “Thank you.”

“I shall miss you,” she said before releasing him, her voice trembling slightly.

“And I, you, Gwen.” He stared at her fondly for a moment, the depth of their bond evident in the warmth of his gaze. Merlin knew they shared a history of precious moments - a connection forged through years of laughter, tears, and unwavering support.

Arthur stepped forward. “Safe journey, old friend.” He clasped Gaius’ forearm and then pulled him into his chest. Merlin’s breath caught in his throat at the sight – this was surely the first time he’d ever seen the two men embrace. His best friend and his mentor – a picture of affection and respect that made his eyes sting with unshed tears – one that he’d carry with him a long time.

Arthur pulled back. “But I shall not miss your potions,” he said with a half-smile.

Grinning, Gaius glanced between them. “Good bye, Arthur. It has been an honor, my boy. Gwen, all my deepest hopes for you, my child.”

Merlin walked with their horses toward the portcullis, Gaius soaking up the assembly before coming to his side. Hooves echoed down awakening streets veiled by rain, the upper town slowly stirring doors open against the gloom. Merlin drank in each familiar lane, enshrining all in memory. But no covert perils awaited this day – only steady drops sealing their bittersweet parting.

Past the northern gate, they mounted and rode without words into sodden woods, the world closed in by grey drizzle. He would teleport Gaius from deep within the forest – no need now to brave long roads alone. Though, Deira would be the furthest he’d ever attempted – over thirty leagues! And he wasn’t sure how close he’d get to Alice’s rural home outside Hewnfeld without her exact location. Still, they would find her – even if he had to transport to every home surrounding the village.

At a rainswept clearing Merlin reined his horse, heartbeat suddenly stifling his throat. The hour to relinquish his long-time guide into joy had come.

“Well,” he said sighing, though he did manage a genuine smile. “Are you ready?”

“Are you certain you can take both me and the horse?” Gaius asked, his eyebrow raised.

Merlin clicked his tongue, his face scrunching. “Some…what? I’m not even sure what my range is, honestly.”

“Merlin!”

He should not have smiled wider at the scolding, but he’d heard that tone so many times that his heart swelled. “I would never let anything happen to you,” he said, his tone sincere. “I’ll get you there safely. You have my word.”

Gaius nodded. “I know you will, my boy.”

“Besides, I’m bringing both horses. We don’t know if we’ll have to search for Alice once we arrive.”

“I will search for her,” Gaius said sternly. “I must do that alone. You return home – start your life anew.”

Merlin nodded solemnly. This truly was it. It could be some time before he saw Gaius again. With Camelot in its birthing pangs, would duty to Arthur and kingdom keep him from journeys to visit his aged friend. As much as Merlin hated the thought, with Gaius’ years dusking – one day, he would be gone forever. He swallowed the sorrowful feelings as he reached over and firmly gripped his mentor’s shoulder, their steeds ready beneath.

The crude map he studied of Deira placed Hewnfeld not far from a river. Despite his reassurances, Merlin’s aimed for unknown and unseen territory increased the chances of intersecting a tree or landing in a building. This time of year, people could be nearby or any number of other obstacles to jeopardize a smooth deposit on the river’s bank. A chance they must take. Having faith, he closed his eyes and concentrated, reaching through magic and distance to grasp its curves. Both he and Gaius braced atop their horses.

“Bedyrne ús, Azuremere River—”

“Merlin,” suddenly came Kilgharrah’s jarring mind-speak in his head, almost breaking his concentration. Merlin squeezed his eyes.

“—Hewnfeld! Astýre ús þanonweard!” The forest disappeared in swirling vapors, the wind whipping against their skin.

Sunlight touched their faces.

But they plunged into frigid water and beneath the surface before bobbing up spluttering.

“We-we’re here!” Merlin sputtered, wiping water from his face.

Gaius blew dripping strands from his eyes, fixing Merlin with icy outrage. “So it appears,” he grumbled through chattering teeth as the horses swam with ease towards the river’s edge. “Though more soaked than anticipated...”

Merlin sloshed clumsily to help Gaius, wrapped his arms around him. “I’m sorry, Gaius—Kilgharrah!—in the middle—! Are you all right?”

“The great dragon?” he asked, puffing for air. “What peril now?” He pointed to the horses as they splashed upon the river bank. “We’re lucky that gold didn’t carry Lael to the bottom. Better check on him.”

“I’m sure he’s fine – they both are. At least it isn’t raining here….” His optimism only gained a raised eyebrow from Gaius and a stern stare. “Let me start a fire. Stay in the sun.”

Merlin gathered branches into his arms with a flash of gold in his eyes, pondered the great dragon –Kilgharrah rarely summoned. Gaius was right – something must be wrong.

“Ondrædan draca gemynd,” Merlin incanted under his breath, opening his mind to the dragon.

Kilgharrah’s stern voice filled his thoughts. “Once again you fail in your duties, young warlock...”

Merlin flinched as the dragon’s angry words echoed telepathically. “Camelot’s trials often prevent me from visiting Aithusa these long months past. But that is no excuse, I know—”

“Indeed,” Kilgharrah cut him off sharply. “Your oath as a dragonlord transcends all else. The hatchling shows great promise, but she awaits your guidance too.”

Shame stirred within Merlin. Kilgharrah spoke true – he’d ignored Aithusa since calling her forth from the egg. Protecting Arthur had allowed no time then. Now destiny called – tomorrow he embarked with Galahad on their vital quest, and in three days he would reveal himself as Emrys. The outcome of both unknown. His duties piled, yet Kilgharrah’s words could not be denied. As dragonkin, Aithusa deserved better from him.

“You must go to her,” the dragon commanded, allowing no argument. “Renew your sacred bond. Guide her growth as is your responsibility.”

“I understand,” Merlin conceded heavily. “I’ll join you later this afternoon.”

As Kilgharrah withdrew from his mind, he winced, his shoulders burdened with the weight of responsibility of a different kind. It’d been a few weeks since he last saw them, but that visit had been mainly for Morgana’s sake. He needed to spend a little time in study before going to them later today, for he had no idea what it meant to be a dragonlord, especially to one so young.

Arranging the wood in a pile, Merlin whispered the flames to life. Gaius eased gingerly closer, angling dripping sleeves and boots toward crackling heat.

“You always did know how to... make things warm for yourself,” Gaius muttered, the jest softened by his smile. He sighed contently as the fire began to dry his sodden clothing. “I suppose a few moments more won’t hinder me overmuch...”

Merlin grinned back sheepishly. Gratitude shone through Gaius’ playful grumbles for the gift of this pause. After long years stealing time, delay was blessed rather than cursed.

“I’ll fetch better wood to dry you off properly,” he said, touching Gaius’ shoulder fondly before heading deeper into trees, footsteps reluctant to leave his mentor even now.

An hour longer was all they had left. Warm and dry, they shared a deep, lingering embrace before Gaius broke away and climbed onto Lael, eyes wet.

“Until next time,” Merlin said, his face wet too.

Gaius smiled warmly. “I’ll see you then, my boy.”

Merlin stayed by the fire, watched his mentor go until he could see him no more.

Chapter Text

Stepping softly on green brush, Killian drew back his hood and lifted his bow and arrow, aimed his shot. A young buck grazed on foliage near rock and wooded cliffs. Light rain fell on hair and face, wildflowers agitated his nostrils, the gurgling of a river in his hearing. Still close to Camelot with the celebrations winding down but quite far enough away from the dwindling tent city, the rich hunting ground provided ample food for them. The meat would sustain him and Mordred for some time, and the vegetables, nuts, and fruit that Dodd had bought from the festival markets would satisfy his tastes. The hide would serve another useful purpose.

Killian pulled a slow, steady breath as he drew the bowstring. He didn’t need a weapon to hunt – he could break the creature’s neck with just a few enchanted words – no fun in that – or conjure multiple swords to take down a bear if in dire need – a little more entertaining. But feeling the hilt of a sword in his hand, or the worn grip of wood as he caressed each shaft’s feathers brought savage memories relived, spurring anticipation for the arrow’s final bite. Yes. Weapons kept his skills sharp and prolonged the pleasure of the killing.

He released his fingertips, loosed the arrow. The buck started, its ears perking in the direction of the bowstring’s twang. It dropped mid-leap when the arrow struck flesh.

Wiping rain from his eyes, Killian strode to inspect the carcass, planted a foot on its flank to brace as he freed the arrow, sliding it back in the quiver with its fletched kin. Examining the hole, he saw little blood seeped from the wound and he grunted with disappointment. He’d need to aim more true next time to cause a fatal flood.

He hefted the game across his shoulders and headed back to their tent, now erected far from the castle in denser forest – a worthy distance but allowed him ample time to think. He’d stolen the artifacts needed from the castle vaults, had gathered some of the supplies and other articles they’d need. Yet two vital pieces remained undone that could halt their progress entirely.

His final task was to find a secure location to secretly carry out their plan – a place that would swallow screams he hoped. The hut would not suffice – its size was one disadvantage. And any passing stranger could stumble upon them before they had finished their business with Arthur and Guinevere was another. Insomuch, they’d abandoned the hovel all together not wanting to remain in the one location for too long.

But Dodd’s task – as crucial as his – was to watch the royals and discover a time to strike against them. How they could subdue them, they’d already figured out. They just needed to know when the opportunity presented itself. Without both objectives fulfilled, all their efforts remained hollow.

Killian adjusted the heavy deer. As he walked, the cliff face caught his eye – a depression with disturbed vegetation and loose stones marred the rocks and slate – likely from the rainwater. Brow creasing with curiosity, he moved closer to investigate. Setting the buck on the ground and brushing away leaves revealed a dark, gaping hole in the cliffside. Scanning around him for anything that he could light for a torch, he scooped up a small, wet log.

“Forbearnahn fehrgunhalt.” With a flash of gold in his eyes, the end of the wood burst into flames despite its dampness.

Peering inside, a musty smell assaulted his nostrils, cold, damp air hitting his face. He lifted the torch, could make out a steep incline stretch into the blackness, but he was unable to see the bottom. Entering with caution, one gloved hand balanced him against the loose shale as he skittered down the incline.

Deep he slid, the clattering rocks filling his ears, echoes of his movements haunting in what must be a large space. For a moment, he wondered if he was heading to his death towards a bottomless pit until finally he settled onto a surface, rocks crunching beneath his feet. As he steadied himself, taking in deep breaths, loose rock he’d agitated in his decent quieted after a moment, as did the echoes. The silence was oppressive.

The light from the opening above had been sucked out by sheer blackness by the time he’d reached the bottom, his solitary torch now scarcely denting the abyss that swallowed him. How deep had he descended, he wondered? Frigid air raised bumps even on his thick hide and a faint breeze carried a whiff of mold and fungus. But an occasional breeze meant fresh air, possibly another entrance or underground streams, running water.

Swinging the torch revealed nothing but endless darkness however. Taking tentative steps forward, and after a few more moments of nothing but pitch black around him, what looked to be a passage appeared at last.

“Where might this lead?” he asked. Curiosity kindled, lured him down the dark passage.

Shivering in the bone-numbing cold, his breath misted in the flickering torchlight. Killian pressed cautiously forward, footsteps echoing, small stones skittering and crushing under his boots. Foreboding crept down his spine, and after what seemed like an eternity, the descending tunnel eventually opened into an immense underground chamber, its ceiling vanishing into the inky blackness above. Another slight breeze, carrying with it the metallic scent of mineral deposits and the musty odor of centuries-old dust, prickled the hairs on his arms and neck.

Then movement on his right and the clattering of stones jolted Killian. Raising his other hand instinctively as magic tingled, he swung the torch in the direction of the sound – skittering down another tunnel, but he could see nothing. Glancing around, he wondered what creatures might dwell in this environment. Was it possible considering its size, water availability, and fresh air? Might some animals be dangerous? Raising a palm, he muttered, “Giest ŵr a ffurf!”

Wisps of vapor swirled above his open palm, coalescing into indigo flames that disengaged from his hand to roam the air. The ethereal flames shed a cold azure light upon an endless cavern, casting eerie shadows that danced across the uneven walls. The chamber was filled with the musty scent of damp rock and stagnant water, underlaid by the faint, acrid tang of bat guano.

Killian placed his palm on the wall of the tunnel he’d exited and then whispered an enchantment, his eyes flaming gold. Removing his hand, a shimmering imprint glowed on the wall – a marker to find this exit.

As he ventured deeper and marking his route, the strange light revealed a forest of stalactites dripping from the highest ceiling, their surfaces glistening with moisture and mineral deposits. Stalagmites thrust up from the cavern floor like ancient stone sentinels, their forms sculpted by centuries of slow, steady growth. The air grew colder and more oppressive the further he went, carrying with it the distant echoes of dripping water and the soft rustling of unseen creatures in the depths. The vast hollowed space, tunnels splitting off and leading to more cavernous openings, seemed to swallow the light, the indigo flames struggling to penetrate the dense, all-encompassing darkness that pressed in from every side.

His pulse quickened; thoughts swirled the deeper he went; eyes scanned the vastness. He felt the isolation, the terror that such darkness and echo could bring. Killian smiled, his fists opening and closing as plans coalesced. He would return tomorrow with Mordred for a more thorough search, set more markers, find the ideal alcoves for making this… home – for a time.

Killian fashioned steps out of the rock to climb up the steep incline to the outside, pushing aside any loose shale from the crude formation. Concealing the entrance of the cliffside once more with magic, rock and shale, he hoped this would be their only means of coming and going. And if there were animals dwelling in those dark places – which he believed likely – there would be no need to leave the caverns for food.

He hefted the deer upon his shoulders again. Glancing back at the cliffside, a smile played on his lips, although, they should probably set up some kind of alert system around the entrance as well – just in case.

The next day with Mordred by his side, they descended into the foreboding depths, placing shimmering hand prints to mark their routes. Separating at tunnels that snaked in different directions, Killian’s mind raced, his thoughts solely on redesigning one hollow into an instrument of fear for his captives.

After a time, his torch illuminated an elevated rock slab in one alcove, hypnotically drawing him closer. Perfect for an altar, he conjured vivid images of Arthur’s body splayed across the ancient stone, and Guinevere, beautiful hazel eyes wide with anguish, her torment cutting deepest into the king’s heart.

Shadows danced across Killian’s vision as his solitary torch flickered. Fingers tracking along the cold, stone, he imagined Arthur chained and helpless, his agonized screams echoing satisfyingly off these cavern walls, pleading for mercy that would never come.

His smile widened as he envisioned Guinevere bound beside her beloved king, her cries mixing with his tormented screams. He relished thoughts of forcing her to watch helplessly as Arthur suffered what so many of his kin had.

Malicious anticipation boiled in Killian’s veins, unused magic tingled in his hands, eager to inflict pain upon the king and queen. After years of impotent rage, finally he could make the Pendragons pay in full.

“I found a door!” Mordred called, his voice echoing as he ran into the alcove.

Pulled from the edge by the boy’s voice, Killian steadied his heart – his breath shuttered as calm returned. He had not heard the boy approach, no echo of his footsteps his thoughts had been so deep. “Show me,” Killian replied gruffly.

They followed the markers Mordred had set in the tunnels he’d searched, descending deeper into the underground, colder air showing their breaths, water trickling down rock walls. The pungent scent of guano agitated Killian's nostrils. He glanced up, the twitter and fluttering of hundreds if not thousands of bats reaching his ears, though he could not see the ceiling above, nor lay eyes on the nesting creatures.

“There’s water somewhere, Mordred,” he said. “We’ll need to find it.”

“I think there’s some where we’re headed,” Mordred replied, his voice echoing in the vast cavern. A few more marked turns and they finally stood on an outcropping, a large ledge; and Killian could hear rushing water.

“Giest ŵr a ffurf!” he called, casting a spell that summoned the wisps of ethereal blue vapors and lighting the darkness.

The eerie glow revealed more stalagmites and stalactites, their surfaces glistening with moisture from the stream's spray. Scattered bones of smaller animals littered the clefts and outcroppings on the other side of the chasm, hinting at the presence of a predator long gone. Rusted chains, their massive links hanging abandoned, were anchored to the walls near the entrance of the cavern.

Killian cautiously approached the edge, followed by Mordred, and peered over. They saw a swift-flowing stream cutting through the chasm before them. The water, fed by an unseen source, separated the ledge from the other side of the cavern.

Mordred pointed to the door across a deep chasm. “There.”

Killian's gaze drifted to the door; a set of stairs carved into the rock face snaked down into the chasm. His eyes narrowed as he contemplated, searched his memory – something Dodd had said months ago – Could that be…?

When they’d seized the citadel with Morgana’s forces, Dodd hadn’t explored beyond the barrier in the dungeon that he said blocked a wooden door. He’d spoken of rumors that a dragon had been imprisoned in the also-rumored catacombs beneath the citadel. But that was all they’d been – rumors, and Dodd had never ventured back to the dungeon to satisfy his curiosity.

And yet… no doubt remained that a dragon had been kept here. Perhaps the loose shale cliff side had provided means of an escaped from its jailors…. Killian scowled. Another magical creature cruelly punished by his enemies.

He glared at the door as if it were his adversary manifest. That door led into Camelot’s dungeons – he was certain of it. A thousand knights lived on the other side. A thousand swords.

“Let us not linger here, Mordred. We’ll discover where this stream leads, but mark this tunnel off limits. We’re fortunate it’s a great distance from the stone alter I found. The king and queen’s screams would not be heard here.”

Mordred only glanced at him as he doused the blue flames and turned to leave, the boy’s face that same blank, unreadable expression. After a moment in the darkened tunnel, however, Killian smiled at the irony of his plans. Camelot would be oblivious to its precious king and queen’s suffering right below their feet.

Chapter Text

Visits to the royal library had become much more pleasant of late for Merlin – the scent of beeswax and herb-infused oils replacing musty dust, gleaming mahogany shelves tidily arranged and devoid of cobwebs, and plush velvet armchairs inviting leisurely reading. Although more patrons now frequented the repository and could potentially interfere with clandestine missions that might lead him here – such as now – it was still a welcoming sight to see.

He and Galahad nodded to Geoffrey, who was hunched over parchment near the main aisle. They wove equally between towering rows of leather-bound tomes and shorter shelving for easy visibility, the soft swish of their garments evident in the book-laden sanctuary. Reaching another nondescript wall of shelving and books, they glanced around before Merlin whispered, “Aliese.”

With a low groan, the secret shelf swung inward, torches in sconces flaring to life with a soft whoosh, bathing the chamber in a warm, flickering glow. The dancing light revealed rows of shelves covered in cobwebs draped like gossamer curtains, the intricate patterns of the webs cast into sharp relief by the shifting shadows. Ancient grimoires and other rare tomes graced these dusty shelves, their worn spines and faded covers beckoning to be explored. Motes of dust swirled lazily in the torchlight, glinting like tiny specks of gold in the otherwise stale air. Galahad sneezed in the stifling silence, the sound startling in the enclosed space as puffs of dust billowed around them, tickling Merlin’s nose and threatening to trigger a sneeze of his own.

“Really, Merlin. You know how much I enjoy coming here,” Galahad sniffled, waving a hand through the stale air, the other covering his nose, “but can’t we magic this place clean?”

Running a finger along a dust-encrusted shelf, Merlin quirked a half-smile. “We could,” he replied, scanning the jumbled titles. “But I like the disorder – it feels... appropriate, for a room untouched by time – unlike the library on the other side.” He glanced at Galahad, who was stifling another sneeze. “I don’t understand why you don’t just cast a protection spell around yourself, though. It would make these visits much more bearable for you.”

Galahad shrugged, a sheepish grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I suppose I enjoy the challenge,” he said, his eyes sparkling with mirth despite the slight pink blossoming on the tip of his nose. “Besides, a little discomfort is a small price to pay for the knowledge we seek.” He glanced around the room, his expression shifting to one of wide-eyed anticipation. “And if there’s any place that would have something on dragons, it’ll be here,” he added, punctuating his words with a quick swipe of his nose on the cuff of his sleeve.

Merlin hummed in agreement, the sound muffled by the cloying air. “Dragons were plentiful before the purge. Let’s hope we find something on them that could help me… figure out what I’m supposed to do.”

Galahad sighed, the exhalation stirring more dust motes into a lazy dance. “All right. I’ll start down on the other end.” He stepped gingerly around a haphazard stack of tomes, their leather covers cracked with age. “Whatever we find, let’s just gather it quickly so that I can get out–” He broke off with an explosive sneeze, the sound ricocheting off the crowded shelves.

Merlin smirked as he began his own search, fingertips skimming over rough vellum bindings and embossed titles worn to illegibility. The musty scent of aging parchment enveloped him, carrying whispers of the forgotten knowledge sequestered here. A tingle raced up his spine despite the close atmosphere – the sheer magical potential thrumming through these texts was almost palpable.

But which of these numberless volumes held the key to his dragonlord destiny? Merlin bit his lip, the task suddenly looming as vast as the endless rows of shelves that stretched before him. He sighed, the stale air thick on his tongue as he smacked his lips. “Maybe we can use magic—somehow identify anything on dragons…”

Galahad, sounding slightly nasally, called out, “It’s worth a try. Be right there.”

Merlin nodded, mind racing. “What do you think,” he asked, turning to Galahad as he approached. “A spell to draw forth any mention of the word dragon, erm, drakon, draca, or wyrm…?”

Galahad’s brow furrowed as he pondered, the torch light casting shadows across his face. “I don’t know,” he replied slowly, his watery eyes glistening. He rubbed at his reddening nose. “That might summon every book in the castle if you’re not precise.”

Merlin stepped back, boots scuffing against the dusty floor. He surveyed the looming shelves – a dozen towering bookcases, each one laden with ancient and weighty tomes, scroll caches, and brittle parchments. The sheer number of texts was staggering, a veritable ocean of knowledge that threatened to drown him in its depths.

“All right then,” he said, squaring his shoulders. “All at once, centering only on this chamber.”

Galahad nodded, determination glinting in his eyes too. “Now the right spell.”

Merlin considered for a moment, then lifted his hands toward a bookcase, fingers splayed. “Draca andwist!” His voice rang out, the words thrumming with power as his eyes flashed golden.

Several books glowed with an eerie blue light and shook slightly, ancient pages whispering, but did not move.

Galahad raised an eyebrow, the gesture barely visible in the gloom. “Well, that didn’t work. The books can sense your uncertainty, Merlin. You must focus your intention.”

Merlin frowned, frustration prickling under his skin. “My intention is clear – I want the books on dragons!” He tried again, gold swirling in his eyes and voice ringing out with renewed force. “Wyrmes gewritu!”

This time a few books shot off the shelves like startled birds, causing Merlin and Galahad to duck, the whoosh of fluttering pages loud in the enclosed space, their leather covers thudding dully as they hit the floor, sending up puffs of dust that danced in the light.

Galahad coughed as he retrieved one of the stray books, thrumming through it with a furrowed brow. He scoffed, the sound harsh in the quiet room. “See! A book on the mating habits of giant earthworms and wilddeoren, not dragons,” he grumbled, snapping the book shut with a definitive thud. “You’re forcing it without precision. Here...” He lifted his own hand, brow creased in concentration. “Ætíew drakon gewrit.” The words were soft but clear in the thick air.

A single scroll lifted off a high shelf, quivering like a leaf in the breeze, then halted and drifted back into place with a soft rustle, as if it had merely been disturbed by a wayward gust of wind.

Merlin chuckled, a hearty sound aimed at his mentor, one where usually Galahad did the laughing at him. “Oh yes, much more precise!” he said, his voice dripping with good-natured sarcasm.

Galahad shrugged, grinning ruefully, shadows playing across his face like a mischievous dance. “All right, well, you’re the wizard extraordinaire. Let’s see you do better.” His tone was light, but the challenge was given, a gauntlet thrown down in the name of friendly competition.

They studied the shelves again, eyes roving over the ancient spines, seeking any clue. The musty scent of old parchment and leather filled their nostrils, the aroma of centuries-old knowledge waiting to be uncovered. Merlin wandered down an aisle, ran his fingers along the worn bindings, feeling the texture of cracked leather and frayed cloth beneath his fingertips, as if he could absorb the secrets they held through touch alone. In the next aisle, Galahad’s muffled sneezes punctuated the silence, followed by his sniffling in the dusty air. The stillness in between was broken only by the soft shuffling of boots and the occasional creak of a shifting floorboard.

“Of course!” Galahad’s voice echoed in the hushed space, his excitement palpable even from a distance. Merlin’s head snapped up, his view of him blocked by the stuffed shelves that separated them. He hurried to the end of the aisle, his footsteps echoing in counterpoint to Galahad’s hurried clicks. As they met, Galahad’s eyes were alight with sudden understanding, his gaze locking with Merlin’s.

“It’s not just a search, but a request. We must convince them to yield their knowledge willingly.” His words were barely above a whisper, but they carried the weight of profound insight, reverberating through the room like a bell tolling the truth. The realization seemed to crackle in the air between them, a spark of inspiration that chased away the oppressive stillness, the very dust motes seeming to dance with newfound energy.

Merlin nodded, closed his eyes, visualizing the many tomes and scrolls on dragons lying dormant on the shelves, their secrets slumbering within weathered pages. Reaching out with his magic, he sought to establish a connection, a gentle plea for the books to share their wisdom. “Findan draca ond wyrm gewrit!” His voice was a whisper, infusing the words with his desire to learn and understand the noble creatures.

At first nothing happened, the library holding its breath. They exchanged a glance, the defeat in Galahad’s eyes mirroring his. Then a low rumble began emanating from the shelves, gentle at first but growing louder, like the stirring of some ancient beast. Suddenly books, scrolls, and stone tablets alike began glowing with a soft blue light, as if lit from within. They trembled slightly, dust motes dancing in the ethereal glow, as if shaking off centuries of undisturbed slumber.

With purpose, the dragon lore works slid forward, a symphony of rustling pages, unfurling scrolls, and crackling parchment. Books opened of their own accord, their pages fluttering like leathery wings, while ancient scrolls unrolled, their edges frayed and yellowed with age. Delicate sheets of parchment, covered in faded ink and intricate diagrams, wove between the larger tomes, their fragile surfaces shimmering in the magical light. The entire collection danced before Merlin and Galahad, a wealth of knowledge spanning centuries, all focused on the majestic creatures they sought to understand.

The glow around the works brightened, pulsing with an otherworldly rhythm until Merlin had to squint against the radiance, shielding his eyes with a raised hand. Galahad’s face was awash in the ethereal light, his features cast in sharp relief as he gazed upon the spectacle with wonder and trepidation. Then, all at once, the light faded, leaving the suspended stacks waiting obediently for perusal, the air humming with spent magic, a faint sheen of sweat glistening on the brows of the two men as they blinked to focus their vision.

Galahad let out an impressed whistle, the sound startling in the renewed stillness. “Well done, Merlin! Though I fear this is too much to transport to the millhouse.” He gestured to the hovering stack, his eyes widening as he took in the sheer number of books, scrolls, and parchments. “We’d need a cart and horse to haul this load, and even then, we’d risk damaging some of the more delicate pieces.”

Merlin’s heart raced, his body practically vibrating with excitement – the discovery of so much dragon lore had stirred a maelstrom of feelings inside him as he gazed with a mixture of awe and apprehension.

Galahad laughed softly. “Besides,” he said, keeping his tone light, “by the looks of you, I worry that your magic might be a bit... unpredictable at the moment. We wouldn’t want to accidentally incinerate these precious texts or scatter them across the countryside in a burst of uncontrolled energy.” He offered Merlin a reassuring smile, his red-rimmed eyes crinkling at the corners.

Merlin chuckled at the irony, knowing full well that Galahad was the one who looked worse for wear. But with a concerted effort, he reined in his excitement, focusing instead on the incredible opportunity that lay before them.

“Right; I think it’s best we remain here and delve into these texts directly,” he said, his voice steady. “We can always come back for further study, but let’s see what we can discover in the next few hours.” He eyed the floating stacks, chewed his bottom lip. “I’ll take this one, and you can choose whichever you like. Just be careful not to sneeze on any of the parchment. We don’t want to accidentally destroy any valuable information.”

Some hours later, Merlin sat across from Galahad at a large reading table, various dragon tomes and parchment spread between them like a hoard of knowledge. There was much about dragon types and anatomy, ideal spawning grounds and other habitats, their mating season and nocturnal habits, the incredible resilience of their scales, the magical properties of their heartstrings, and the awe-inspiring sight of a full-grown dragon in flight. Many were stories written in archaic languages or poems that stirred the imagination. Some were as simple as letters preserved for history’s sake. And of course, reminders of the dragon-dragonlord bond were woven throughout, but that was the one bit of information he was aware of.

Merlin scrubbed a hand across his eyes, suppressing a weary sigh, the words blurring before him. Thus far, when it came to younglings, he’d found tantalizingly brief mentions of infant dragons, but the information was frustratingly vague, the fragmented texts offering little in the way of practical advice.

Galahad poured eagerly over his large leather-bound book, his face alight with fascination, nose twitching with irritation. “Incredible,” he murmured, fingertips reverently tracing an illustration. “This one has detailed anatomical drawings showing the fire gland development…”

Merlin blinked slowly, his mind feeling sluggish as he pondered if he could somehow extrapolate backward from the maturity expectations outlined in one of the texts. If he could determine the developmental milestones of adult dragons, perhaps he could work backwards to understand the needs and behaviors of hatchlings like Aithusa.

“Listen to this passage!” Galahad interrupted his musings, his nasally voice cutting through the sleepy air. “Did you know that not all dragons breathe fire? Though rare, ancient documents had recorded that some were known to expel ice, poison, lightening, or a caustic mist!” His eyes sparkled with excitement despite the glassy redness, the pages rustling as he leaned closer to the text.

“Yes, yes, wondrous,” Merlin said, unable to keep the edge from his tone, the words grating on his frayed nerves. He caught Galahad’s surprised look and then rubbed his temple, the beginnings of a headache pulsing beneath his fingers. “Apologies. Just... frustrated at finding no introductory guidance here.”

Merlin sighed, the exhaustion evident in the slump of his shoulders. “It’s as if they expect me to just instinctively know how to raise a baby dragon...” His voice trailed off as he stared unseeingly at the tome in front of him, the ancient words blurring before his tired eyes. The musty scent of the pages seemed to mock him, a reminder of the hours he’d spent hunched over the texts desperately seeking answers that remained elusive. He felt no closer to solutions than before he’d started, the knowledge he sought remaining just out of reach, taunting him with its absence.

He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “I feel like I’m trying to piece together a complete picture from scraps of faded parchment. Surely, the dragonlords of old must have had a more comprehensive understanding of raising younglings. Why didn't they record it for future generations?”

Galahad hummed. “I don’t think it’s that straight-forward. Perhaps they thought it was knowledge that would always be passed down from father to son,” he mused. “Or maybe, in their arrogance, they believed the dragonlords would never fade from the world.”

He gazed at Merlin, sympathy etched on his face, knowing that Merlin had never the chance to know his dragonlord father, to gain any knowledge from him. “Just absorb everything else about them that you can – the rest will come as you interact with Aithusa. It’ll be a learning experience for you both. But Kilgharrah is right: you must start bonding with her.”

Galahad waved the scroll in his hand, the parchment crinkling, and with the swirl of liquid gold in his eyes and a whispered incantation, “Ásendan gewrit,” the scroll glowed softly and floated towards Merlin, landing gently in front of him. “Read this one.”

Merlin blinked and refocused his eyes as he unrolled it; he cleared his throat and read aloud.

“My dear Amestris, keeper of Albion’s wisdom,

“I write to you from a remote cavern, the new home I have found for my most treasured companion, my she-dragon Avaline, for she has grown three-fold since my last letter.”

“No jewel nor mountain vista can match the glittering wonder of Avaline’s azure scales in the sunlight. And when she looks upon me with eyes swirling green and gold, our hearts resonate as one across our psychic bond. I feel her fiery spirit mingling with mine, her desire for connection, her thirst to roam unfettered through boundless skies..."

Merlin’s voice caught at the obvious love flowing from the dragonlord’s words. He swallowed; continued reading.

“In these early days, our bond grows stronger with each shared moment. A gentle touch, a word of praise, a morsel offered from my own hand – these small gestures forge unbreakable ties. Avaline’s trust in me blossoms like a delicate flower, and I must tend it with utmost care.

“Ah, Avaline stirs from her slumber now, so I must be away. We embark at nightfall to harvest starlight on her wings. Know you will remain in my thoughts, dear Amestris. May the wisdom and knowledge you safeguard continue to guide the people of Albion.

Blessings from the Goddess, Tamarus of House Wyverndale”

Merlin slowly rolled the letter written from a time before Geoffrey and Camelot, the aged parchment crackling softly beneath his fingers. He sat in contemplative silence, his mind swimming with the profound implications of the dragonlord’s words. The depth of the writer’s connection to Avaline was palpable, a bond that transcended the boundaries of mere friendship or companionship. It was a love as pure and unwavering as the love Balinor had held for his mother, a love that knew no limits and demanded no conditions.

The letter’s wisdom resonated within him, echoing through the chambers of his heart like a clarion call and loudly confirming Kilgharrah’s urgent demands to imprint with Aithusa. To forge unbreakable ties through shared moments and tender care – this was the simple key to building a lasting and meaningful relationship with the youngling. The thoughtful insight from this long-dead dragonlord, preserved through the ages in ink and parchment, provided the clarity he was lacking and the motivation he needed to fully commit to his dragonlord responsibilities – responsibilities he’d ignored for far too long.

Suddenly, Merlin sat upright, his eyes widening with a sudden realization that sent a jolt of lightning through his veins. Long-dead dragonlord… Descendants… Descendants of dragonlords... Fathers to sons… Could there be others out there? The thought rang in his head, clanging with possibility and promise. There must be, he reasoned, his heart pounding with a newfound sense of purpose. The gift of the dragonlord was a rare and precious thing, but it was not unique to his family alone.

Questions raced through his mind, each one more urgent than the last. How could he find these other descendants? Would any of them even know of their true abilities, the power that lay dormant within their blood? The answers remained elusive, but the very existence of these questions filled Merlin with a sense of excitement and trepidation. The world suddenly seemed much larger, much more filled with potential than it had just moments before.

Galahad’s sneeze jolted Merlin from his reverie, and he looked at his companion closely, leaning in. The knight’s eyes were swollen, and his nose was a bright pink, resembling peepers round as dough with a strawberry tart in the middle. The comical sight brought a smile to Merlin’s face, even as his mind continued to whirl with the implications of his newfound knowledge.

“I think we have enough for now,” Merlin said chuckling, certain Galahad should have cast some sort of a protection spell against the onslaught of dust attacking him. “Let’s get the sturdiest of these to the millhouse and you to fresher air. Then I have some dragons to make amends.”

1. Draca andwist – Dragon’s presence
2. Wyrmes gewritu – Serpent’s writings
3. Ætíew drakon gewrit – Reveal the dragon’s writing
4. Findan draca ond wyrm gewrit – Find the dragon and serpent’s writing
5. Ásendan gewrit – Send the writing

Chapter Text

Merlin paced the rocky ledge on Dragon Mount seeking a moment of solitude before summoning Kilgharrah. His thoughts and emotions churned like a whirlpool, hope and apprehension pulling him in different directions. Gaius’s departure in the early hours of the day had left a void in his heart, and the hours of research with Galahad had consumed the remaining morning. The dragons demanded his attention now, leaving no time to dwell on the daunting task that lay ahead—restoring the harvest, his greatest feat ever. The fate of Camelot’s harvest, and by extension, its people, rested on his shoulders.

Standing on the mountain ledge overlooking the sprawling forest stretched out below, Merlin’s responsibilities pressed down on him like a physical burden. The prospect of being appointed court wizard loomed over him too, a fresh wave of unease crashing against the shores of his mind. And despite the lack of severe repercussions from Lord Badawi’s arrest, magical incidents continued to sprout like weeds across the city and nearby settlements. The increased presence of knights and soldiers had helped maintain stability, but the measures taken still left the king and queen unsettled.

Merlin massaged his temples, his fingers pressing against the pulsing ache that had taken root behind his eyes. The spectre of war with Escetir lingered at the edges of his consciousness, adding to the ever-growing mountain of pressures. Arthur’s tireless efforts with the council and commanders to draft a diplomatic response to King Lot’s terms felt like a futile endeavor. Merlin feared that no matter what Arthur counter-proposed, it would not satisfy the enemy sovereign, his demands steep and ominous.

The sun, now hidden behind a veil of clouds, cast a diffuse light across the tranquil landscape, a breathtaking view that didn’t settle the turmoil in his heart. As his gaze wandered over the countryside, he couldn’t help but wonder if other dragonlords walked those very lands, waiting or perhaps yearning for their own special connection to a dragon that might never come. And yet, amidst the maelstrom of duty and destiny, a small, persistent voice whispered of another crucial obligation.

Aithusa depended on him too, not just for guidance and training, but for the nurturing bond that only a dragonlord could provide. In his preoccupation with his other weighty challenges, Merlin had ignored making this sacred connection, leaving the impressionable creature without the support and reassurance she needed from him. The memory of her trusting eyes and soft, pearlescent scales filled his mind, a pang of remorse striking him. So many precious moments squandered, he lamented.

The realization perched on his chest like a gargoyle, its presence unmovable and demanding attention. He knew he had to make amends, to show Aithusa that she was not forgotten by him, and that their bond could be strong, unbreakable. Inhaling a deep breath that filled his lungs with the crisp mountain air, Merlin stepped forward to the edge of the precipice, his boots crunching on the loose gravel. He stood tall, ready to summon Kilgharrah and Aithusa and face the consequences of his neglect. The knowledge of possible dragonlord descendants burned in his mind like a newly-kindled flame, eager to be shared with them, despite the additional weight it added to his already long list of history-changing responsibilities.

The call made, it would take mere seconds for the dragons to arrive, and Merlin looked toward the skies, his heart quickening with anticipation. The warmth of the day embraced him, the sun’s rays penetrating his skin and chasing away the chill of the mountain breeze. As he scanned the horizon, a glint of gold caught his eye, growing larger and more distinct as the dragons drew near.

Kilgharrah’s scales were a sight to behold, each one a masterpiece of nature’s craftsmanship. They glistened in the sunlight, a mesmerizing dance of gold and bronze that seemed to ripple with each powerful beat of his wings. Beside him, Aithusa soared with a grace that belied her youth, her white scales a dazzling contrast against the azure sky. The sunlight caught her form, setting her aglow like a star descended from the heavens, a beacon of hope and promise amidst the vast expanse.

A distant beat of wings, growing louder with each passing moment, heralded their approach. Kilgharrah had barely settled on the rocky ledge, his massive claws scraping against the stone, when a blur of white clashed against Merlin’s chest. He stumbled backwards with an “oof!” as Aithusa let out a series of high-pitched squawks, her voice echoing off the mountain walls and carrying into the air. She nuzzled aggressively into his torso, her smooth scales brushing against the soft fabric of his tunic. Her small talons gripped his clothing for balance as she continued headbutting him with delight, her enthusiasm palpable in every movement.

Despite nearly crashing onto the rock floor by the exuberant hatchling, Merlin couldn’t help but laugh, the sound bubbling up from his chest. “Well, hello to you too!” He gently stroked her ivory neck scales, marveling at their cool, smooth texture beneath his fingertips. He gazed fondly as she peered up at him, her luminous green eyes glinting with pure joy, reflecting like precious gems. Her enthusiasm melted away any nervousness in his heart, replacing it with a warmth that spread through his entire being. She chirped and clicked, her wings fluttering happily, stirring the air around them as he showered her with affection. A resounding certainty took root in his mind, unshakable and true – this bond was truly meant to be.

“You’re here,” Kilgharrah said, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder, drawing Merlin’s attention back to the larger dragon.

“As I promised,” he replied, standing tall, though a hand still caressed Aithusa’s scaly head, reluctant to break the physical connection.

“The young one was surprised to receive your summons. I could barely contain her eagerness and she nearly navigated the aether with precision to find you.”

“The first of many calls for her. You were right, my friend. I was wrong for not being here for her – and you.” His words carried the weight of his sincerity, blanketing them with an overwhelming sensation as he met Kilgharrah’s ancient, knowing gaze.

Kilgharrah pulled his head back, shock registering on his dragon face – if such a thing were possible – but Merlin was certain it was there, evident in the slight widening of his golden eyes and the subtle flaring of his nostrils. “You and my father had a special bond that I also refused to recognize and I have yet to come close to anything you and he shared. I failed you, Kilgharrah. And I’m sorry.” Merlin’s voice was thick with emotion, his words clinging to them like a tangible entity.

Kilgharrah blinked slowly, his craggy features softening, the hard lines and angles of his face becoming less severe. “The bond between dragonlord and dragon cannot be rushed nor forced. It must grow organically, in its own time... nurtured gently like a sapling.” His deep voice was like the rumble of distant thunder, filled with ancient wisdom and understanding.

He lowered himself to meet Merlin’s eyes directly, his huge head descending until they were near at the same level, close enough for Merlin to feel the heat of his breath and see the intricate patterns of his scales. “You were yet a hatchling yourself when we first met – grasping the extent of your gifts could not happen swiftly.” Smoke puffed from his nostrils, curling lazily in the air before dissipating, carrying with it the scent of brimstone and magic. “I knew Balinor passed only his gift to you, not his knowledge. In that, I too failed you.” The admission was a low growl, tinged with regret, self-reflection, and affection.

Merlin placed a grateful hand on Kilgharrah’s weathered muzzle, feeling the rough, warm scales beneath his palm, a tangible connection between them. The great dragon leaned into his palm, the gentle pressure a comforting mass against Merlin’s hand. For all their clashes, at the heart lay a soul-deep caring, a bond that transcended the boundaries of man and beast.

“But beginnings flow to awakened insight.” Kilgharrah’s voice was a low rumble, vibrating through Merlin’s body like a physical force. He extended a wing, the leathery membrane rustling softly as it encircled Aithusa’s delighted form next to Merlin, drawing them all together in a protective embrace. Aithusa chirped happily, her high-pitched voice a counterpoint to Kilgharrah’s deep bass. “Our bonds shall only strengthen henceforth as kin.”

Merlin looked up at Kilgharrah’s vast form beside his own, the dragon’s immense size dwarfing him and young Aithusa. No longer shrouded in mountain fog or cave shadows, Merlin truly saw them – kin united, bathed in hopeful, pristine light. Missteps and wasted years could not stand before such profound possibility, crumbling like ancient ruins before the force of their emerging awareness.

Merlin’s thoughts drifted to the revelation he had stumbled upon in the library, the idea that there could be other dragonlord descendants out there, waiting to be found. He looked up at great dragon, a question burning in his eyes. “Kilgharrah,” he began hesitantly, “in my research, I came across a thought that there might be other dragonlord descendants who survived the purge. Is it possible? Could there be others like me still alive?”

Kilgharrah’s eyes widened slightly, a glimmer of surprise and intrigue flickering in their golden depths. He hummed thoughtfully, the sound vibrating through the air like a plucked harp string. “It is indeed possible, young warlock,” he replied, his voice tinged with caution and curiosity. “The dragonlord gift is passed from father to son, and while Uther’s purge was thorough, it is not inconceivable that some may have escaped his wrath.”

Merlin’s heart raced at the confirmation, a sense of excitement and purpose thrumming through his veins. “If they’re out there, I must find them,” he declared, his voice filled with determination. “If you—” he swallowed those words – he truly believed. “When you find the lost dragons, they could be the key to restoring the ancient bond with man, to building a future for our kind.”

Kilgharrah nodded slowly, his gaze distant as if peering into the mists of time. “It will not be an easy task, Merlin,” he warned, the magnitude of centuries in his voice. “The dragonlords have been scattered to the winds, their lineage hidden and their power dormant. And the lost dragons – creatures of the wild, untamed and untouched by a master’s mind for many years. Still, they may roam in unknown lands, but their hearts yearn for this natural connection however difficult that may be in the beginning.” His eyes fixed on Merlin, solemnity and faith glimmering in their depths. “It would be a daunting quest, Merlin, but if anyone can unite them, it is you – the last dragonlord, the one destined to bring balance to the world.”

Merlin felt the burden of those words settle on his shoulders, a mantle of responsibility and hope that he would gladly bear. The future of the dragonlords now rested in his hands, a destiny that he embraced with every fiber of his being.

And yet, what would Arthur and Gwen think of this just-found mantle? Merlin could almost see the furrow of Arthur’s brow and the tension in his jaw as he grappled with the idea of more dragons soaring above the kingdom. Would Gwen, with her warm, understanding eyes and the calm that seemed to radiate from her presence, be able to provide a side of reason and acceptance that could soothe a king’s fears? Could Arthur one day embrace the dragons as noble allies, especially if there were more dragonlords to tame them? On the other hand, as Merlin gazed up at the endless expanse of the sky, he wondered if anyone, even a king, had the right to deny the dragons their place in the heavens.

Setting those daunting questions aside for now, Merlin took a deep breath, the crisp mountain air filling his lungs, and with it, a newfound sense of purpose that somehow restored his balance. With a final, affectionate stroke along Aithusa’s snout, he turned to face Kilgharrah. The great dragon lowered his massive head, his golden eyes glinting with comprehension, the ancient wisdom of countless generations reflected in their depths.

Merlin reached out, his fingers brushing against the rough, weathered scales of Kilgharrah’s neck. With a fluid motion, he hoisted himself up, his legs swinging over the dragon’s broad back. He settled behind one of Kilgharrah’s great horns, the ancient bone smooth and rough at the same time beneath his palms.

“Let’s go find a safe training ground,” Merlin declared, his voice ringing out clear and strong, carried by the wind. Aithusa chirped excitedly, her wings fluttering as she prepared to take flight.

Kilgharrah’s muscles tensed beneath Merlin, the dragon’s immense power thrumming like a barely contained storm. With a mighty push of his hind legs, Kilgharrah launched into the sky, his wings unfurling with a thunderous snap. Aithusa followed close behind, her smaller form darting gracefully through the air. As the wind whipped through his hair, Merlin let out a joyous laugh, the sound echoing across the boundless stretches of the heavens, a declaration of a new beginning for him and his dragon kin.

Chapter Text

Elyan prodded the lingering pain in his shoulder, face screwing at the tender ligament torn – his fault for a thrown dagger poorly executed during the final round of Friday’s tourney. Another wound to conquer like all the rest. He sat on a bench in the armory, hunched over a sword he’d been polishing, a scowl etched onto his features. The rhythmic sound of the whetstone against the blade should have been a welcome distraction, but he could feel his thoughts pressing upon him like a suffocating burden. An almost palpable aura of resentment radiated from him, as bitter as wormwood.

Across the room, Sir Ranulf sat at a table, carefully polishing a dagger with his good hand, his broken arm – a souvenir from a brutal joust against Arthur – cradled close to his chest. Though part of Arthur’s inner circle alongside Elyan, even he kept a respectful distance, sensing the dark cloud that hung over him. A few other knights milled about the armory, their good-natured banter and the clang of metal filling the space as they retrieved or stored their gear. They laughed and joked and hesitant in approaching his corner, lest they suffer his scorn.

The clash of metal started to irritate his ears like their useless platitudes and he rolled his eyes away from them. He set the sword aside and reached for a hunk of bread he’d brought with him, the burning scars of the serpent’s bite flaring under their continuous stares. Or perhaps the pain merely smoldered within now, the snake long dead while its venom festered in thoughts that savaged him still. Tearing off a chunk of the bread, Elyan chewed slowly, his jaw tight, expression sullen. Peace was a fleeting dream, one that eluded him even in the midst of duty and labor and rest. The ghosts of his past saw to that, ensuring that tranquility remained far, far out of reach.

Those ghosts took many forms, each a scorching memory seared into his mind. Father’s death, a loss that still ached like an unhealed wound. His own silent condemnation toward Gwen under magic’s cruel influence – her patient sorrow in the face of his accusations carving deeper scars than any spectral blade. The helplessness and violation of a spirit’s possession, his own body and will twisted to harm his sovereign and friend. And the bitterest of all, the festering shame of betrayal under Morgana’s tortured interrogation, a king’s secrets wrenched from him like teeth from a jaw. Now the wicked sorcerers rampaged freely through his city, his kingdom, their cruelty a relentless echo of his own failures. After so much pain inflicted by them, and by himself, Elyan felt his very self splintering under the magnitude.

He drew in a breath, tore another chunk of bread, and chewed it absently. Adrift and alone in his sea of agonizing torture, he forced down another tasteless bite. If only balms could penetrate the gashes no physician’s hands might touch, granting relief to the vicious wounds wrought within, to the very soul. Only magic could do that, he thought, grinding his teeth, and he’d rather suffer a thousand times over than be touched by its wretched ilk again.

Amidst the clamor of the armory, a familiar swish of a gown caught Elyan’s attention. He tensed, twisting on the bench to see Gwen enter, her head held high, Percival towering behind her like a mountain of muscle. The other knights fell silent, their eyes widening at the queen’s unexpected presence, all bowing their heads in respect. Elyan’s surprise at her arrival was quickly replaced by a flicker of irritation.

Gwen had requested his audience for several weeks now – but he’d purposefully refused to obey his older sister, not his queen. Her purposeful stride and Percival’s stoic presence made it clear that she would not be ignored and had brought brawn to ensure that he would not avoid her this time.

“Hello, Elyan,” she said gently, her voice a murmur amidst the din as she stood beside him. The pity in his sister’s eyes stirred a bitterness that choked him, thick and acrid in his throat. He returned to the sword, hunched over the blade as he ran the whetstone along its edge, the scrape of stone against metal an echoing counterpoint to the surrounding chatter.

“I’ve wanted to speak with you – in private,” she continued, as congenial as ever. “Did you not receive my messages?”

“Yes, Gwen. I received them.” His voice was flat, annoyance lacing his tone. “What is it that you want?”

Gwen’s brow furrowed, concern etched into the lines of her face. “I’m worried about you, Elyan. You’ve been distant, withdrawn. I know you’re hurting, and I want to help. Please, talk to me.”

Elyan’s grip tightened on the whetstone, the rough edges biting into flesh with the force of his emotions. The sincerity in Gwen’s voice was like a rusted blade dragging across his exposed heartstrings, her gentle prodding like salt in his wounds. He couldn’t bear her compassion, not when it was tainted by her acceptance of the very thing that had torn their lives apart.

Elyan rolled scalding eyes upon her, his gaze searing with resentment. “Alright,” he bit out. “I’ll talk to you. But I have some questions first.” The time for triviality over, her genteel overtures tipping his anger over the edge. “How many more excuses will you make for practices that led to our father death, cursed you? Curse me?” His words were meant to pierce, and they found their mark, Gwen inhaling a sharp gasp, her eyes widening in shock and clouding pain.

Percival stiffened, taking a step forward, his hand instinctively moving to the hilt of his sword. Elyan cast a threatening scowl in his direction, a silent warning to stay out of this. Meeting Gwen’s horrified gaze again, he continued. “What about that little boy that was killed not two days after the law changed? Do you even remember his name? Or the reeve whose mouth was sewn shut by that swamp witch? How many others are being killed or cursed that we don’t even know about? Where does it end, Gwen?”

His words granted no warmth, no lightness to justify this rupturing of soul – only exposed the scars between siblings once close, the wounds gaping and raw in the dim light of the armory. What could she say to heal such wounds, to bridge the chasm his resentment had carved between them? What absolution could she offer him when her blind trust in the corruption of sorcery compelled his agony? When her beloved now unleashed the very forces that reduced knights to whimpering cowards?

The armory fell into an uneasy hush around them, the silence broken only by the scrape of benches and the clink of hastily set down swords as brothers averted their eyes out of respect or lingered in concerned attention, sensing tensions escalate like gathering storm clouds.

When the shock passed, Gwen’s expression turned remorseful, pity oozing from her once more as cloying as honey and just as unwelcome. He hated pity and would cut anyone down who tried to extend it, his pride a shield as battered and unyielding as his armor. Most everyone gave him a wide berth of late except his commanders – and Gwaine. And his special kind of intervention, all jests and jabs, was insufferable!

Elyan turned his face from her, leaned against the scar-ravaged oak table, the rough grain biting into his back. His head bowed, memories descending upon him like an avalanche, the specters of the past pressing down on him like a physical burden. In his periphery, Gwen clasped her hands in front of her, shoulders as rigid as her expression, a queen’s mantle settling over her like a cloak of steel.

“Clear the armory,” she ordered sharply, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade, her gaze fixed unflinchingly on him. “Everyone. Sir Percival, see that no one enters.”

“Yes, your majesty,” Percival replied crisply as he ushered the men out of the room, his massive frame making the other knights seem small in comparison. With a few long strides, he crossed the armory, his powerful presence ensuring swift compliance with the queen's command. He and Ranulf cast concerned glances over their shoulders as they filed out, the door clicking quietly shut behind them.

When they had left and silence draped over them like a heavy curtain, Gwen moved nearer, the soft rustle of her gown whispering in the stillness. She sat beside him, the bench creaking slightly under their combined weight, and clasped his hand. Her palm was warm and soft against his calloused skin. He recoiled slightly from her tender touch, his muscles tensing as if bracing for a blow, but she held fast her grip. Softly she asked, “Why have you not come to me, brother?”

He scoffed, the sound harsh and grating in the empty armory. Jerking his hand away, he snapped to his feet, his chainmail clinking as he moved to put distance between them.

Remaining where she sat, Gwen persisted, her eye following him like an archer taking aim. “You must know that Arthur and I are deeply troubled by these unfortunate magical incidents, by those harmed. We mourn for each loss, Elyan. But I know you still face demons from the darkness you’ve endured,” she added, her voice a soothing whisper against the serrated blade of his anger.

Elyan’s jaw clenched, the muscles bunching and twitching beneath his skin. “And I suppose your new allies will magic them back to hell for me?” he sneered, his voice dripping with bitter sarcasm. Her words, no matter how tenderly spoken, felt like shards of glass against his fraying nerves. The very gentleness of her tone, the compassion that once brought him solace, now chafed on his soul like salt in an open wound. He couldn't bear the balm of her understanding, not when it was tainted by what he saw as her willful blindness to the true nature of magic.

“Merlin can erase it all,” he taunted, “as if the scars on my soul are nothing more than a tapestry to be unraveled and rewoven at his whim? Tell me, sister, in your haste to embrace this new world, did you spare even a moment’s thought for the brother you left behind?” Glaring at her bitterly, disgust on his tongue, his words were a lash designed to flay, uncaring of the wounds they inflicted.

The hurt in her eyes sparked regret instantly, a hot flush of shame racing up his neck. But the gulf between them only widened with so much left unsaid... so many wounds untended that he cared not for her feelings, only his. The space separating them, the depth of their shared pain, became as oppressive as a funeral shroud, the silence stretching like an endless chasm. Gwen slowly stood up, searched his eyes, confusion flickering across her face. He spun away, his cloak billowing out behind him like a storm cloud.

“Elyan,” Gwen breathed, her words like thorns piercing his exposed flesh, each syllable a sharp barb embedding itself deep within his being. “I have never stopped thinking of you, never stopped carrying your pain, as if it were my own.” She stepped closer, her eyes shimmering with tears she was unwilling to let escape. “The scars we bear, the shadows we face... they are not a tapestry to be unraveled, but a burden to be shared. But you must understand, the path forward is not always clear. The choices I’ve made, the alliances I’ve forged... they are for the greater good of Camelot. In time, I hope you will see the wisdom in this.”

Elyan scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping his lips as he turned back to her. “The greater good?” he spat, the words tasting like a mouthful of soot. “And what of my good, sister? What of the scars I bear, the nightmares that haunt me? Are they to be sacrificed on the altar of your grand vision? You speak of understanding, of feeling my pain, but in the same breath, you dismiss it. You ask me to trust in a future I cannot see, to have faith in a wisdom that has brought me nothing but suffering.”

“Elyan, please...” Gwen reached for him, her hand hovering in the space between them, a bridge left uncrossed. “That’s not what I meant. I only want to help—”

“I know what you meant,” he snapped. “You and Arthur – everyone – expecting me to fall in line like a good little soldier. Be strong and courageous like a man should be… like you’ve done. How dare you, Gwen.” His voice cracked, a lifetime of pain and disappointment bleeding through. He glared at her, his eyes wide, his body shaking with rage. “How! Dare! You! I will not be dismissed!”

She hitched a breath, her chin lifted, and trembling lips drew into a frown. He could see her struggle to maintain her regal bearing, but right now, he relished striking down her grace and poise. This was between brother and sister, not subject and queen. And in his eyes, his sister had betrayed him.

“Attack me if you must,” Gwen replied, her voice steady, more confident than he’d expected, “but know you’re not alone.” She’d regained her composure, stuck out her chin, looked her eyes on him. Always the big sister, a will of iron.

Elyan clenched his jaw and diverted his gaze. He was alone – and that was how he wanted it right now. So what must he do? What more must he say for her to cease prodding?!

“Please talk to me,” she persisted, her gentle voice grating on him. Elyan flinched, his nails digging into his palms as he fought the urge to lash out again. “If not me, then someone you trust. But know, brother, I will never dismiss your pain. Let me help you carry it. Let me walk beside you in this darkness, until together we find the light.”

There it was – pity, glistening in her eyes like a poison he couldn’t bear to swallow. His lips thinned as rage tipped over, his face contorting into a mask of fury. He looked directly at her with an intensity that seared, a look he had never directed at his sister before. “I don’t need your help, Gwen,” he growled, his voice low and menacing. “I don’t want it.” He stepped closer, his body coiled with tension, forcing her backwards withdrawal.

“Get out!” he shouted, his voice echoing in the empty armory. “Don’t come back! Get! Out!” Each word was punctuated by a jabbing finger, a physical manifestation of his anger and rejection.

Gwen stared at him, her eyes wide with disbelief, her face crumpling under the cruelty of his words. Her lips trembled, and her eyes brimmed with tears she still refused to let fall, the shimmering droplets clinging to her lashes like morning dew. Reining in the urge to react, her breath caught momentarily as he stalked closer, slowly devouring the distance behind her. Backed against at table, he saw her visibly shiver before she shouldered past him, her footsteps echoing in the emptiness widening between them.

“You did this, Gwen—!” he shouted after his fleeing sister, his voice raw and ragged. “—you and Arthur! If anything, blame yourselves!” The words chased her retreating form as she slipped through the door, a final, bitter salvo in their shattered connection.

Elyan stared at the door a moment, the fury subsiding, his eyes blinking into focus. He slammed his fist into the oak table, his injured shoulder wrenching in pain as the impact reverberated through his bones, sending shockwaves of agony rippling through his arm and chest. He squeezed his eyes shut, colors bursting behind his eyelids, and bit his lower lip until the coppery taste of blood mingled with the bitterness on his tongue.

Why her? Why did it have to be her? He adored his sister, had always relied upon her compassionate and wise counsel. They’d quarreled many times, their voices rising and falling like clashing swords, had opposing opinions on many things that spurred their wrath, but nothing close to the unfurled eruptions he had unleashed upon her today.

Heavy footsteps took him back to the table and he picked up his sword, sheathed it. Gwen was the enemy now, her willingness to embrace Arthur’s foolish edict a betrayal that cut deeper than any blade, forsaking all the pain and agony that magic had wrought upon him, her, and their father. At first, becoming a knight and trusted friend of Arthur had been a great honor, the silver of his armor gleaming with promise, the comforting presence of his friends at his side. But the prestige and glory had ensnared him, blinded him to the deeper wounds dormant in his soul, festering like an untreated infection.

Merlin revealing his magic and then his eventual ascension as the court sorcerer had exacerbated those wounds, the scars glaring fresh and red hot on his flesh and in his soul, pulsing with each heartbeat. He had been living in a lie, a shimmering mirage of peace and prosperity that had dissolved like mist under the harsh glare of truth. And without the watchful eye of the crown and the might of the knights to hold back the evil now spreading, magic would despoil his beloved Camelot, tainting everything he held dear.

Elyan’s hand clenched around the hilt of his sword, the metal cool and unyielding against his palm, a tangible reminder of his duty and his resolve. Lord Badawi was right, and someone must speak in his stead, must take up the banner of truth and justice, no matter the cost.

Chapter Text

Gwen raced from the garrison armory, her composure unraveling with each sharp click of her heels against the stone floor. She blinked back the sting of hot tears threatening to spill down her cheeks, but the anguish swelled regardless, a tidal wave of emotion crashing against the crumbling walls of her self-control. The air felt suffocating, pressing against her skin like a tangible thing, making each breath a struggle. Percival’s tentative footsteps shadowed her swift exit, the soft scuff of his boots a muted counterpoint to the pounding of her pulse, despite his towering height.

“We… we heard shouting – Elyan…” he began, his words trailing off as he fell into step beside her.

“Indeed,” she responded, steel underlining the quaver in her voice, her words echoing off the cold, unyielding walls. “The voice of fury.” The narrow corridors seemed to close in around her, the shadows deepening with each step, mirroring the growing angst within her. She kept her gaze fixed ahead, her chin high, a queen’s mask firmly in place, even as her spirit was crushed by the depth of her brother’s rage and rejection.

As much as her instincts steered her towards Arthur right now, he was deeply immersed with lords and advisors concerning Escetir’s treaty – a matter far more pressing than a family quarrel. And she preferred not to flee to him every time she faced controversy, her independence a cloak she wore with pride. But this was more than a mere disagreement between sister and brother, wasn’t it? Elyan’s hurtful words sank into her like icy daggers, piercing and inescapable.

In the main square, Gwen halted her hurried steps, the abrupt stillness a sharp divergence from the chaos within her. She pulled in deep breaths of the crisp evening air, the coolness soothing her flushed cheeks and stinging her eyes. The lively chatter of townspeople mingled with the clank of armor and weaponry as soldiers and knights hurried about their duties. Servants scurried to and fro, their arms laden with baskets and parcels, while the clipped clop of horses’ hooves on the cobblestones punctuated the air. Each sound was distinct and penetrating, a vivid reminder of life’s persistent rhythm.

Pressing a hand to her stomach, she watched the dusk shadows crawling steadily across the weathered castle stone, their elongated forms stretching like ink spilled across parchment. How she envied their silent, tranquil march – unlike her thoughts that roiled without such calm conviction. And what dark hues might her brother’s turmoil cast upon the bleak night ahead? The question hovered in the darkening sky, as oppressive as gathering storm clouds.

She glanced at Percival, her vision blurring slightly as tears threatened to resurface. Emotions raged within her like a tempest, thoughts whirling in a relentless flurry – her brother was in trouble, and the realization sat like a stone in her gut. “I need time alone. Please return to your men, Sir Percival,” she managed, her voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you for accompanying me tonight.”

He quickly stepped forward before she could turn, his chain mail clanking softly with the movement, his enormous height and bulk leaning towards her. “Gwen…” he said, his voice low and earnest. He cleared his throat. “Please… allow me to remain at your side… at least until Arthur concludes the council.”

Gwen pressed her lips together a thin line of restraint, and glanced at him, appreciating his steadfast protectiveness in Arthur’s and Fredrick’s absences. But clarity came in solitude, a precious gem hidden in the depths of silence, and she could not find that amid servants hovering about, their well-meaning presence a constant hum against her frayed nerves. “That could take some time, Percival; and I’m sure you’re needed elsewhere,” she replied, her words measured and firm. “I insist. Please take your leave. I’ll be alright.”

She didn’t wait for further protests, striding towards the citadel steps with her spine straight as an arrow and hands clasped securely in front of her – to conceal their trembling. The cool evening breeze whispered against her skin, its gentle caress a fleeting solace amidst the upheaval in her mind, rustling the loose tendrils of her hair. Percival suddenly appeared just to her right again, his presence a silent shadow at the edge of her vision. Gwen stopped and faced him, irritation simmering beneath her skin like a fever.

“I’ll see you safely to your chambers then,” said Percival gently, his clear blue eyes soft with understanding. “And I insist, my queen.”

Gwen sighed heavily. “Very well,” she conceded begrudgingly, resuming her path toward the keep. She tilted her head back to meet his gaze, his towering frame making her feel small and vulnerable. “Since I can’t rid myself of you, tell me about Elyan. What have you observed?”

Percival cleared his throat, his gentle voice carrying a note of concern as servants and nobles alike parted to give them space, bowing their heads respectfully as they passed. “Elyan has been distant and withdrawn, even more so than usual,” he began, his tone laced with worry. “He’s been quick to anger, lashing out at the other knights, showing excessive ferocity during training sessions. Just yesterday, he nearly came to blows with Sir Geraint over a minor disagreement. It pains me to see him so lost, so far from our path.”

Gwen listened intently, her brow furrowing with trepidation as Percival continued. “He’s also been neglecting some of his duties, arriving late for his shifts once or twice. I’ve had to cover for him on several occasions, and – well, the other knights are starting to notice.”

As they climbed a winding staircase, Percival’s chain mail clinked softly with each step, the sound mingling with the distant chatter of castle life. “I’ve tried to talk to him, but he brushes me off or changes the subject,” he admitted, his broad shoulders sagging slightly. “I’m worried about him, Gwen. He’s not himself – not since Merlin revealed his magic. It’s gotten worse since Arthur repealed the ban on magic. I fear that if we don’t intervene soon, he may do something rash.”

“What can we do, Percival?” she asked, her voice distant, Percival’s words settling like a tombstone upon her spirit. “We’ve tried talking. What’s left?” She knew Elyan was struggling, but hearing the scope of his difficulties from his commander made it all the more real. Elyan had avoided her except when duty forced them together, and then afterwards, he’d depart abruptly without saying a word to her. Why hadn’t she done something sooner? “Relieve him of duty for a fortnight – give him some space. There’s venom in his bite if you get too close.”

Percival nodded, his fair features clouded with unease, his blond hair catching the flickering torchlight as he climbed the stairs behind her. “Leon’s recommendation as well. I’ll start working on the order right away.” His broad shoulders seemed to fill the narrow stairwell, and he had to duck under the arches as they landed upon level three.

They walked through the candlelit corridors, their footsteps echoing off the stone walls, Gwen’s thoughts drifting to her need to be left alone as well. Sefa, her new handmaiden, was likely already in the royal chambers, the gentle druid preparing her nightly rituals with diligence. But the thought of Sefa’s lingering presence, her well-meaning attentions smothering her need for solitude, made Gwen’s stomach churn as they entered the turret to continue the climb up.

She needed time to process her emotions, to come to terms with the harsh reality of her brother’s pain. The last thing she wanted was to be coddled or fussed over, no matter how well-intentioned the servant’s efforts might be. The narrow stairwell felt increasingly confining as they ascended, her anxieties seeming to wrap around her like a shroud, inhibiting her breath and clouding her thoughts.

True to his word, Percival escorted her to the royal chambers and promptly left once she was safely inside with Sefa. Gwen roamed about the lavish space, allowing her maidservant’s activities to distract her from the raging emotions, but the fire glow and flickering candles in the almost eerie atmosphere didn’t help soothe Gwen’s disquieting mood.

Sefa carefully arranged the silver cutlery for her meal, the soft clink of metal against the silver plate a melodic accompaniment to the aroma of freshly cooked food filling the chambers. She then gathered Gwen’s nightgown and organized her hygiene articles for use before bedtime, Sefa’s delicate hands moving with practiced and careful efficiency. Gwen was pleased with her services, the young woman’s sweet countenance and gentle smile making it easy to forgive any early missteps.

Sefa finally finished her tasks, serving supper as Gwen sat at the table – her normal spot at Arthur’s right elbow, the empty chair beside her a chilly reminder of his absence. So many long hours apart since Escetir’s envoy’s arrival, and she missed him so, yearning for his comforting presence. Gwen dipped her hands in the cleaning bowl that Sefa held, the cool water refreshing against her skin, and then dried them before taking another cloth to spread across her lap.

“Is there anything else, my queen?” Sefa asked, her voice soft and respectful.

“No. Thank you,” Gwen replied, her smile genuine but tinged with weariness. “You may leave. Fair evening to you, Sefa.” The words sat uncomfortably on her lips, a dismissal that promised the solitude she craved however, even as a part of her longed for the succor of Arthur’s embrace.

Sefa hesitated, confusion etched on her face as she shuffled her feet, twisting her fingers with nervous tension. She and George usually waited upon them during the meals and then cleaned up afterwards, and this alteration in routine obviously perplexed her.

Gwen looked at her and exhaled a quiet breath, then glanced at the food on the table. She always ate light meals and preferred smaller portions be prepared to minimize waste. Still, what wasn’t eaten and left out would spoil instead of being returned to the kitchens to be consumed by them or any others in need of sustenance.

“Please wait in the antechamber,” Gwen finally said. “You may clear this a little later.”

She curtsied. “Yes, your majesty.” Quickly retreating to one of the smaller rooms designed for the servants’ convenience, the swish of her skirts and click of her heels receded, providing Gwen with the tranquility she’d desperately been seeking.

She nibbled on her meal, her mind floating back to the harrowing encounter with Elyan, the memory of his furious words and tormented face imprinted into her thoughts like a searing brand. Each bite of food was ponderous, the rich flavors marred by the bitter realization that her own brother had marked her as an enemy.

Gwen pressed a trembling hand to her mouth, her breath coming in shallow gasps as she fought to steady her racing heart. He clearly blamed her and Arthur for his scars, despite neither of them being ever aware of such a notion. Her brother – flesh of her flesh – had disowned her as blood. Elyan’s pain and anger rested upon her shoulders like a leaden cloak, dragging her down into a mire of despair. Could anything bring him back from the brink of his hatred, or had she truly lost him to the darkness that consumed his soul?

As she reached for another morsel, Gwen’s fingers shook, the silver cutlery clattering against the gleaming plate. The sound echoed in the stillness of the room, a discordant note jarring her nerves. Elyan’s distrust and resentment towards magic had always simmered beneath the surface, but now it boiled over, scalding everyone in its path. Surely others shared the same deep and dark feelings – for she had, not too long ago – and not everyone reaped the benefit of magic curing them, nor would some of them want it, she wagered. Had she lost him? Gwen’s blood ran cold, frosty tendril stretching across her skull, through her body. Could he be trusted with their secrets now?

Her gaze drifted to her flat belly, her hand instinctively coming to rest upon the soft fabric of her gown. The life growing within her, a child born of magic, seemed suddenly fragile and vulnerable in the face of Elyan’s rage. Would he look upon this innocent babe with the same harsh judgment he now cast upon her and Arthur? His angry shouts, the shattered look marring his face as he roared condemnations at her whispered that he would. The thought made her chest constrict, the room suddenly feeling oppressive and stifling despite the warmth of the fire.

What must she do? What could any of them do?

Unable to eat any further and rising from the table, Gwen made her way behind the changing screen, her movements slow, exhaustion dragging at her limbs. She stripped away the day’s clothing, each layer feeling like a weight lifted from her weary body. The cool water of the washing basin provided a momentary respite, the gentle splash of liquid against her skin a soothing balm to her frayed nerves.

She slipped into her nightgown, the soft fabric whispering against her skin. Her thoughts continued to churn as she performed her nightly ablutions, routines she could accomplish without conscious thought, her hands moving through the motions while her mind raced. What could she do to bridge the chasm that now divided her family? How could she protect her unborn child from the storm that was surely brewing on the horizon? The questions swirled in her mind, a relentless tide that threatened to pull her under.

With a deep sigh, Gwen emerged from behind the screen, the flickering lights casting a glow across the luxurious chambers. She made her way to the bed, the plush mattress and soft sheets a welcome embrace after the trials of the day. As she lay down, her head sinking into the feather pillow, Gwen closed her eyes, willing sleep to come and grant her a momentary escape from the troubles that plagued her waking hours.

She drifted into a restless slumber, only to be woken by the dip of the mattress beside her – Arthur joining her. Through sleep-laden slits, she watched him attempt to settle without disturbing or jarring movements, his body radiating a calming warmth as he carefully adjusted the blankets around them. It was only then that he noticed she was staring, her eyes glinting in the soft fire glow.

He smiled sheepishly, shifting further down to be eye to eye with her, both lying on their sides. The warmth of his breath mingled with hers as he spoke, his voice a soft whisper in the stillness of the night. “Apologies for the late hour, beloved,” he said, his words a gentle caress for her burdened soul.

Arthur looked deeper at her when she didn’t respond, his smile fading like a candle flame extinguished by a gentle breeze. A tender thumb, hardened but smooth, brushed away the moisture from the corner of her eyes, tears only he was allowed to see. “What’s happened, Guinevere?” he asked, his brow furrowed with concern, his lips drawn into a thin frown.

“Elyan refuses my counsel,” she replied softly, her voice breaking over the bitter memory flooding back, the words leaving a sour taste on her tongue. “He blames us all for what he suffered.” Her throat tightened, each word a struggle to push past the lump that had formed there, her breathing growing labored with the depths of her brother’s rejection. Each tremulous word was punctured with heartache and disbelief as Arthur’s expression shifted from concern to shock, his eyes widening and then narrowing in the dim light of the room, his brow furrowing as he grasped the severity of her words.

“I’m certain my brother is lost to me,” Gwen whispered, her voice barely audible, the admission a rugged shard lodged between her breasts, cutting deeper with each breath.

“No, Gwen,” he said gently, his voice trying to balm the jagged edges of her anguish. Gently shifting his weight, Arthur pulled her into his arms, and like a river unleashed from a shattered dam, tears began to flow freely in the comfort and strength of his embrace. “I cannot believe that to be so.”

“It is so.” Certain of this truth, Gwen shivered, her body suddenly quaking with the tumult of heartbreak and dread tearing her asunder. Wracking sobs tore through her at last as the horrific encounter crashed over her anew, each wave of memory more brutal than the last.

Arthur’s breath whispered in her hair, his chest heaving and arms tightening his hold. She felt his body stiffen, his muscles tensing as he drew her closer, his legs intertwining with hers as if to anchor her against the maelstrom of her grief. His heartbeat thundered against her cheek, a frantic rhythm that echoed her own. “Guinevere...” His voice was filled with alarm, the sound vibrating through his chest and into her very bones.

“You did not hear him,” she gasped, her words punctuated by ragged breaths. “Resentment deeper than any crevasse – the torment and rage – his cruelty.” The bleak void in Elyan’s eyes, a yawning abyss of anger and pain, hinted that their filial bond was already dust, scattered to the unforgiving winds. “I was frightened, Arthur. I felt threatened for the first time in my life by my own brother.”

Arthur’s embrace strengthened around her, his strong arms a fortress against the onslaught of her despair. He caressed her curls, his fingers gentle and reassuring as her tears stained his linen, each drop a bitter testament to her grief. “I’m sorry, Guinevere. I’m so sorry, my love,” he murmured, his words a fervent prayer against the darkness that engulfed her. “I’m here. I’m sorry.”

He offered no other words to her, for were there any he could say to salve such a profound severing? Gwen despaired, the realization constricting her heart like a coiling serpent, each beat a struggle against its tightening grip. Yet she clung to Arthur, his anchoring strength the only lifeline in the tempestuous sea of her sorrow. He weathered the raging storms of her grief through the long night with her, an unwavering beacon in this dark hour.

Chapter Text

The crescent moon provided scant illumination as Merlin’s horse trotted out of the lower town and into the Darkling Woods towards the abandoned mill house, Galahad at his side. His eyes flashed gold periodically, creating a faint path of magical light to guide their mounts at a brisk but safe pace. The night air was bracing, carrying the earthen smells of damp soil and decaying leaves.

Merlin’s mind raced as quickly as Chestnut’s cadence over the astonishing events of the past weeks – the heated council meeting where Arthur proclaimed Emrys an ally, the intense debates over magic’s legalization and Lord Badawi’s arrest, Escetir’s unexpected threats, sighting Mordred lurking in the castle, the grisly murder of an innocent sorcerer. All of it pumped an uneasy combination of exhilaration and caution through his veins, and Merlin couldn’t settle on any one emotion, especially knowing the enormity of what was still to come.

Soon, the whole of Camelot would know his truth – that he was Emrys, sorcerer of sorcerers, revered by the druids. His appointment as the kingdom’s court wizard was now inevitable, his magic soon to be laid bare for all to see, and applied solely for the protection of the realm. A part of him still worried over how the people would receive this revelation, though Arthur had proclaimed the matter settled. And while Kilgharrah deemed their bold strides ambitious, the great dragon also cautioned that the risks they tempted could well outweigh any advantages.

Merlin swallowed hard as flashes of his own past deeds played in his mind’s eye, the dense forest canopy cloaking them in inky blackness between each flare of his guiding light. He’d taken severe, even brutal measures at times to eliminate threats against Camelot and Arthur’s destiny. Would history judge some of those actions as the cold, calculating brutality of a power-hungry kingmaker? Or would it see the noble intentions of a warlock committed to protecting the Once and Future King? And how much should be made known, he wondered with no small amount of trepidation? Or should he continue to guard those darker deeds in secrecy, consequences be damned, for the greater sake of Arthur’s reign and the forging of Albion?

“Merlin,” Galahad said, breaking the silence as their horses trudged along the golden-laced path, “I’ve been giving thought to what we discovered about there possibly being other dragonlord bloodlines that survived Uther’s Purge.”

Merlin nodded, his lips spreading into a smile now, his emotions tilting in the other direction toward joy. “It is startling news. For so long, I believed the dragonlords were eradicated save for my inherited abilities. I might not be alone.”

“Indeed. Uther was ruthless in his efforts to exterminate magic users,” Galahad said. “But some dragonlord lines may have slipped through the cracks, especially descendants of ancient ones where the dragonlords’ offsprings may have outlived their dragons and continued to pass on the gift down their lines.”

“Kilgharrah thought the same as well,” Merlin agreed, focusing on guiding their mounts along a narrow, winding trail. He illuminated the path again, avoiding the low-hanging branches and exposed roots. “Uther seemed focused on destroying just those who openly practiced sorcery, but he may not have rooted out entire bloodlines destined to inherit magical abilities – which is why he only targeted the eldest dragonlord sons specifically.”

“That’s assuming the power passed strictly to them,” Galahad hummed thoughtfully, his brow furrowing at the implications as Merlin shot him a glance.

“What do you mean?” he asked, his curiosity piqued as they picked their way across a small creek.

“What if there were second sons, or the power passed anomalously down other lines?” Galahad posited. “I don’t think we should dismiss those possibilities. Merlin, there could even be women dragonlords.”

Merlin recoiled slightly at the notion, his brow furrowing in skepticism – a female dragonlord was one not even Kilgharrah had broached. “That – that can’t be,” he said, unable to hide the disbelief in his voice as he pulled Chestnut to a halt. “The dragonlords have been an exclusively male tradition since the dawn of time. Surely if women could inherit the gift, Kilgharrah would have mentioned it in all his centuries of wisdom.” A chorus of crickets and night birds serenaded their brief respite. Galahad shrugged, his eyes glowing gold this time to lighten their path as he eased his horse forward. Merlin followed behind, his thoughts swirling over this unprecedented idea of potential female dragonlords.

Galahad gave a measured nod as he continued. “The Old Religion works in mysterious ways, Merlin. Just because we’ve never encountered female dragonlords does not mean the ability is restricted solely to men. And who is to say the great dragon is aware of every single secret of the arcane world after so many centuries and much knowledge being destroyed?”

Merlin opened his mouth to protest further, but clamped it shut as Galahad’s words gave him pause. As much as it unsettled his core beliefs about dragonlords, he could not claim to grasp the infinite complexities of the Old Religion and its mysteries.

“Perhaps the Triple Goddess foresaw this eventuality as a way to preserve the dragonlord legacies when all seems lost to the world.” Galahad’s eyes widened, emphasizing the revolutionary potential in such an idea.

As the trail began ascending and chastened by his mentor’s wise perspective, Merlin fell silent, mulling over this extraordinary idea, centuries of ingrained tradition difficult to upend on a whim. The horses’ breaths came in labored pants as they climbed the gradual incline, twigs snapping and leaves rustling under their hooves. Merlin and Galahad leaned forward in their saddles, encouraging the mounts onward.

“Well, then how might we begin tracking down these potential survivors?” Merlin asked, the cool night air raising prickles on his neck. “Dragonlord abilities lie dormant until awakened, so what else will awaken them?”

“I don’t know, so back to the library, I suppose,” Galahad grumbled with a sigh, wiping his brow. “Ancient genealogies may yet offer clues. But specialized knowledge will be required – scrying spells, arcane divinations. Even reveal incantations, but each of these could prove disastrous if attempted haphazardly on such a wide scale. Are you aware of anyone versed in dragonlord lineages and legends of old?”

Merlin shook his head solemnly. “Gaius has some knowledge, but I doubt he knows anything concrete about this.” He exhaled heavily, a plume of vapor dissipating in the chill air. At the crest of the hill, they paused, the forest surrounding them rich with the musty scents of damp earth and decaying leaves. “Still, I’ll ask him and find out what he does know. How about your former mentor in Catha?”

“A prudent step. The library and other resources are vast there. I’ll send letters to Master Lysandros and the Citadel historians first thing.”

“This gives me some hope,” Merlin said, his emotions heightening again, their possibilities of finding answers increasing. “I think we should still scry or try other reveals to seek out the descendants, but on a small scale.”

“Even on a small scale, those spells can be perilous without full mastery,” Galahad cautioned, his tone hardening as he leaned forward intensely in his saddle. His jaw clenched with disapproval when he leveled Merlin with a stern glare.

Merlin thinned his lips, refusing to wilt under his mentor’s piercing gaze. He met Galahad’s eyes unwaveringly, his own blazing with determined resolve. “I must try, Galahad. I’ll research thoroughly before attempting anything. Without other dragonlords, the dragons may not be able to return. I don’t know if I can control them all.”

Galahad nodded gravely and sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly as the tension drained from his posture. “Very well,” he finally agreed, the haunting calls of an unseen owl echoing through the trees. He fell silent for a beat, betraying his lingering apprehension at Merlin’s risky intentions. He’d always shown great wisdom and prudence when studying or executing any kind of magical workings, taking the same meticulous precautions that any good mentor should impart.

After a moment, his expression softened, a glimmer returning to his eyes. “But it’s exciting, isn’t it? Another vital quest to reunite the dragonlords,” he mused, unable to mask a hint of wonder in his tone. “It could be a profound achievement – a true return of magic’s majesty to this land.”

A sigh escaped Merlin’s lips even as he nodded in agreement. He knew how difficult it had been for Kilgharrah to find the lost dragons that Arthur was so certain still existed. The great dragon’s disappointment yesterday had been so tangible that Merlin could feel it, and guilt crept back in knowing that he had done little to help. “It won’t matter if Kilgharrah can’t find the other dragons,” he lamented after a moment, casting a solemn glance to Galahad. “All this might be for nothing.”

“Do not lose faith, my friend,” Galahad replied, that familiar spark of hope in his eyes, the corners crinkling with reassuring warmth. “Kilgharrah is wise and determined. If any dragon could uncover the others, it is him.”

He winked at Merlin, a half smile on his face. “We’ll do our part and focus our efforts on locating the lost dragonlord lines after tonight’s adventure.”

Merlin gave a resolute nod, Galahad’s assurance reinvigorating his resolve. “Just one great quest after another. Will there be no end?” he quipped, holding his mentor’s gaze for a moment before spurring his horse onward into the night.

The disheveled mill house soon came into view, its weathered slats creaking in the cool breeze. Merlin slid off his horse, boots sinking into the damp soil and scattered leaves. He secured the reins to a gnarled post, running his palm along the animal’s flank. Glancing at his mentor, he saw certainty etched in Galahad’s expression – a tightness to his jaw, an intense gleam in his eyes showing no traces of hesitation for their vital mission ahead.

Merlin’s heart thrummed with purpose as he inhaled the earthy scents of the forest floor. He would transport north to the withered orchards and vineyards while Galahad went west to the fallow grain fields and vegetable patches. Their magic would merge somewhere in between, spreading across the ruined soil like healing rains. Any vegetation on their edges would benefit too, blossoming anew with vibrant life. Merlin hoped that their deed tonight would prove to all of Camelot the nobility in sorcery.

Looking overhead, an infinite tapestry of stars winked through the canopy’s breaks above. The thin crescent moon was partially visible, providing little illumination from below the trees. “Well, it’s time,” Merlin said, rubbing his sweaty palms against his pants. “Ready?”

Galahad chuckled, smiling wryly. “I should be asking you that. Take calm, Merlin. You’ll be alright.”

“I know,” he replied, tingling with the magic building within him. “It’s just that the day has finally arrived.” He inhaled deeply, and nodded. “I’m ready. Begin the spell as soon as you arrive and then return here. Ride back to the castle without me – it might be best if we don’t return together anyway.”

Galahad flashed a small grin. “Then try not to have too much fun without me. See you at the castle.” Merlin met his gaze steadily before Galahad whispered the white spell incantation and disappeared instantly before his eye, like Anhora had done all those years ago, displaced air rushing in where the sorcerer vanished.

Taking a deep breath, Merlin closed his eyes, the blighted orchards forming in his mind. His pulse quickened as power surged through his limbs. Then, with a thunderous exhale and his enhanced white magic spell, he too disappeared in a cloud of vapors and whipping winds.

At the orchards, bare rows of trees stood like ghastly creatures frozen in agony, branches twisting in silent screams toward the indifferent sky. Skeletal boughs clawed up from ashen soil, rendered shades of ghostly grey beneath the meager landscape. The stillness and decay sank unease into Merlin’s heart – even the accustomed night songs of insects did not dare disturb this grim tableau where no new life had sprouted in well over a month. It seemed a desolation not even magic could mend. Merlin smacked his lips, mouth gone dry as if the very air was leeched of life.

“So begins the dawn of a new age,” he said aloud, then chuckling at his foolish attempt at profundity.

Kneeling, Merlin placed his palms on the burnt soil and recited the spell with perfection, his eyes turning gold, his fingers tingling with magic. He and Galahad discovered that enriching the soil would spread the magic thoroughly and completely, nourishing the roots much faster than treating each tree or bush or plant individually. He’d assured Arthur that it would be done by first light today, and by the rate that the magic sprang out from his fingers into the soil, it would not take that long.

As if water and sunlight provided their nourishing elements, the soil turned rich black and sparkled with colorful, twinkling light. Merlin sucked in a breath and sat back on his heels, his eyes wide with awe. Scorched bark revived as magic touched it and sprinted up the trucks into the branches, leaves bursting with vibrancy and fruits springing out in brilliant colors. The trees, now heavy-laden, released some fruit to the ground, soft thuds reaching his ears all around him.

His knees wobbled as he rose, euphoria gripping his very being. Bracing himself, he moved to the closest tree and reached for an apple, red and glossy. Biting into it with a crunch, juice dribbled down his chin, the flesh the sweetest he’d ever tasted. Taking another bite, he wondered if all the restored fruit and vegetables would be just as tasty.

Merlin gazed at the magic still stretching outward through the soil as it touched more and more trees. He wondered once it reached the outlying villages if they would take notice and alert the castle guards before first light. Would they sound the alarm before Arthur was ready? Wiping his chin with a sleeve, he bit into the fruit again, relishing the rich flavor.

After finishing the apple and discarding the core, Merlin magicked himself to the wasted vineyards a half league away, his heart racing with pure delight. He knelt before gnarled vines twisted in pain, shriveled grapes long rotted still clinging in mockery of bounty lost. Row after row extended lifeless, skeletal vines under the uncaring crescent moon.

Chanting eagerly, precisely, Merlin set magic flowing through the dead boughs. He gasped – before his eyes, buds swelled then burst into plump grapes, dark skins glinting. The vines awakened, leaves fluttering until laden anew, heady sweetness scenting the air.

Then something rustled behind him, and Merlin froze, his heart hammering. Had he been discovered? Was it bandits? Or Camelot’s patrol? Should he transform into Emrys? The sound grew louder, closer. He held his breath, magic at the ready to... until a family of rabbits burst from the brush.

Merlin let out a shaky laugh as the rabbits disappeared into the night without ever noticing him. He was alone again, with only his racing heart and wandering mind for company. Turning back to the vines, now heavy with restored grapes, he whispered “Hoppan.”

A ripe grape detached and floated gently into his open palm. He savored the sweet juice that burst on his tongue – more heavenly than any palace wine. Closing his eyes, Merlin allowed himself a moment to appreciate the simplicity of this restored fruit and all it represented – life, hope, and the future of magic itself.

But duty called once more, for there was no time for self-glorification. With the learned whispered words, he spun thin tendrils of mist from the moist land until an opaque veil obscured all evidence of revival. There – prying eyes were now thwarted well past dawn’s first creep. He smiled. He did it.

There was still so far to go, he knew, many battles left to fight. But tasting the goodness of what he helped to grow, Merlin felt his faith unbounded. No matter how long and winding the path, his gifts would be used for light and prosperity for all.

With a renewed spirit, he used the white magic spell to whisk back to the mill house – no sign of Galahad nor his horse upon his return. Merlin climbed onto Chestnut and set off through the darkness toward home, toward Camelot – the kingdom he loved and believed could be made whole again with a few single acts of kindness.

Galahad glanced sorrowfully over the vestiges of Morgana’s vindictiveness and man’s ignorance. Barren rows stretched under cold stars once holding vegetables that fed kingdoms. Shriveled vines snaked across cracked soil, husks of bounty lost mocking Camelot’s barren larders – this crisis carved solely by hatred. But no more.

He had no doubt of Merlin’s success tonight in the northernmost fields. But he now wondered if he could revive so vast and wasted an area. Was he truly skilled enough? Galahad gnawed his bottom lip, yet he knelt reverently, summoning his courage to invoke the revitalization spell.

Palms to the ground, he whispered words of rebirth. The parched soil blossomed fertile and dark once more. Dormant seeds awakened under new sunbeams of magic – green shoots erupted, leaves unfurling as vines reconquered the expanse. Plump carpets of cabbage and squash, potatoes and parsnips bloomed under the dark sky. The people would not starve again for closed minds, he thought, nor the kingdom to rely on the kindness and generosity of other realms. Today, Camelot would remember abundance.

His eyes beheld the marvel of power flowing freely for the first time in ages, and joy swelled in him. His gifts brought renewal, not destruction. But not all with magic had shown such mercy. Sorcerers twisted by vengeance had brought Camelot much agony and fair reason for fear. For too long the mindsets of men on both sides had brought ruin upon the land. Now diminishing in small measures, fear and bias receded for those like himself – those who wished only to heal and spread prosperity.

Galahad closed his eyes. Inhaling the rich scents, he reveled in the magic awakening nature’s bounty today. The people would see it was no curse, but a conduit of life’s sacred essence. All the years of longing, of guarding secret sprouts had come to fruition. The land was renewed; his faith in a better tomorrow rewarded. Galahad now dreamed of crops thriving in this soil year after year in the fortune of Camelot. This new era with Merlin surely heralded paradise regained.

His exultation dimmed, however, as he readied to depart the restored vegetable fields. Though fulfilling in a familiar and special way, lingering sadness dampened his victory, this feat a solitary experience without the deeper connections he once had with his Clarwick comrades, friendships he feared he’d never be able to restore.

Nonetheless, the grains must rise next, he thought, as more and more sorcerers will rise from the ashes of oppression. He teleported to the wasted grains and stood before the barren rows. Galahad knelt once again and pressed his palms onto the starved soil.

He chanted low over the barren rows, soil warming at his call. Awakened seeds burst forth racing green shoots. Stalks steadily rose taller until crowned with full bristling barley, wheat, rye – their heads heavy with plump amber grains.

An ocean of rippling life now shushed golden in the nightly breeze, ready for harvest – the people’s bread and seed-stock restored. Enough surplus for markets again rather than meager rations that left hunger’s ghost behind glassy eyes in young and old from castle to outlying village.

As Galahad brushed fingertips across the standing stalks, his heart soared picturing the relief and wonder soon to dawn on so many faces spared deprivation’s shadow, the magic people once cursed now lifting pallid cheeks with rosy hope. This new era could perhaps banish distrust as Camelot won magnificence once more.

Galahad smiled triumphant, his gaze wandering over the bounty. “Time to go,” he told himself, satisfied in his works. “Bedyrne ús, Glenmill! Astýre ús þanonweard!”

As the dilapidated structure appeared, Galahad saw that he’d completed his mission before Merlin, both horses grazing lazily nearby. He glanced at the mill house, wondering if his friend was inside.

“Merlin, you there?” Galahad called, his nostrils filling with the earthy scent of the forest.

After no answer, he incanted a few words to release the reveal spell inside the structure and then entered. Not what it was when he and Merlin had first decided to use this location, they’d crafted a workshop where magic need not hide. Though shabby planks still sagged outside, inside candles lit shelves of arcane texts and curious instruments, a fire’s glow revealed workbenches for potions and research – a place where generations might one day be nurtured back from the brink of myth with the wizened Merlin-Emrys.

And he was a small part of it, too.

Yet, his joy diminished as fleeting as the candlelight’s dancing shadows, his free thoughts always turning to matters closer to heart. He would return to the barracks soon – a place where he was shunned by his former brothers. Their fists had taught him some painful lessons and his innocent oversight had made him an outcast among them.

Galahad wasn’t accustomed to the rejection that falling out had created. Perhaps that was why mentoring Merlin this last month had fortified him so. He felt less alone, with kindred purpose. Merlin had changed much already, he mused, thumbing through an opened spell book, a faint spark of happiness stirring within him again.

He was happy that Merlin’s magic became stronger after daily training sessions, his confidence flourishing in his abilities and increasing knowledge. And he probably shouldn’t have teased the wizard about his future as the greatest sorcerer this land would ever know, embarrassing him enough for Merlin to lose his concentration for the rest of the lesson. But it was always in good fun, though hard study and practice still a must, and Galahad was optimistic that Camelot would unite under Emrys’ wisdom and Arthur’s leadership despite Merlin’s humility and the ripples of unrest erupting within the kingdom. If change could come to kings and great wizards, then others might pierce the myths that separated them.

Closing the spell book, Galahad sighed sadly. His time as mentor would end soon too, and he would return to his beloved Clarwick with lord and fellow knights, but the sting of being ostracized was still fresh and the outlook for reconciliation dim. It might be best if he detoured to his family’s manor at some point, he considered, and take a leave of absence to give them all more time to think and adjust to their new dynamics.

Galahad exited the mill house – still no sign of Merlin, but he didn’t harbor any concerns at his friend’s success. Concealing the building’s interior once more with magic, he retrieved his horse and mounted it. Steering towards Camelot, a small smile returned to his lips. One day, perhaps, the name ‘Galahad’ would stand alongside Merlin’s, representing his own soul’s highest calling too – whatever noble path that might be.

Chapter Text

The daybreak toll sounded, its melody bright and cheerful, the call for all to rise and begin the day. Awakened not too long ago, Arthur peered through his chamber windows, light shifting from dawn across the castle’s cold stones. Its cheerless gleam matched his brooding countenance far more than the joyous morning bells. For him and few select, the morning heralded the beginning of his grand machinations, and failure was not an option.

But inner turmoil over his own behavior and iron-fisted commands prickled him more than his hopes for today’s successes. Percival. Gwaine. Elyan. His inner circle hung precariously by a thin thread, tempers frayed, loyalties tested, bonds weakening.

He was brutally harsh with Gwaine day before yesterday, the conflict laid bare his own callous indifference to his friend’s aching heart. Had Gwaine struck him, well—maybe he deserved it after the unkind words about Gwaine and his lady love, and for his unyielding order that forced Gwaine on the mission. And maybe, Arthur wondered, he could have sent another knight and spared the man the hard choice.

With Elyan, he did not know what to make of his confrontation with Gwen, but Arthur was well aware of his inner struggle. A poor excuse, but as it stood, he’d given Elyan distance, prioritizing other responsibilities over his needs and allowing the man’s pain to fester unchecked until he lashed out at Gwen unjustly. He should have taken the time to speak to his brother – perhaps telling of shared experiences, ease some of the tension between them. Too late. It pained him to see Gwen hurting so, her tears unbound and uncomforted through the long night.

As he pressed two fingers to his temple, a disquieting thought took hold – had his single-minded pursuit of that unseen future driven a wedge between him and his most loyal knights? Had he simply pushed them too far?

But what else was he missing? And it’s not just about them, is it? he ventured to think.

Calling under scrutiny his own honor, Arthur wondered if his questionable political maneuverings were worth losing integrity. Was his vision of the brighter future corrupting his life in the present, blotting his nobility and losing more luster when forged through compromise? Like an artist carried away on passions, had he resorted to darker paints for the grander purpose until the vibrancy of his humanity lay dulled? Like his father had become?

His eyes traced the faint outline cast by flickering candlelight, questioning the weary figure staring back. Doubts crept in like shadows lengthening across the room, and Arthur averted his gaze, disapproving of the man that stared back.

The rustle of blankets and swish of fabric signaled Gwen rising. A transient rush of joy spiraled through him, the promise of her warm embrace beckoning like a refuge from his troubles. But the moment passed fleetingly, Arthur’s mind turning inward again – to the bonds with his men, frayed by his unyielding grip.

Percival’s bedrock steadfastness, Gwaine’s fiery heart, Elyan’s ironclad courage – pillars upholding his quest, yet he now wondered at what cost. To sacrifice nobility, compassion, trust in pursuit of Camelot’s unity and Albion’s ascent, was this yearned-for dream worth hollowing out the loyalty his men once held for him?

And if not checked, could such prized assets ultimately undermine the foundation, turn into grave liabilities…?

Arthur refocused on his indistinct reflection. An unfamiliar, haunted specter gazed back – a reminder that failure to regain the higher path would leave him a husk of the leader he aimed to be.

The stillness suddenly enveloped him, Gwen’s absence a deafening void where her reassuring presence should be. He strode to her side of the chambers to behind her changing screen, and beheld her seated silent, dark curls spilling over her shoulders as she brushed with listless strokes. The light in her eyes extinguished, her spirit dimmed – a shard of heartache pierced Arthur anew.

He moved to her side as she lifted glassy eyes in the mirror’s reflection. Taking the brush gently, he gathered brown strands in his hands. “Talk to me, beloved,” he whispered, stroking her hair, relishing the feel of its luster.

Gwen exhaled a shuddering breath. “I’m sorry, I...” Her voice trailed off, the words temporarily failing her. “I’m still trying to sort through it myself.”

“Take what time you need,” he replied gently, brushing slow strokes and pressing a caressing hand down her smooth, long hair. It had been some time since he’d last attended her like so, this simple gesture always a precious moment for him. “I’m here for you.”

Her lips twitched into a frown, her distressed gaze dropping for a moment before looking upon his reflection. Still, she hesitated, water brimming on her lids. “I’ve seen rage like that only once before – in your eyes, Arthur.”

Though her voice was gentle and without recrimination, Arthur’s ministering hands froze as her tears spilled down her cheeks, a chill spiking cold guilt through him. Fury had gripped him when he’d confronted her about Lancelot. Shame gripped him now as he locked his stunned gaze with hers. A knot formed in his throat, his eyes stinging as he remembered the brushstrokes of condemnation he’d hurled against her. Gwen stood, relieved him of the brush and grasped his hands gently in hers.

“I mean no hurt, my love,” she said tenderly, searching his eyes. Gwen’s gaze pierced him, saw the shame burning there that he could not conceal. “And I shall never bring it up again.”

His shoulders sagged slightly, unable to meet her compassionate gaze. The wound reopened, the regret of his actions towards the woman he loved most left him inwardly recoiling. Yet Gwen did not rebuke, only sought to make him understand through shared experience.

“But I needed you to see my point,” she continued. “Confronting such fury slung with hate and cruelty... we cannot fully grasp how he’s suffered.”

Arthur blinked, his throat raw. “Having faced such anger before,” he said remorsefully, “I know the power of painful emotions overwhelming reason.”

“It goes beyond anguish, Arthur. It was noble of you to lift the ban against magic. But we were extremely naive to think that everything would be love, peace, and harmony because of it.[i] Some see it as… a betrayal.”

Arthur rocked back, Gwen’s words striking him like a physical blow. If what she was saying was true, then Camelot was falling apart – not because of lifting the ban – but because of completely ignoring the impact of decades of war and terror and entrenchment. To some, he had been a symbol for the fight against magic[ii] – a prince in gleaming armor. And now, as king in armor cracked and stained, he was no more than the symbol of distrust and chaos, heralding woe for those who’d once believed in his crusade.

Arthur’s vision blurred as the weight of Gwen’s accusation settled over him. He spun away from her, raking his hair, lips thinning as he cursed his own ignorance. Gwen followed him, turned him gently back to her, forcing him with tenderness to hear words blatantly piercing, yet missing from the equation of his leadership skills. These biting blows – hard-hitting truth from Gwen – was what he had missed. How narrow his perspective!

“Elyan is the voice of many who still linger with pain and loss and violation. I do not know how we can reconcile with these broken souls.” Gwen leaned into him, and Arthur caressed her gently. Despite her tremendous sorrow, Gwen’s steady grace and wisdom by far exceeded his own… her incredibly powerful counsel… cutting right to the deepest, hidden deficit plaguing Camelot… borne of her own fresh and raw pain.

“I can’t bear losing him, Arthur,” she wept, her fists clutching his shirt. “I can’t allow my faith in our ability to help him diminish.”

Arthur swallowed hard, his thoughts racing for answers to comfort both Gwen and himself, her hair soft and smooth against his cheek. “Our resolve will not falter until we find a path to heal these deep wounds, my love.” Yet even as he spoke, the emptiness of his promise turned to ash in his mouth. Like Gwen, he grappled with how to mend what decades of turmoil had torn. This was the true meaning behind Lord Badawi’s criticisms – not condemning the crown itself, but the flawed principles it upheld.

Arthur buried his head further into Gwen’s shoulder, eyes closed as the concurrent tensions of duty tightened around his chest like a constricting chain, never too far distant for long. Time too fleeting to restore all else rapidly unraveling... Escetir demanded urgent audience soon… Merlin and the harvest outcome unknown… George and Sefa likely right beyond their chamber doors awaiting entry. As for them, they both had their critical roles to play.

Arthur pulled a deep breath – reigned in his own anxiety as he’d been taught to do and then gazed upon her tenderly. He cupped her cheek, brushing a tender thumb across fragile skin belying formidable strength equaling his own.

“Can I trust my queen resilient on her throne despite these storms? Affairs relentlessly press us toward duty...”

“Of course, Arthur.” She lifted her chin, sadness still upon her lovely features, but a spark returning to her hazel eyes. “Despite my broken heart, I am prepared, my king. It shall not interfere with my duty to our kingdom.”

Pride and sorrow filled him, a small smile spreading across his lip. No doubt remained of her ability to reign alone during their personal crises. And yet, with so much to distill, he had not forgotten about her faint episode a few days ago – that concerned him still. Though in truth, he must believe her word and only she could explain her mysterious transformation into a joyous spirit no longer troubled by nightmares and sorcery. With duty’s constant calling, that riddle must keep for now, and he yielded with a gentle kiss upon her forehead.

As they separated to their own sides of the chambers and the servants began their routines, Arthur realized clearly that he needed time away from this castle – and so did his queen, leadership’s strain weighing upon them both. Perhaps soon he might find some means to whisk them away briefly... grant them both a moment of true respite.

Sir Bernewyn sat glowering as expected with the council, Arthur confidently at the head of the table, Merlin and knights assembled around him. Custom demanded emissaries be accorded every hospitality which his six days’ delay had flouted, vexing the envoys. Compounding matters, provoking them further by forcing an encampment outside castle walls four nights was surely salt in diplomatic wounds. But with talks unexpected, strictures had loosened – hard bargains required hard leverage, and Arthur took some pleasure in flexing his might in response.

Now, he paid the envoy a cool gaze, raking him over with cultivated scrutiny, his own troubles neatly secured behind a barrier of fortitude. “I trust your accommodations here in the castle were adequate, Sir Bernewyn.”

The emissary hesitated a moment as he considered his response, dark eyes boring into Arthur. “Your treatment of a messenger on a diplomatic mission is unworthy of a king,” Bernewyn retorted, indignation dripping on every word.

Arthur scoffed lightly – not a careful consideration, but he would allow some leeway on this matter. “It couldn’t be helped, my lord, considering your timing for unexpected negotiations,” he evenly reminded, holding the man’s glare. “Surely, your king was aware of my wife’s coronation?”

Instinct had whispered that Lot deliberately timed grievances for maximum disruption of a sanctioned coronation, spurring Arthur’s play to postpone until after. Perhaps, not a wise move, but by Bernewyn’s lips slightly twisted into a subtle half smile, he harbored no doubts about having done so.

“Nonetheless, Sir Bernewyn,” Arthur ceded, knowing what must be extended to the emissary for protocol’s sake, “the crown apologizes for its treatment of you and your party—however justified they were under the circumstances.”

Bernewyn’s jaw twitched at Arthur’s half admission of fault, but accepted it with a stiff tilt of his head. “Your majesty,” he replied, squaring his shoulders. “As for our terms, your response is much anticipated.”

“Your terms have pushed the boundaries of acceptability,” Arthur replied smoothly. “They are extreme, excessive. You may inform your king that the sovereign of Camelot refuses to relinquish the Forest of Ascetir. The forest—”

“King Lot will broker no—”

Arthur leaned forward, silencing Bernewyn with a hard, disapproving glare. His patience for the envoy’s affronts had worn thin during their initial negotiations when presenting Lot’s unconscionable terms – that allotment of grace had now expired. The rustle of his tunic punctuated his movements as Excalibur thrummed against his thigh.

“I’m unfamiliar with how you address your sovereign, but in my court, such interruptions of the king will not be permitted. You will not do so again, Sir Bernewyn. Are we understood?’

A shadow of intimidation crossed the man’s features before his pride reared again, yet he reluctantly lowered his gaze and replied, “Yes, your majesty.”

Arthur leaned back in his chair to allow his words to settle upon the chambers, but time was fleeting and Merlin’s deed would soon unfold before the city – another urgent matter that required this meeting to end and these men sent swiftly on their way. He knitted his hands in front of him before he spoke.

“With the Forest of Ascetir as non-negotiable, we will meet King Lot’s gold demand of 10,000 pieces, and generously offer an additional 5,000 pieces and 5,000 pieces of silver. Camelot is also prepared to cede control of the Balor region – 25 leagues north to south from the southern border of the Forest of Balor to the southern border of Camelot; and twelve leagues west to east to the western border marked by River Lothlaurë.”

Bernewyn’s eyes had narrowed as he took in the counter-offer, staring with suspicion at Arthur. Drawing the man’s attention, however, Escetir’s advisors unrolled a few maps, comparing them, pointing, speaking in hushed tones – “no forest coverage”, “limited water access”, “smaller concession”. But Bernewyn raised discerning eyes to Arthur.

“The inhabitants of this—much smaller territory – how many settlements do you estimate?”

Arthur hummed softly, the hairs on his neck prickling. Bernewyn was giving this counter-offer legitimately serious thought despite the disadvantages pointed out by his advisors. Would Lot also see value in this territory? But this worried him. He’d anticipated stronger opposition. His counter-offer was certainly unpalatable compared to what they had sought. Arthur nodded to Geoffrey.

“There’s one modest village near the river trade route,” Geoffrey said, scanning a parchment. “Two to three tiny hamlets – likely tribal or transient – and approximately five to eight isolated homesteads and small farms. We estimate a population of about five hundred citizens.”

“What happens to these five hundred citizens if taken under serious consideration?”

Arthur replied, “The people would be given the choice to voluntarily move elsewhere within Camelot before formal transfer or they are allowed to stay on the land under new rule and pledge allegiance to the new kingdom – provided there is a six-month grace period for the villagers to decide if they want to pledge loyalty and continue living on that land under Escetir’s rule or if they prefer, they can voluntarily leave during those six months and migrate farther inland to remain under Camelot’s jurisdiction.”

Bernewyn considered this for a moment, his eyes dropping in concentration as they roamed over the maps. Then one of his advisors leaned in, whispered something to which Bernewyn nodded.

“Is that all you have to offer, King Arthur?”

He fought the urge to scowl, but Arthur kept his expression stoic as he reclined again, an arm dropping into his lap. The council had debated a conciliatory offer of one hundred precious gemstones annually lasting ten years as tribute. He’d summarily dismissed this recommendation not wanting to overcommit resources to an antagonistic kingdom. But he judiciously chose the needed middle and reduced the annual tribute to only five years – if it became a necessary negotiation tool.

With restrained reluctance, Arthur replied, “Camelot graciously offers as annual tribute one hundred precious gemstones to the king of Escetir not to exceed five years.” Arthur’s fist curled under the table, his nails biting into flesh.

“These are gracious offerings indeed – fine gems, new land and filled coffers. Yet still Escetir Forest remains the ultimate treasure of value to my king.”

“That is a lost cause, Sir Bernewyn,” Arthur replied tightly. “The offered territory is a strategic location that still expands you king’s holdings.”

“While keeping us distance from Camelot’s central lands.” Bernewyn’s challenge struck true, and Arthur barely veiled a small knowing smile.

Bernewyn’s mouth furled, his eyes narrowing with contempt. “You know as well as I that land is also surrounded on two fronts – three if including your ally in the south, Nemeth. I tell you now, King Arthur, you risk open conflict by refusing –”

The sudden peal of the tower bells interrupted Bernewyn’s gritted rebuttal, all head perking up to listen. Some of Arthur’s knights glanced around in confusion, hands drifting to sword hilts.

Arthur hitched a silent breath, his shoulders rising only a little as Merlin took a few steps forward to stand beside his throne chair. The joyous tone paused between euphoric ringing – just as expected, but he’d taken too long. Arthur’s jaw tensed. Had his unbending pride slowed these vital negotiations needlessly? Or Sir Bernewyn’s, for that matter?

“The victory bell,” said Geoffrey, the bulky man shifting in his seat, hushed whispers spreading and the click of chainmail, rustle of clothing, shuffling of feet filling the room. Arthur’s heart pumped to the beat of the bells and Merlin’s unease practically seeped into his space. Shoulders rigid, he stood, his chair scrapping against the floor.

“Good news, perhaps,” said Lord Godfrey, rising with the other councilors. “What, pray tell, has happened?”

“We’ll find out soon enough.” Arthur straightened his belt, Excalibur humming at his side. He eyed Bernewyn, focusing again on the unwanted visitors. “Lord Geoffrey, my terms.”

Geoffrey passed Arthur a sealed scroll, the parchment crinkling from hand to hand, bearing demands that, unmet, promised to reignite long-simmering hostilities with Escetir’s forces.

“I shall relay your terms to King Lot directly,” Bernewyn replied tightly. “But know your refusal may kindle calls for war among my countrymen.”

Arthur’s jaw clenched at Bernewyn’s obstinance. Twice he had defended Ealdor and its people from violence and ruin, yet Escetir’s emissaries acted as if such deeds meant nothing in their self-serving quest for his valuable territory.

He pierced Bernewyn with a hard, lingering gaze at the thinly veiled threat before speaking to his first knight. “Sir Percival, prepare Sir Bernewyn and his party for departure. I want them on their way back to their lands. Immediately.”

Arthur extended the scroll, the weight of the tightly furled parchment belying the monumental consequences it could unleash. “Take my generous conditions to your king,” he said, his voice taut with authority, “and council him wisely. You do not want the might of Camelot and our allies to fall upon you.”

Bernewyn tilted his head as he accepted the parchment, but leveled Arthur with an equally stern stare. “We too have allies, King Arthur. If you think my sovereign will easily abandon rich timberlands despite your generous counter, you are gravely mistaken.”

Arthur’s insides churned with foreboding as they locked gazes. For a fleeting moment, he saw the ember of Escetir’s fury smoldering behind Bernewyn’s eyes – a promise this was not ended.

“By your leave... your highness.” The honorific dripped scorn, and Arthur gave the barest nod of dismissal.

Cape swirling violently, Bernewyn pivoted on his heels and fell in behind Percival and his knights, his boots echoing his haunting threat, his advisors stiffly following. Arthur’s gaze lingered on the parchment clutched in Bernewyn’s hand – that solitary scroll now a definitive line drawn in the sand, a harbinger of conflict that could sow the seeds of greater unrest to come.

His hand gripped Excalibur’s hilt tightly, the familiar heft of his sword offering little comfort. He was risking far more than just conflict – painting darker brushstrokes that could engulf the kingdoms in war’s terrible blaze. Should he have extended more concessions? Or negotiated for partial control over the forest? Were there other options he’d overlooked? With so many decisions ensnaring, he suddenly felt strangled by uncertainty.

With a sweeping glance across the hall, Arthur met the eyes of those awaiting his next move. He reigned in his swirling emotions, refusing to betray even a tremor in the wake of this hostility. Something grander had unfolded and he could not falter now.

“To the throne room, gentleman,” he stated, jaw flexing as he turned for the doors. “The queen awaits us there.”

[i] The exquisite words in this sentence and the sentence before were provided by AndreKI in a private email, February 13, 2024.

[ii] Most of the magical opening of this paragraph was provided by AndreKI in a private email (embellished and paraphrased slightly), February 13, 2024. Thank you so much for a succinct and impactful summary for both Gwen and Arthur on what’s wrong with Camelot.

Chapter Text

In the great hall, Gwen sat erect upon the throne as one petitioner bowed before the dais and departed, and another advanced forward. Elyan was expected as her guardsman along with Sir Galahad and several other knights, but Ranulf had reported in his stead, relaying that her brother had not checked in for duty this morning – that his quarters appeared to be vacated. Gwen had to clasp her hands tightly upon her lap to keep them from shaking with this news delivered, as well as contain the overwhelming prospect of ruling alone that roiled her insides. But when the first petitioner stepped forward with her humble plea, Gwen set her worries over Elyan and Arthur’s absences aside and listened to her subjects with earnest.

That’s fourteen –

She sighed ever so slightly now, arms resting on the chair’s carved wooden armrests, trying to suppress the building anticipation as every minute trickled by.

Still no toll – no Arthur—

“Queen Guinevere, observe!” snapped the portly master cloth merchant, Wyatt Underwood, a man whose stalls Gwen knew well from her days toiling as a seamstress. He threw down bolts of silk – their once vibrant hues faded and dull. Tarnished crimson and muted gold spilled careless across the floor, threads thinning to translucent. “This deceitful silk peddler knowingly sold me diluted dyes and receded threads!” Master Wyatt nudged the lackluster piles in disgust. “Look how the colors run murky when wet? Any finery made with silk this shoddy would be a shame to the crown’s adornments!”

His lean accused seller stepped forward, equally incensed. “I am Tibbins, your highness – Haberdasher’s Guild.” He bowed low before responding, “And yet this swindler grows fat luxuriating on fine wine that our coins pay for!”

Gwen raised a hand for patience and regarded the seller sternly. “The fair dispersion of justice fairly matters more than anyone’s supposed virtue, Master Tibbins,” she said, her father’s sense of evenhandedness guiding her. Her eyes roamed over the bolts of cloth, her discernment honed by years of humble life experiences and an innate sense of equity for the common people. She knew fabrics well – and to her practiced eye, the cloth was deeply flawed.

“Master Tibbins, we will have these fabrics thoroughly examined. And if it is revealed you did indeed deceive your buyers, you will compensate them directly for their injuries. Should you refuse or lack the means to do so, the Crown will ensure they receive amends. However, any costs we must front will then be recouped from you.”

Murmurs rippled through the court at Gwen’s measured path towards resolution. She had seen Arthur, once dismissive of counsel outside his elite circle, gradually transform into a king who genuinely listened and valued the varied perspectives of Merlin, his knights and advisors. Yet her father Tom, a humble blacksmith, had embodied an open ear to his customers’ diverse needs and viewpoints to an even greater degree through his life’s work.

Gwen’s own clandestine study of ethical philosophies over the years, facilitated by Arthur’s support, had reinforced the importance of considering issues from multiple vantage points before reaching a reasoned verdict. The sovereign duty was to uphold the legitimacy of diverse claims, guiding people toward compromise rather than subjugating dissent through force alone.

“Master Tibbins,” Gwen added as the criticized textiles were gathered and hauled away, “should impartial review verify your silk proved less than the quality claimed, understand further trade in Camelot may be denied until consumer trust is restored. Inform your guild that this decree affects them all.”

Murmurs swelled anew at the proclamation signaling the queen’s commitment to accountability and marketplace integrity as Gwen held the uncertain peddler’s eye unflinchingly.

“But let us first await examination by an expert. The Crown shall deliver fair judgment regardless where the truth may lead.”

“Your highness is fair and gracious,” replied the Master Wyatt, bowing and smiling with gratefulness.

Master Tibbins bowed too. “Fair and gracious…” he droned crestfallen, his expression somewhat concerned as he backed away.

Gwen believed her principles shone as steady as the North Star today, none to dispute her resolutions. She knew justice must stand untethered to vulnerability, for here resolve must overshadow her inner storms – remaining strong in duty when anguish raged within. She must be the impartial rock they needed, unshakable in crisis’ swirling currents. And yet had any observed her visible sorrow before court had begun today?

The bells then tolled. Gwen’s shoulders stiffened – Ranulf and Galahad flanking closer as Sefa took timorous steps to come stand beside her. The throne room buzzed with excitement, wonder. Courtiers and petitioners muttered nervously to each other, speculating about the meaning.

“Your majesty…?” Sefa asked, unease in her lilting voice, fingers worrying the side of her skirt.

“All is well,” she responded. Gwen rose with grace and poise and swept her eyes across the vast chamber. She supposed that inwardly she was as apprehensive as her maidservant.

“The bells sing joyous news,” she reminded them, her steady voice carrying through the great hall. “Let us await word calmly to see what it heralds.”

Turning from the people, she glanced knowingly at Ranulf and Galahad, drawing them closer about her, yet careful to keep Sefa far enough away to converse privately with them. “At last,” she whispered under her breath.

“You have done well, my queen,” returned Ranulf softly, leaning towards her, arm still in sling.

Galahad stepped nearer, his pride shining through awe. “Your justice and fortitude through the storm inspire us all, Queen Guinevere. Now we witness the fruits flourishing long nurtured through hope.”

“Thanks to you and Merlin,” she said with thoughtful gratitude. “I hope your deeds inspire many towards the potential of – peace … and harmony.”

That vision of peace and harmony felt so distant from their present reality that Gwen feared nothing could heal the hearts of those who simply did not desire it – her brother Elyan’s troubled face flashing poignantly in her mind’s eye. Her hand strayed unconsciously to her midsection, a small comforting gesture she often found herself making lately. How many others bore gaping emotional wounds still, she wondered with a pang, their anguish and pain scarcely concealed by the kingdom’s tentative calm?

The imposing double doors flung open, and Arthur strode in, the indomitable sovereign returning to stand alongside his queen. Gwen’s eyes landed solely on him, scarcely registering Merlin and the accompanying lords and advisors in his wake, so overwhelming was her relief at his presence. A radiant smile played across her lips, and she nearly drifted towards him as he advanced down the aisle, his gait brimming with vigor and command. Yet she maintained her regal bearing, tempering the impulse to rush into his embrace through sheer willpower.

His nearing visage projected confidence and reassurance, steadying her tides of emotion. Arthur bowed deeply before his queen, their gazes locking as he rose, his cerulean eyes sparkling into hers. A wordless conversation passed between them – of fortitude persevered, challenges conquered, and an unbreakable bond that had weathered separation’s trial. With a subtle nod, she conveyed her fortress of resolute leadership had never faltered, even through the tumult inside her.

As Arthur then mounted the dais steps to stand at her side, they turned together to face the energetic hall. Gwen noticed his lit expression tempering – joy and trepidation teetering equal measure on his face. The chambers grew quiet, all focus now fixed upon them before he spoke.

“There has been a report that our harvest in the western and northern fields has been – revitalized, restored.” The room droned with chatter – Gwen could feel the excitement, the hairs on her arms raising in unison. Arthur lifted a hand immediately and silence fell. “Our patrols and watch have verified this report.”

“Sorcery!” someone shouted, shocked gasps echoing through the hall, hands flying to cover mouths in astonishment.

“That is no doubt,” Arthur said. “And it must be the deed of the wizard Emrys, yet that is nothing to fear. Many of you know my stance toward regarding him. I see him as friend – as ally, and I believe he views Camelot as such. We should thank him, his gift ensures our stores will be replenished for a plentiful summer, and our fields made fertile again for the crucial autumn planting season.”

Eyes widened as uncertain glances darted around the room. Nervous titters broke out amongst lords and ladies. Gwen now spotted Merlin standing rigid among the restless courtiers, her friend’s face drained of color. But his eyes glinted with – apprehension? Pride? She wasn’t sure. Nevertheless, she felt as assured as Arthur in their path even with the seeming impossible challenges ahead.

“Fetch the horses, George,” Arthur ordered. “I’d like to witness this for myself.”

Arthur extended a hand to Guinevere, his gaze steady before flicking his eyes to Merlin, comprehension dawning between the three of them as they proceeded out of the hall.

The rhythmic thud of hooves along the trodden King’s Road stirred nostalgic memories within Arthur as he led the cavalcade at a measured trot. This very path had been traversed countless times during his formative years, accompanying his father Uther on royal progresses across the kingdom. Each bend and rise held familiarity, evoking recollections of wide-eyed wonderment he’d fought to suppress as a fledgling prince.

In those tender days, even the simple act of riding at his sire’s side inspired an exhilarating swell of pride within his youthful breast. Yet any overt displays of unfettered emotion frequently drew Uther’s stern rebukes – the formidable king demanding his heir maintain an inscrutable, regal mien befitting one who would someday inherit the throne.

So Arthur had learned to modulate his boyish zeal, donning an impenetrable mask concealing the rapturous currents surging just beneath. Only in stolen moments on the trail, when his father’s hawkish gaze drifted elsewhere, could Arthur’s face openly crease with unguarded delight at the freedom and adventures this road promised.

Now, firmly established in his role as Camelot’s sovereign, he allowed himself a faint, wistful smile as the retinue of knights, nobles, and commoners – numbering no fewer than a hundred by his estimate – followed his lead along the familiar King's Road. But several leagues on, Arthur guided them to divert from that well-trodden path, steering their mounts onto the narrower tracks and common byways that would take them directly to the fields rumored revived by sorcery's hand.

He glanced at Guinevere, riding comfortably upon her horse beside him, though she smiled little now. Her deep and meaningful counsel this morning had sent his world spiraling. It had taken the fiery, brutal words of a loved one and Guinevere’s deep distress to shock him into a reality they had not foreseen, nor did they see a way out of this darker reality – at least not at the present. Upon returning to the castle, they would have to speak with Merlin. He must become aware of this haunting revelation that affected him and his kin so profoundly.

But their future had already turned darker, and Arthur’s thoughts drifted to Escetir’s territorial demands, another grave concern that made his insides churn. His generous counter proposal to the emissaries had not deflected their aim from desiring the Forest of Ascetir. Perhaps prisoners from Cenred’s war – combatants captured who hadn’t drunk from the cursed cup offered by Morgause and sentenced hard labor in Camelot’s mines instead – Lord Gregory had proposed this concession. Or as Geoffrey had suggested, include a few of his prize horses and cattle. Would ten years of tribute in gems instead of only five had made a difference? Did he have anything else of value left to offer his enemy?

And yet, would it have mattered? he wondered. The Balor territory seemed to have sparked some interest in Sir Bernewyn, but he’d quickly shifted back to the forest demand with his usual hostility. Arthur drew in a steadying breath. He’d just have to await King Lot’s official response, but in his heart, he knew it would likely not bring glad tidings – perhaps serving as an omen of disastrous consequences to come.

It wasn’t too long before he could see green dotting the landscape that before was soot, burned foliage, and rotten produce. Further north, he wondered if the grains stood tall and buds bursting, ready to be harvested. Arthur slowed his horse. The others riding with him did so also, voices of astonishment rising as they reached their destination.

“Good Lord,” he said, catching his breath. Despite orchestrating this clandestine mission for several weeks with Merlin and Galahad, the sight of rebirth struck him profoundly. So much green and color – trees heavy-laden with fruit ready to be harvested.

“This is a miracle,” Gwen whispered, she too awed by the sight.

“Our summer is saved,” Percival said, genuine belief in his voice.

“It’s a blessing,” breathed Lord Godfrey.

George, his mouth open, asked, “Can this truly be?”

Arthur dismounted and went to aid Gwen. She smiled warmly, but he noticed restrained weariness now visible in her eyes. He kissed her forehead.

“This will be over soon,” he promised, gazing at her with affection. “We’ll talk more about Elyan upon our return.”

Gwen smiled, nodding appreciatively as Merlin came beside them, vibrating with restrained exhilaration. Arthur suppressed a grin as onlookers advanced toward the restored harvest fields, a buzz of excitement filling the air, prickling the hairs on his neck and arms.

Arthur led Gwen into the grove, tenderly grasping her hand. It was truly spectacular to behold. Never had he laid eyes on a harvest so bountiful, the fruit bursting with vivid colors, plump and falling from the trees. Surely, the people would see this magic as a symbol of good will on behalf of a sorcerer. Plucking a shiny red apple, he started to bite into it.

“Arthur!” Merlin shouted, his voice taut with alarm, his lean frame advancing towards them. Arthur gazed at him, his brow creased. “It could be tainted, sire.” He extended his hand. “Let me taste it first.”

There was something in Merlin’s eyes that Arthur knew the fruit was safe to eat, but he surrendered it to him, a thin knowing smile on his lips.

Merlin swallowed as he studied the apple, then took a bite, juice spilling on his chin and the fruit in his hand. He chewed, and like Arthur, everyone waited in tense silence. After swallowing, Merlin smiled, and then took another bite.

“It’s safe,” he said, his mouth full. Cheers roared as people celebrated with hugs and laughter.

Arthur thinned his lips, his mouth watery for a taste of the delicious looking apple. He forced a stoic expression and turned to speak to the crowd. Knowing how fast news traveled, whatever he said now would spread faster than a rash of poison oak.

“We must find Emrys,” Arthur proclaimed, almost choking on the lie, not fully transparent about the deeper layers and complexities around their roles and this deed. “The people of this kingdom can rest easy knowing that there’s food here that will be on their tables. We can also return provisions to our allies before they have time to stable their horses in their own kingdoms.”

“What will you do with him—Emrys?” asked Merlin, wiping his mouth with a sleeve and discarding the apple core, playing his part that he knew all too well.

“Emrys has saved the kingdom once more,” Arthur said pointedly, staring at Merlin with earnest, though he knew he must maintain this difficult façade regarding the true nature of this event. He faced his people. “I will thank him – that is what I will do.” The cheers were less boisterous than before, but they still came, and that pleased Arthur too.

Arthur wrapped an arm around Gwen’s waist, smiling down at her. This time, her smile was warm and sincere, her eyes tired, but there was a brightness to them.

“This is a great day, your majesties,” said Lord Gregory, amazement still in his voice as he approached them, a few apples in his hands.

“For us all,” replied Gwen, leaning into Arthur’s embrace.

Arthur turned to Percival. “Inform the reeve, the hayward, and the granger to muster the farmhands right away. I want the fields harvested and goods distributed to the homes and surrounding villages as quick as it can be done.”

“Very good, sire,” his first knight responded, summoning Ranulf and a few other knights with just a imposing look before departing with haste towards his horse.

“George, bring me the inventory of the provisions given to us by our allies and let the bailiff and castellan know to increase the return by five percent if possible. I want everything recompensed within a fortnight.”

“Yes, sire.”

Arthur snatched two apples from the tree and winked at Merlin before he assisted Gwen onto her horse.

“My lady,” he said tenderly as he handed her an apple. She giggled in that way that always made his heart pound when she received it.

As he mounted his own steed, apple in hand, a troubled shadow crossed Arthur’s features. He knew that beneath the golden glow of the harvest’s bounty, today’s triumph would prove fleeting. For the united kingdom he dreamed of creating, even greater challenges loomed on the horizon. But would the web of lies he was weaving ultimately ensnare him? Arthur feared if that facade crumbled, it could likely collapse the whole of his carefully constructed plans – his very vision for ushering in an era of unity and peace left in ashen ruins.

Chapter Text

Merlin couldn’t tamp down the exhilaration bubbling up as he strode through lively castle corridors. Servants whistled cheerful tunes carrying their loads while knights laughed boisterously recounting the marvels witnessed. The warm acceptance of the magically restored harvest kindled hope in his heart. He and Galahad had slipped away to revel privately earlier, both giddy as young schoolboys over magic so openly working awe and wonder – over the work they had done. Approaching the royal chambers, he burst through the doors, swept up in the day’s euphoria.

“The harvest restored astonished one and all! Their pure shock and joy–”

His eager grin faltered taking in Arthur and Gwen’s grave expressions, the two of them stood just inside the room. His eyes slid past them to Percival, Ranulf cradling his broken arm, and Geoffrey standing around the long oak table, apparently just arrived as well. Quiet solemnity blanketed the chamber, unlike the ongoing celebration beyond these walls.

Merlin blinked, his own cheer punctured by the strained atmosphere, his grin collapsing to mirror their unsmiling faces. Ranulf gave a slight shake of his head and averted his gaze as he sat down, his chair scraping against the stone floor.

“What is it?” Merlin asked. “Has something happened?” No servants present either, he noticed, shutting the double doors with a soft click and then closing the distance with the others around the table. The promising hope in his chest curled into uncertainty wondering what shadows now fell across their shining victory.

Arthur’s features were severe, Gwen’s just as grave as he spoke. “Painful revelations have tempered the day’s celebrations for Gwen and me despite our outward appearances. All of you, please sit. We have something to share.”

Merlin eased gingerly into a chair, his posture tense as if the cushioned seat had suddenly lined with spikes. As the others found their places around the table, he caught himself chewing on his fingernails – an old childhood habit that resurfaced whenever he braced for scoldings, a tell he thought he’d left behind in Ealdor. Arthur and Gwen took their usual positions, the king at the head of the table with his queen by his right side.

Merlin scarcely breathed. Apprehension warred within him, held at bay only by Arthur’s solemn demeanor. Surely the magical origin of the harvest’s restoration still lay undiscovered or all would not be rejoicing… The tentative optimism he had nurtured now curdled like spoiled milk – so often in the past do secrets spilled lead to sharp reprisal.

Arthur began his serious tone low, drawing Merlin’s attention. “As you know, restoring the harvest was a hard-won triumph for Camelot and for magic. Merlin, your efforts shone brightly – truly – well done. However, in the midst of our celebration, Gwen and I have come to learn some... distressing truths.”

He paused, and Merlin felt his stomach drop at the sudden heaviness in Arthur’s voice. Dread prickled along his skin as the king continued.

“Our perspectives proved painfully narrow these long weeks,” Arthur said. “In working to erase magic’s pall, we blindly brought another upon innocents seared by almost thirty years of war.”

Merlin’s brow furrowed deeply, his leg bouncing uncontrollably under the table. “What… what do you mean?”

“You’ve surely noticed the change in Elyan’s countenance,” Arthur said carefully.

Merlin averted his gaze, remorse and loss creasing his brow. “Yes... I’ve – noticed,” he replied quietly. When his magical truth had been unveiled to the knights, the fraternity he once cherished with Elyan had corroded. The other man’s formerly vibrant smiles were now twisted grimaces full of unspoken accusations.

“He has abandoned his post,” Gwen added softly, though the words carried like a leaden weight, “and us.”

Merlin felt the air leave his lungs in a harsh exhale. “What?” he breathed, glancing around at the others. By their grim faces, he knew they were already aware.

“Not too long ago, I saw myself a victim of magic,” Gwen continued, her expression turning inward. “Haunted by the curses of sorcery. Time and again, evil was unleashed upon me, scarring my soul little by little.” Merlin swallowed when she pressed her hand against her midsection and peered into his eyes. “You helped to drag me out of the mire of darkness, Merlin. And my strong belief in Arthur’s vision for unity also played a part to mend my brokenness. My fear diminished. Yet, that is not so for many others.”

Gwen then recounted her harrowing exchange with Elyan the previous night, how for those souls scarred by magic’s curses, the repeal of the law only fueled a sense of betrayal, an unholy desecration of their beloved Camelot. Elyan’s spirit had withered like a flower starved of sun, the joy that once blossomed within him had shriveled in the chill of unhealed wounds. Merlin’s heart sank to the pit of his stomach. Why must blessings bear curses as well?

Though her eyes shimmered, not a single tear slipped down Gwen’s regal cheeks. Arthur grasped her hand, his face shadowed by a deep unease. “Elyan’s fury over sorcery wrecking his spirit only reveals to us that wider wounds were left to fester,” he said. “We’ve ignored many of our citizens’ scars.”

Merlin was rendered speechless, his thoughts whirling as he scratched his forehead and rubbed the back of his neck in agitation. Yes, he’d ignored the clear signs that Elyan struggled with wounds still raw, but he thought Elyan’s chill had only affected himself. That there were others like him feeling the same towards sorcerers and magic had been a convenient omission from thought for him.

Percival leaned forward, the chair creaking under his bulk. “How do we reconcile if so many like him are consumed with rage and suspicion?” he asked, his voice tight with worry.

“Elyan knows too much as well,” Ranulf added somberly. “Arthur, if others discover our deception surrounding Merlin and Emrys, it would only compound their distrust of us… of the Crown.”

The words were stone heavy in Merlin’s gut as he glanced at Arthur, whose jaw feathered when he lowered his gaze. A myriad of emotions battled beneath their paling features, struggling to comprehend the immense truth and deception that had been unveiled.

“It could ruin you, King Arthur,” stated Geoffrey plainly, tension suddenly rising, “even if your reason is valid for the protection of a soul. And yet we all have agreed to the deception. Regardless what happens, you won’t stand alone, sire.”

If the truth were revealed, it would ignite a devastating scandal – a reign tarnished by lies concealing a sorcerer in their midst, shattering the dream of Albion. Yet Geoffrey spoke wisdom; the king had loyal allies who would stand by his side, come what may.

Arthur inclined his head, a steely determination in his eyes. “You strengthen my conviction, Geoffrey. Should the need arise, I shall bear that burden as a sovereign must. The rest of you would then carry the mantle, striving ever onward for the unity we envision.”

Gwen turned a disapproving look towards Arthur, though she remained silent. A chill ran down Merlin’s spine as images of a ravaged Camelot, of their vision disintegrating to ash, flashed through his mind. The notion of forging the united realm without Arthur’s unwavering guidance struck him as utterly inconceivable. The mere idea of being deprived of the king’s wisdom and leadership left Merlin awash in a creeping dread that gripped his very soul.

“What are we going to do?” Merlin asked, cutting through the tension, his gaze sweeping the assembled inner circle. “Percival’s right. If people are suffering, we have to do something about it.”

Gwen straightened, setting her shoulders. “Now that we grasp the true depth of this affliction, we cannot turn a blind eye to those still grieving from past transgressions.” She gave Arthur’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “Nor lose kin to old wounds reopened. Before seeking remedies, we must first acknowledge and empathize with their anguish.”

Merlin’s expression was grave, doubting even their combined powers could tackle an issue of this magnitude. “We’ve all borne the scars of magic’s darkest forms, Gwen. The question remains – where do we begin to unravel such a tangled skein? What can possibly be done?”

Arthur’s eyes blazed with renewed tenacity. “We shall begin by addressing the people directly,” he declared, purpose ringing in every word. “Let them know their sovereigns have not forsaken them in this hour. Geoffrey, fetch quill and parchment. It is time to put voice to our resolve.”

The crinkle of crisp parchment accompanied Geoffrey’s movements as the elderly scholar gathered his materials. Percival sat up a little straighter, his eyes alight with steadfast fortitude. Even Ranulf, cradling his broken arm, managed a solemn nod of solidarity.

“Once that message rings out, we must then turn inward,” Arthur continued, his voice resonating with conviction. “If we cannot find unity and solace within our inner circle, how can we hope to bring it to the realm?”

Merlin felt Arthur’s words reinforce his own commitment. Beside them, Gwen’s fingers tightened around the king’s hand, a proud smile curving her lips in silent affirmation.

“I am ready, your highness,” Geoffrey replied, quill poised over the fresh parchment.

Arthur straightened, allowing a weighty pause before beginning. “People of Camelot...” His brow furrowed as he considered his words carefully. “In this season of renewal and celebration, we must not forget those among us still suffering, their souls weighed down by the long shadow of our conflict with magic...”

“Erm, sire,” Geoffrey interrupted. “Perhaps we should maintain an even more celebratory tone first, before easing into the somber matter at hand? Something akin to – ‘People of Camelot: Our lands overflow with bounty once more, and jubilation rings through the kingdom.’ A little more along those lines, sire.”

Arthur nodded thoughtfully, his chin dipping as he considered Geoffrey’s words for a long moment. “Why must you so frequently correct me, you old scholar?” he asked, though his tone was more wry than reproachful.

Geoffrey’s bushy eyebrows rose pointedly as he met Arthur’s gaze. “You do have a habit of rushing the conclusion, my lord,” he replied, his tone even. “My role is to provide a steadying hand when affairs of the realm require linguistic precision.”

Merlin chuckled along with the others as Arthur scoffed out a laugh, the king’s commanding stance briefly breaking under the elderly scholar’s gentle rebuke. After a moment, Arthur’s face turned pensive once more.

“But you’re right. Let me try again from a place of revelry first.”

He rose and began slowly pacing behind Geoffrey and Ranulf along the length of the table, arms folded across his chest as he gathered his thoughts. Merlin, Gwen, and Percival tracked his movements with their eyes. Finally, Arthur paused and turned to face them.

“People of Camelot,

"Our lands burst with abundance, our stores overflowing after months of hardship. The peal of celebration echoes through every village and town. We revel in the overflowing bounty renewed, a benevolent gift of magic that flows through the very earth itself.”

Arthur paused, his expression growing solemn.

“And yet, in the wake of our restored harvest and deliverance from privation, it would be easy to bask in jubilation However, we must not allow our relief to blind us to the lingering wounds borne by many in our kingdom.

"Too long have we turned our gaze from those scarred by the horrors of the Great Purge and the bloody conflict surrounding sorcery’s prohibition. In pursuit of forging a new era of unity and acceptance, we ignored the fact that old agonies have yet to fully heal. While our pursuit of acceptance was well-intended, we cannot stand idly by while citizens remain crippled by the past.

"We see you, people of Camelot who still bear the burns of magic’s perversion. Your fears, your rage, your grief – they have not gone unnoticed by the Crown, merely overlooked in our eagerness to move forward. But no more.”

Merlin caught Gwen’s eye and gave an approving nod. She smiled back, pride mingling with sadness at the king’s compassionate words.

“On this day, we vow to tend to your open wounds with care and compassion. We will not abandon you to suffer alone, nor allow bitterness to fester unchecked. Though the path ahead may be arduous, we shall walk it together, tending the infirmities of the past so they need not plague our future.

"Camelot’s greatness lies not just in her fertile lands and stout defenses, but in the resilience and unbreakable spirits of her people. It is you who make our realm strong and your pain that we must urgently salve. Have faith – your brotherhood and your king will not forsake the wounded.”

Geoffrey set down his quill, sprinkling the parchment with sawdust and then blowing it off with a puff of air. “Well said, my lord. You’ve endeavored to capture the essence of what needed to be conveyed.” He passed the paper to Arthur, who studied the elegant script with a contemplative gaze. “Any revisions, my king?”

Arthur’s eyes flicked first to Gwen, then towards Merlin, before finally settling on the parchment, his expression inscrutable as he regarded the elegant script. Retrieving the quill, he made a few final scribblings to mark it as the official record. “Add my seal. Distribute copies to every town and village as fast as your scribes can reproduce it.”

Geoffrey gave a deferential nod. “At once, my lord.” He carefully blotted the ink before rolling up the parchment. “The scribes will work with utmost haste to disseminate your words throughout the realm.” With a final bow to the royals, he turned and departed, his robes whispering against the stone floor as he went to oversee the missive’s reproduction.

Gwen rose to her feet, resolve shining in her eyes. “I truly believe these broken bonds could mend if we walk alongside those afflicted, leading by empathetic example.” Her gaze turned thoughtful. “But we must have a plan for how to minister to their wounded spirits and bodies.”

Arthur nodded, pulling her into an embrace. “You speak true. Physical and spiritual ministrations will be required.” He looked Merlin. “Can you work with the healers to ensure they are prepared and have all they need to tend to these lingering injuries?”

Merlin inclined his head. “Of course. I’ll coordinate their efforts immediately.”

“And I shall consult with Bishop Joseph and the clergy,” Gwen continued. “Perhaps rituals, blessings or counseling from their ranks could help provide comfort.”

Arthur then turned his gaze to Percival. “If word reaches far and wide, we may see an influx seeking respite and healing in Camelot. Work with the stewards to prepare extra lodging; temporary camps may need to be erected outside the gates.”

Percival gave a resolute nod. “It will be seen to, Arthur. I’ll ensure we have ample accommodations ready.”

“Wherever Elyan may find himself,” the king said softly, pulling Gwen into an embrace, “let us hope that through these combined efforts, our message reaches him and offers a path forward from the pain of the past.”

Percival nodded solemnly. “Even if Elyan’s eyes do not fall upon the written words, perhaps the spirit behind them may yet rekindle whatever flicker of loyalty to Camelot still burns within his heart.”

Merlin’s resolve had bolstered against diminished despair. This marked a significant first stride, one requiring an immense effort by many to carry Arthur’s voice to every village and town. Yet the message itself, its compassion and humility, could potentially reverberate through even the most hardened of souls. Arthur had bridged divides before – perhaps this gesture of solidarity extended to the anguished find purchase across the kingdom, fanning the flames of unity for all once more.

And if anyone could gently pry open the shuttered windows of Elyan’s soul, Merlin believed, his gaze fondly sweeping over his friends, it would be Gwen’s warmth and devotion unbolting them.

Chapter Text

The night enveloped their small camp, the darkness only broken by the flickering campfire. Gwaine’s features were thrown into sharp relief by the dancing flames as he meticulously dragged his whetstone along the blade of his sword, the rhythmic scraping sound filling the air. Across from him, Fredrick tended to the fire, adding a few more sticks and poking at the embers, his brow creased as he stole glances at his brooding companion. They’d made good distance on the trail, reaching the edges of Brechfa in two days – two long days of little conversation save studying maps and planning paths to take.

The rasp of steel against stone grated on Fredrick’s ears, the abrasive sound piercing the stillness that had settled over their camp. He tossed another twig into the flames and settled back against the log, shooting a sidelong glance at Gwaine. The knight’s brows were knitted in concentration as he methodically glided the stone along the blade’s edge, his lips pressed in a tight downward frown. Not long ago, that incessant scuff would have been accompanied by Gwaine’s boisterous voice regaling him again about his lamentations over missing the chance to battle the dragon. But now, uncharacteristic silence had stolen Gwaine’s voice and doused his spirit, and Fredrick sensed his thoughts dwelt elsewhere – somewhere back in Camelot.

The rhythm of sword against stone seemed to reverberate through Fredrick’s very bones, each scrape setting his teeth on edge as it sliced through the quiet night air. He fought the urge to ask Gwaine to cease, but knew the repetitive motion likely brought the knight a measure of focus and calm for whatever disturbed him.

Beyond the ring of firelight, the night pressed in thick and impenetrable, its smothering blackness broken only by the nearby hoots of unseen owls drifting among the rustling leaves – and the intermittent grind of Gwaine’s whetstone dragging along his blade. That familiar, scratching sound was becoming little more than a droning hum to Fredrick as his thoughts soon turned inward, a crease furrowing his brow as worry for Gwen gnawed like a relentless ache.

Her recent emergence from that dark spell of melancholy and erratic temper still troubled him deeply. After returning to Camelot, he had been loath to leave her side, so then witnessing much, her sudden shift gave clear signs that some unseen magical force had sunk its claws into her. Though it seemed to revive her spirit rather than harm her, it alarmed him all the same. Surely Arthur must have noticed too, but there were some private conversations between man and wife that even he was not privy to. He could only hope it had been addressed, that they had found a way to banish the ominous cloud that had loomed over her.

A downhearted sigh escaped Fredrick’s lips as his gaze drifted to the glowing embers. King Arthur had been transformed as well. Perhaps the many years he and Gwen had been forced to conceal their love were the catalyst for the change he had witnessed in the king. Undoubtedly, enduring such an extended period of keeping their romance strictly hidden had a profound effect in shaping Arthur. The king had shed the entitled arrogance of the brash aristocrat Fredrick once knew, molded instead by his wife's grounding presence and wisdom.

And the king’s fleeting jealousy over Fredrick’s bond with Gwen seemed a mere insecurity of the past, dissipating once he realized their connection ran soul-deep, yet utterly paternal. Still, this eleven-day mission would be the longest Fredrick had been separated from his queen’s side, and the distance left him feeling strangely unmoored, as if a part of his very self had been carved away, leaving him grasping at shadows.

His life’s entire course had been upended by Gwen too. Where once he was a solitary sentry keeping an aloof vigil, now he was an integral part of reshaping the kingdom itself, privy to the crown’s most guarded secrets. Never could he have imagined his voice would carry any significance in the machinations of kings and queens. And yet here he was – knight, advisor, co-conspirator in a strategy of world-shaking implications.

Fredrick swallowed hard as he drew his arms tighter around himself, the flickering flames doing little to ward off the chill that suddenly spiraled through his body. The crux of Arthur’s ambitious plan hinged precariously on Merlin. The deception surrounding the sorcerer, the lie they would have perpetuated could still unleash dire consequences upon king and kingdom if ever revealed. Fredrick couldn’t shake the troubling doubt that they’d truly weighed the full price of such subterfuge.

And yet Merlin stood as the keystone of Arthur’s determined campaign – this lanky, unobtrusive figure who had swept into Camelot’s hallowed halls all those years prior, subtly shifting the hotheaded prince onto a course greatly divergent from Uther’s devastating path. In those days, Fredrick paid scant heed to the unassuming shadow often trailing in Arthur’s wake. Now, after bearing witness to the truth of Merlin’s incredible powers, Fredrick could not help but regard the sorcerer with a newfound sense of awe and respect.

He gave an absent nod, as if in deference to the trinity of fates that had conspired to reshape Camelot’s destiny. The forces that molded the noble king before him were twofold – for just as Merlin’s guiding presence nudged Arthur toward an enlightened course, so too did Gwen’s wisdom and boundless heart leave an indelible mark. Her steadfast love had smoothed his remaining edges of arrogance and entitlement into compassion. And with Merlin’s astonishing abilities laid bare alongside the pivotal role he had long played in safeguarding them all, it was little wonder Arthur now aimed to shield him – and any like him – by whatever means required. United, this triad of differing strengths was surely bound for greatness unparalleled.

The rhythmic grind of steel against stone had fallen silent, and Fredrick realized Gwaine had stilled his restless sharpening. The knight now leaned against the hilt of his sword, its tip buried in the ground before him, one hand loosely gripping the whetstone as he stared unseeingly into the flames. A deep furrow etched his brow, caught somewhere between intense concentration and utter resignation.

The hush that blanketed their camp seemed to amplify the crackle of the fire until Gwaine’s low rumble finally sliced through. “Do you think we did the right thing?” Fredrick’s gaze landed on his friend, doubt rendered plain in the downturned corners of his mouth. “Arresting Lord Badawi?”

Fredrick tensed imperceptibly, the fine hairs prickling along the back of his neck – an instinctive warning that questioning a king’s decree was perilous ground to tread. But Arthur was more than a sovereign to them; he was brother-in-arms who valued counsel, even dissenting views. Though Gwaine had yet to reveal his objections to this mission or the precise details of what had transpired between him and Arthur before their departure, his furious bearing and hurried, agitated gait through the castle halls told Fredrick all he’d needed to know – Gwaine had failed to be relieved of his service.

“As soldiers, we’ve all carried out unsavory orders in the name of the crown before,” he replied carefully. “Do you doubt the righteousness of Arthur’s choice?”

A defiant spark flared in Gwaine’s eyes, and with a sharp motion, he drove the tip of his sword into the ground beside him. His calloused fingers curled around the whetstone, seeming to weigh the heft of it briefly. “No, I don’t doubt him,” he admitted lowly. “Only myself.”

Fredrick then listened as scattered failures spilled forth from Gwaine – meeting a woman who stole his heart, bitter commands to arrest her father – bar him from her side. Earnest vows to watch over her now laid in ruins, impossible to uphold while wandering afield on this undesirable mission.

“With every fiber of my being, I wish I could undo the hurt I saw in Yaminah’s eyes,” Gwaine rasped with regret. “She deserved solace in that moment, and I failed to provide it. Instead, all I left her with was a paltry, wretched scratch of a letter, begging her forgiveness.” He shook his head, anguish shadowing his expression. “I failed her, Fred. And now my soul twists knowing no mercy awaits after what I've done.”

Fredrick nodded, understanding Gwaine’s tender heart hid under his roguish exterior. While duty alone governed his path, Gwaine was ruled by empathy for the vulnerable. Fredrick admired his fortitude for that, but to him, it seemed unwise seeds of affection had left him yearning to protect where he lacked right. Affections for the daughter of a traitor was indeed poor judgement, and Fredrick wondered why the level-headed man had become so ensnared in such an ill-advised situation.

“I’ve done plenty of distasteful things – yeah,” Gwaine continued, his tone low and rough like pebbles crunching underfoot. “But this... this cleaves straight to the bloody depths.” A bitter, mirthless laugh escaped his lips as he ran a hand across his face. “All my bluster about honor and loyalty – and when it matters most, when she needs me....”

He trailed off, shaking his head slowly as if in disbelief at his own failure. Fredrick felt a pang of empathy, for he understood the sacred oaths knighthood bound them to – oaths he himself held inviolable. To be rendered unable to live up to those tenets of honor, of safeguarding the innocent, it cut straight to the core of what made a true knight.

“This separation from Gwen’s side leaves me strangely adrift as well,” Fredrick replied, understanding the profound ache of being parted from one’s heart. “But are your doubts borne of the lady alone? Or do you question Arthur’s greater path?”

Gwaine watched him for a moment, his brow knitted, firelight glistening in his pensive eyes. A wry smirk then played across his lips as he reflected, “Until crossing paths with Arthur a few years ago, it had been an age since I willingly followed any king’s lead.” He gave a derisive snort. “Oh he seemed brave enough – an abled fighter, I’ll grant him that. He was even amiable. But I wasn’t about to simply bow down to the lad just because of his lineage.”

He shook his head, a rueful chuckle escaping. “Turned out the royal pup had more mettle than I gave him credit for at first. He proved me wrong on that score. Arthur’s a good man, through and through.”

Gwaine nodded thoughtfully, his head bobbing slowly, as if seeming to confirm his convictions. “And then there’s Merlin,” he continued. “I knew there was something special about him the day we met. That he’s this powerful wizard – well, I have yet to witness anything to strike awe, but he deserves to be protected. If Arthur believes a deception is the best solution and is willing to face the consequences, then it’s worth the risk for me too.”

“So it’s because of the lady – that unsettles you…”

Gwaine’s expression darkened like a thundercloud rolling across the sun. “Two days ago… I nearly came to blows with him – Arthur, my friend and sovereign.” His calloused knuckles whitened as fists clenched, corded tendons straining taut beneath his skin. “The vile words he spoke about Yaminah...” A muscle jumped in his taut jaw as he ground his teeth. “They cut me bloody deep, straight to the bone. I saw red, is what happened. Pure rage blinding me in that moment.”

Fredrick could vividly envision the explosive scene – knight pitted against king, brother against brother, as wrath overcame reason in the blink of an eye. The air likely still thrummed with the echoes of furious shouts and bitter recriminations. “How did Arthur respond?” he asked cautiously, the ghost of Arthur’s merciless blow near a month ago seeming to sting his cheek anew.

Gwaine let out a long, troubled sigh. When his gaze met Fredrick’s across the campfire, the haunted look in his friend’s eyes gave him pause. “Arthur was as riled as I was,” Gwaine admitted, a rueful grimace twisting his lips. “Maybe I could’ve reasoned with him if I hadn’t been so bloody...” He trailed off, shaking his head.

For long moments, only the fire’s crackle pierced the stillness separating them. Until at last, Gwaine spoke again, his words cracking with emotion. “I care for her,” he lamented, his voice splintering like a breaking branch. “Beyond mere fancy, this yearning proves true and unshakable…” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. “My heart binds itself to her, Fred... now it… shatters…” Fredrick held his pitying stare, sorrow carved into every line of his features. “What I did… I watched the light leave her eyes by my own cursed hand.”

The raw admission seemed to suck the very air from their small camp before Gwaine drew a shuddering breath, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “Vows I can’t keep. A woman I can’t love. Distance and time my enemy. I’ve made a right mess of things, haven’t I?”

The warm embrace of the fire seemed to leach away at Gwaine’s tormented countenance. Clearly he weathered one of life’s lowest ebbs, questioning his self-worth, flaying himself for perceived failings and regrets. “You acted on orders outside your control – honor knows no shame in that, Gwaine,” Fredrick replied, his tone resonant with empathy. “Though the lady’s trust lies battered by your duty-bound actions, take heart that she may yet understand the burdens true knights must bear. You must hold faith that redemption awaits.”

His bitter scoff sliced through the still forest night before Gwaine responded. “Faith…” He gave a derisive snort, shaking his head. “Wouldn’t know where to even begin finding such a thing these days.” His gaze drifted back to the dying embers, their faint orange glow reflecting in the unshed tears pooling in his eyes.

Tightness gripped Fredrick’s throat at the naked sorrow writ across the knight’s visage. Grimacing despite himself, his heart broke anew witnessing the man’s profound agony. He searched for some consoling phrase, but what salve could soothe such a grievous wound? After a moment’s hesitation, he tried again, each word laced with compassion. “If she cares for you as much as you do for her–”

Gwaine’s head whipped up, eyes blazing as they bored into Fredrick, jaw clenched rigidly. The very mention of the lady’s affections had struck a devastating blow. “Don’t,” he bit out, a pained tremor distorting his voice, as if the words had lashed him. “I know in my heart she’s lost to me.”

More bittersweet memories seemed to churn behind Gwaine’s distant, haunted gaze as he stared hollowly at the fading embers once again. The snap and hiss of the smoldering logs filled the stillness, and Fredrick realized nothing could be offered to comfort his splintering honor and broken heart – Gwaine must wrestle these private ghosts alone. Still, part of him could not help but wonder if this fracturing now, as agonizing as it clearly was, may ultimately have been for the best. For what path could truly await a knight and the daughter of a condemned traitor? Their doomed affections had left Gwaine perilously compromised from the outset.

“Get some rest,” Fredrick finally said, his gruff murmur breaking the quiet. “I’ll take first watch. We ride at dawn.”

Fredrick retreated into the concealing shadows cast by the gently swaying trees, his alertness never wavering during his sworn watch. The occasional rustle of leaves and faint sounds of movement from Gwaine’s bedroll indicated his friend found no more respite than he. His gaze drifted skyward, drawn by the inky darkness that cloaked the path stretching before them – much like the ominous pall hanging over the suffering knight. Fredrick wondered whether Gwaine would emerge from this torturous trial with his honor and self-belief intact, or if the haunting specter of his innermost pain would leave deep and lasting scars on his once irrepressible spirit.

Chapter Text

Galahad cinched the final strap on his travel bag with a satisfying tug, giving the sturdy leather an appreciative pat. He swept his gaze around the near-empty dormitory barracks, the cavernous chamber eerily quiet, a handful a red cloaks and chain mail here and there. His Clarwick brothers had gathered their packs and taken their places in the courtyard below, busying themselves with readying their mounts and assembling into the homeward formation.

He’d intentionally delayed his own departure, reluctant to rejoin their ranks and the prickly atmosphere that seemed to encompass him these days. A mere fortnight had passed since his ill-fated brawl with Sir Christopher and his bitter cohorts – a month since King Arthur’s command that he cast off his assumed name Maxwell, and reclaim his birthright. Still, the lingering resentment hung like a putrescent rubbish heap, its rank stench impossible to escape.

A friendly hand landed on his shoulder, quickly followed by the comforting weight of an arm draped across his back. Fair-haired Oswy stepped close, a warm grin crinkling the smattering of freckles across his nose. “Ready to ride out?”

Galahad returned the smile, feeling the knot of tension in his chest loosen slightly at his friend’s easy manner. Even after his given name came to light, Oswy’s support never wavered – a soothing balm against the prickly disdain and cold shoulders from his other estranged brothers-in-arms. With his disarming humor and unyielding loyalty, Oswy remained one of the few who treated him as an equal rather than a scorned and reviled outsider.

He pulled the straps of his bag over one shoulder as Oswy’s arm slipped away, the coarse fabric rasping against the nape of his neck. “Not for the journey itself,” Galahad replied, glancing towards the dormitory’s egress with a tight smile. “But to return to the warm embraces of kin and keep, our homecoming shall be a promised salve to comfort our weary souls.”

Oswy cocked his head in that direction as well. “Shall we then, before we’re marked late to the formation line?” One eyebrow quirked upwards. “You know how Sir Kolby gets his chainmail bundled when we test his patience.” A sad smirk played across his lips as he dipped his head in a conspiratorial manner. “Though I wouldn’t wager on earning any favors from our esteemed captain where you’re concerned these days.”

A weary sigh escaped Galahad as his shoulders slumped ever so slightly, his boots seeming to grip the stone floor tighter, hesitant to fully turn away. “As you say,” he murmured, taking a moment to find resolve. His gaze drifted, growing distant and melancholic as it passed over the surroundings. “It pains me, how quickly the bond between Kolby and I have curdled. We were quite good friends before...” His voice trailed off, not needing to elaborate on the revelations that had driven that wedge between them. A rueful half-smile briefly surfaced. “We used to carouse at night with my best mate, Sir Ector, remember those days?”

Oswy’s easy grin faltered at the mention of their fallen comrade. He nodded slowly, smile twisting into a wistful grimace. “Aye, I remember. Valiant Ector was what Kolby called him.”

Galahad shook his head, features hardening as he waved a hand vaguely, seemingly unable to sum up the tangled situation in words. “To have lost that close friendship now...” regret tinged his quaking voice, “it cuts deeper than all the others’ disdain combined.”

Oswy’s hand found Galahad’s shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. “I know it stings, mate. But you’ll always find me standing at your side, no matter the name you bear.” He mustered a small smile, though it lacked his usual exuberance. “Now come on, let’s not linger and test the commander’s limited patience any further.”

They turned and headed for the dormitory exit, Galahad nodding farewell to the knights they passed in the cramped corridors. Snippets of laughter and boisterous tales filtered in from the neighboring dormitories, evidence of the tight-knit camaraderie among the Camelot brethren.

As they descended the narrow, winding stairs, Galahad’s steps slowed, his boots scuffing on the aged stone treads. Pensive thoughts drifted back over his tumultuous time quartered here – the dimly-lit landings and musty common rooms holding memories both challenging and treasured in equal measure. Despite the strained relations with his Clarwick garrison, these noble knights had welcomed him openly even knowing the truth of his identity. Not just respecting his abilities, but embracing him as a trusted brother – extending the very camaraderie he sorely lacked among his former mates.

But every passageway, every thudding step seemed to unearth memories humming with life’s alluring vibrance – shouts and laughter from the sparring rooms, the thrum of chanted enchantments drifting from makeshift sorcerers’ alcoves. So much of the essence within these weathered walls and Camelot’s unfurling magic abound felt aligned to Galahad’s own sense of being.

They passed an open doorway, granting a glimpse of the modest study chambers, which stirred memories of the millhouse where he had mentored Merlin tirelessly. Experiences like exploring the dragonlords lineages together and restoring Camelot’s bountiful harvests were now indelibly etched into Galahad’s soul. And to rise to become trusted confidant of King Arthur and Queen Guinevere themselves – that was something he would cherish forever. It was not a seamless, idyllic existence by any means. Unrest still simmered beneath that veneer, evidenced by the sidelong glances and hushed whispers that sometimes accompanied uncloaked displays of magic.

Yet the freedom to wield those very abilities openly, without persecution’s shadow looming, struck a resonant chord deep within Galahad – reminiscent of his formative training in the sacred refuge of Catha so long ago. He hoped that this growing acceptance of magic throughout Camelot might one day allow the kingdom to parallel Catha’s integrated harmony between sorcerers and civilians. Leaving these newly liberated castle walls, the heart where such ideals were taking root, would be sorely missed by him.

A thoughtful smile came to his lips as the barracks’ arched exit came into view. For whatever trials awaited back in Clarwick, these uplifting Camelot experiences would forever buoy his spirit. As would true allies like Oswy and Lord Gregory who stood by him. But he knew he may never again receive that easy acceptance and fraternal bond he’d found all too briefly among the knights here.

Upon exiting the dim barracks into the early morning sunlight, Galahad’s squinting eyes fell immediately upon Sir Kolby standing at the front of the mounted company, back rigid. Like them, the captain had donned simple traveling garments – a loose shirt and sturdy breeches fit for the fortnight ride home, rather than chainmail. No troubles were expected on the roads back to their garrison after rallying to Camelot’s aid against the Southron invaders.

But Kolby’s crimson cloak, billowing in the light breeze, clearly denoted his rank among Camelot’s esteemed commanders. It set him apart from the other two dozen Clarwick knights in their plain travel attire – their red cloaks stuffed securely in their saddlebags. As Galahad and Oswy approached, Kolby turned slightly, his piercing gaze finding them before drifting back to the papers in his hand. He pulled one free with a curt motion, jaw tightening imperceptibly. His stern, uncompromising demeanor made Galahad’s heart sink, remembering the harsh words exchanged after the row in the siege tunnel.

“Sir Oswy!” Kolby’s bark cut through the bustling courtyard noises. He extended a parchment slip towards the knight with a rigid arm. “Ready your mount immediately, then join the formation without further delay.”

Oswy straightened, accepting the orders with a curt nod. “At once, sir.” But as he spun on his heel towards the stables, he couldn’t resist flashing Galahad a conspiratorial grin and wink before hastening off to prepare his steed. Kolby’s gruff tone left no doubt the extended delay had whittled away at his reserves of forbearance. His steely gaze settled on Galahad then, mouth a hard line.

“Sir Galahad!” Kolby addressed him, the curt edge to the man’s voice taking on a frosty chill. “You’re to report to King Arthur directly in the lesser hall. Immediately!”

Galahad blinked, caught off guard. He pursed his lips, the sudden silence between them allowing the ambient sounds of the bustling castle courtyard to intrude – the clop of hooves and whinnying of horses, distant sword strikes ringing, voices of people chattering. “Sir?” he asked, buying a moment.

“The king summons you,” Kolby stated flatly, his expression unreadable as granite. “Do not keep His Majesty waiting.”

Galahad’s gaze flicked unbidden to the front ranks of the formation. There sat Sir Christopher upon his brown mare, the Clarwick standard clutched proudly aloft in his white-knuckled grip. As if sensing his stare, the knight who had led the vicious beating in the siege tunnel twisted his head, sullen eyes briefly meeting Galahad’s in a contemptuous glare. Christopher’s lip curled in a fleeting sneer before he wrenched his focus forward once more. Galahad tensed, suspecting his recent row with this bitter man may have prompted this unexpected audience before the king.

“Will this delay interfere with our departure?” he asked, turning back to Kolby.

“I do not know,” the captain replied curtly, his former friend’s frosty demeanor stinging like an icy wind. “But you should not keep the king waiting any longer than necessary.” The brusque dismissal made their fractured bond palpable – a rift seemingly irreparable. If so small a mistake like he had made could splinter friendships so deeply, perhaps they were never as bonded as he’d foolishly believed.

“Yes… sir.” Galahad’s reply caught in his constricted throat as he turned away, determined not to let Kolby witness the sting of rejection in his eyes.

Hesitant steps carried him from the familiar activity of the courtyard – raucous laughter from the distant training yard, the hypnotic clop of shod hooves, the drone of many voices. But as he entered the castle’s hushed interior, those clamors gave way to the muted sounds of the awakening halls – murmured conversations of servants already diligently at their work.

Apprehension gripped his insides over this unforeseen bidding. It felt disturbingly akin to being beckoned for punishment over some childish transgression long ago. But this was with the sovereign of Camelot. Had he committed an error during his recent mission, put Merlin’s counsel at risk in some way? What dire offense could warrant such a behest? Dread knotted his stomach as endless possibilities whirled through his mind.

Galahad dropped his travel bag with a heavy thump a few paces from the crimson-clad guards standing sentry near the open double doors. The clink of their mail and shifting halberds allowing him entry sent faint metallic whispers through the air. His stomach knotted as if a thousand serpents coiled within before he stepped into the hall.

His tension spiked upon seeing the grave company assembled within, the muffled din of the corridor falling away as he nearly halted mid-stride. King Arthur, Merlin, the imposing form of Sir Percival, and his own lord Gregory – all seated solemnly around the table as if to impart dire news. What ill tidings necessitated such an ominous gathering? Had some catastrophe befallen Clarwick during their absence?

He steeled himself and bowed deeply, keeping his eyes respectfully lowered. “Sire…”

“Be at ease, Sir Galahad,” King Arthur stated, his voice carrying full regal authority within the hollow chamber. “My purpose in summoning you is to inform you that I am assigning you an extended post here in Camelot’s ranks, the duration of which shall be unknown for the present time.”

Galahad’s tongue instinctively wet his suddenly dry lips as a roiling storm of conflicting emotions threatened to overwhelm him – feelings too turbulent for words. His gaze momentarily alighted on the silent, stoic expression of Lord Gregory, searching for any glimmer of guidance or counsel. Home – he must return to the peaceful existence of Clarwick, surrounded by his loving family. And yet, despite the bustling energy and grandeur of Camelot thrilling his senses, an aching pang had lanced through him at the thought of departing these castle walls. Now, the notion of an indefinite stay kindled both longing and trepidation.

“From your silence,” the king observed astutely, “I sense reluctance weighs upon you concerning this assignment.”

Galahad’s eyes drifted unseeingly across the rich tapestries adorning the chamber’s stone walls, the vibrant colors and intricate patterns lost amid his churning thoughts. His gaze skimmed the brilliant banners hanging between carved columns, sunlight filtering through paned glass casting its beams across the ancient cloth.

“Sire,” he began slowly, the decision looming like an impenetrable wall rising before him, “there are many opportunities in Camelot for growth, for new bonds and friendships... perhaps new responsibilities to be shouldered as well, but….”

“Yes,” Merlin interjected, his voice carrying a reassuring warmth as he rose fluidly from his seat. Smiling, he began to approach Galahad, eyes sparkling with an undercurrent of anticipation and perhaps secrets yet unspoken. “You and I will continue our collaborative efforts – an exchange of knowledge between us both.”

Galahad’s gaze roved again, snagging on the intricate metalwork adorning the tapestries – gleaming crests, icons of battle rendered in shining thread. Somehow those martial emblems focused his resolve. He looked at Merlin. “I am first and foremost a knight, a warrior,” he stated, squaring his shoulders subtly. “That fundamental aspect of my path must remain unbent.”

“You’ll be assigned duties with the men as well,” rumbled Sir Percival, his sculpted jawline drawn from stone. “Training, missions, patrols.” Galahad’s gaze flicked briefly to the parchment resting beneath the first knight’s large hand, undoubtedly detailing the terms of his new assignment.

“From what Merlin tells me,” King Arthur said, “your prowess with magic rivals his own considerable abilities…”

“No, sire,” Galahad interrupted, forcing his wandering focus back like a taut bowstring. “He has far surpassed this mentor. There is little more of true significance I can hope to impart.”

“You’re wrong,” Merlin gently rebuked, though an enigmatic smile played about his lips.

A tense hush fell over the hall, the king’s piercing stare seeming to bore into Galahad. He averted his eyes in deference, studying instead the scattered patterns of scuff marks marring the stone floor. The moment stretched interminably until finally the abrupt echo of King Arthur’s bootsteps sliced through the silence. He approached Galahad and then clasped his shoulder with unexpected warmth.

“I require your counsel, Sir Galahad,” the king declared, his stately timbre speaking singularly for him. “With Merlin as my court wizard, it is time I fully embraced the strengths sorcery can provide in shoring up Camelot’s defenses and building trust with the people. You are among the most gifted and noble wielders of the old religion’s powers. Your place is here, amongst my trusted advisors, helping guide our realm’s rebirth alongside great men like Merlin and Sir Percival.”

The king’s direct appeal struck a resonant chord deep within Galahad’s core. Like a cathedral bell finally finding its perfect harmonic tone, the rightness of it reverberated through his very being. This great kingdom required steadfast aid to solidify its newfound foundations – a purpose he felt destined to help uphold now blossoming within him. He swallowed hard against the lump of emotion forming in his throat.

“There is honor in selflessly serving where one’s gifts are most urgently needed, sire,” Galahad replied at last, raising his gaze to meet King Arthur’s intense yet hopeful expression. “Yet I cannot promise my soul won’t yearn at times for the comforting familiarity of my distant homeland.” A reflective grin spread across his lips as the king’s grip slipped away. “Still, it seems the roots of my own destiny have irreversibly interwoven with Camelot’s magical rebirth – a path I must endeavor to follow.”

Galahad’s eyes moved between Merlin and the king, perceiving their unified resolve in the set of their shoulders and the intensity of their expressions. His gaze then shifted to the massive, chiseled frame of Sir Percival – the epitome of a faithful knight that would anchor them all, no matter how Galahad’s former Clarwick brethren might bristle at his presence.

Finally, his focus found Lord Gregory again at the table’s edge. Though silent, the grim line of his liege’s mouth spoke volumes of the turmoil brewing behind that staid front. As their eyes met, an unspoken farewell seemed to pass between the two men who had risked so much together over the years.

“I shall miss you greatly, Sir Maxwell,” Gregory said at last, his formal address now laden with unmistakable solemnity as Galahad’s assumed name rolled off his tongue. “More than you could fathom.”

A bittersweet smile tugged faintly at the corner of Galahad’s mouth, his heart swelling until it felt fit to burst with profound sorrow. No lord could have shown more faith in nurturing his abilities than Gregory. From the start, the older man had unswervingly supported and shielded his secret gifts as a sorcerer without ever faltering in his trust. Fair, honorable, and resolute – Galahad would be eternally grateful for such an ally.

“You have been a loyal friend to me and my family,” Gregory continued gruffly, rising to his full height. In a few strides he closed the distance between them, thrusting out his arm which Galahad instinctively grasped. But then the lord surprised him by pulling him into a firm embrace, clapping him soundly on the back. “I pray you return to us eventually,” Gregory murmured roughly against his ear. “You will always find welcome in my home.”

Releasing him, Lord Gregory stepped back, shoulders set in a soldier’s rigid line as he turned to face King Arthur directly. “My knights and I must take our leave now, Your Majesty. But call upon our blades again whenever our service is required.” His voice rang with solemn, ceremonial finality.

“Your valor and the courage of your knights shall inspire Camelot through the coming storms,” King Arthur replied, imperial and assured. “Farewell.”

Galahad watched with a melancholy ache twisting in his chest as Gregory turned on his heel, the crimson cape billowing behind him like a banner in the wind as the lord strode purposefully from the hall. The weighted silence left in his wake was abruptly sliced by the creak of Percival’s leather jerkin as the mountainous knight approached.

He raised his gaze to meet the first knight’s calm, assessing stare. The bigger man seemed carved of solid granite – an ideal embodiment of the resolute, honorable warrior whose physical power was outmatched only by the indomitable strength of his godly tenets and unshakable fealty. Sir Percival extended the parchment toward him, the transfer to solidify acceptance of this new role with a ceremonial significance. Galahad grasped hold of the paper with both hands, the simple action leaving him momentarily lightheaded as the realization settled in.

His focus shifted at the sound of King Arthur clearing his throat. “We’ll further determine a rotation blending light duties with the knights and your primary task – assisting Merlin directly,” he said.

“As you command, my liege,” Galahad replied with a respectful nod.

The king hesitated then, his magical aura seeming to energize the air around him as his gaze flicked momentarily towards Merlin. Galahad’s eyes were inexorably drawn to Excalibur at the king’s hip, the extraordinary blade shimmering with an otherworldly light within its ornate scabbard. When King Arthur’s expression turned grave once more, Galahad instinctively straightened to attention.

“There is something we must share with you,” the king said, his tone carrying a gravid weight of solemn importance.

“At your service, my king,” Galahad responded quickly with a deferential bow, hand clutching his orders crossed over his heart.

“Merlin, see that we are not disturbed. Secure the doors please,” King Arthur commanded. “Sir Galahad, there are matters that must be imparted – matters requiring your unwavering discretion.”

“You have my oath to stand stalwart for king and kingdom until my dying breath, sire,” Galahad murmured. He could make out the faint scuff of Merlin’s boots crossing the stone floor towards the chamber’s double doors, though the thunderous pounding of his own heart seemed to drown out all other sounds. “I am honored by the trust you place in me,” he added thickly.

King Arthur gave a curt nod of approval and gestured to the table with an open palm. “Then take your place in my innermost circle, Sir Galahad,” he proclaimed. “And bear witness to what is to come.”

Exactly what bearing witness “to what is to come” would entail, Galahad could scarcely fathom. A fresh thrill of anticipation caused his heart to redouble its thunderous cadence as he found an empty chair at the table’s edge. Inside his core, the embers of youthful excitement he’d once known sparked anew at the thought of facing unknown perils alongside legends made flesh – the mighty King Arthur, the fabled Emrys whose very name held many sorcerers in rapt awe, and the legendary knights of Camelot.

His gaze traveled over each of them in turn as they settled in around him – Sir Percival’s colossal, statuesque presence, King Arthur’s regal and leonine countenance, Merlin’s eyes glittering with ancient mysteries. He was well aware of the clandestine councils this innermost circle held, cloaked in secrecy, even including the queen’s watchful eyes. Now that same rarified air surrounding their trusted assembly embraced him as well. Unconsciously, Galahad straightened until his shoulders drew back into a rigid line, his chest swelling with the surging tide of pride and purpose.

What higher honor or calling could a man of his gifts and abilities ever hope to serve. While his brotherhood among the Clarwick garrison had sundered old bonds, it seemed the road of destiny stretched before him here, yearning to be trod – new paths paved with unbreakable fealty and hallmarked by grand, unforeseen adventures.

Chapter Text

Morgana absently scratched at her matted raven locks, her gaze fixed on Kilgharrah as the great golden dragon instructed the young Aithusa on mastering her fire-breathing abilities. From the shadowed mouth of the cave, she looked upon them with envious eyes, their powerful scaled forms basking in the brilliant morning sunlight just out of reach for her.

She had lost all sense of the relentless passage of time in this dismal prison, though Kilgharrah had grumbled just yesterday that only a month had passed since her arrival – it seemed an eternity of deprivation and despair. Her future stretched before her, bleak as the craggy mountain walls encircling her new home, if this dank cave were truly to be her final destination in life.

Kilgharrah inhaled deeply, his massive chest expanding with an orange incandescence, then exhaled a concentrated stream of golden flames that danced and flickered in the crisp air. What she wouldn’t give to feel the searing heat of true fire coursing through her veins once more, to have even a sliver of the dragon’s indomitable spirit and primal power. The fire roared with extreme heat as Aithusa watched, her eyes entranced with wonder before dissipating, leaving behind faint tendrils of smoke.

 “Now try once more, young one,” Kilgharrah said, his deep voice encouraging. “Focus on the expansion of the fuel sacs. Allow your inner energy to ignite the gas within.”

Aithusa puffed out her chest, her white scales glistening like pearls in the morning light. Her miniature throat flickered with an orange glow, and a brief plume of flame escaped her maw before diminishing into wafting vapors. Though small, the burst carried a potency that hinted at the formidable power simmering within the young dragon’s tiny form.

Kilgharrah chuckled, smoke still wisping between his sharp teeth and from his nostrils. “Well done. You’re getting stronger. With practice, you will produce an inferno to make armies cower. Our fire comes not by magic, Aithusa, but from a wellspring of vital energy we dragons channel into flame.”

Morgana smiled despite herself while idly running her fingers over one of her itching arms. A stinging sensation of isolation gripped her as she marveled at Aithusa’s eager attempts, each burst gaining in intensity under Kilgharrah’s patient tutelage. While the bond between her and Aithusa had grown stronger over the past few days with Morgana increasing their mental connections, her relationship with the older dragon had thawed only marginally, and they still kept to respectable distances.

After yielding several more impressive bursts of flame, Aithusa’s fuel sacs seemed to finally deplete, signaling the conclusion of their lesson for the day. The young dragon immediately turned and scampered over to Morgana, squawking eagerly for her attention and approval without so much as a backwards glance at her mentor.

Kilgharrah’s eyes narrowed briefly at the slight before he turned his enigmatic gaze to Morgana, a hint of displeasure still in those ancient depths. Yet Morgana smiled, not to goad the great dragon further, but to offer deserved praise to the youngling for her efforts during training.

“Well done, my friend,” she said affectionately as she scratched the smooth scales under Aithusa’s chin and petted the space between her pointed ears. The baby dragon nuzzled against her side, cooing softly, the little one’s embrace providing Morgana a sense of being needed, of receiving unconditional affection.

She turned to Kilgharrah, still caressing Aithusa’s head. “I would like a bath,” she said, a measured calmness to her voice. Though she tried her best to maintain her hygiene with the meager fresh water supply, she had only managed to keep her face and hands relatively clean by splashing water sparingly. “Would it be too much to ask to be taken to a nearby lake or stream or pond?”

“It would be,” he quickly replied, shifting his massive form to lie down, scales scraping against rock as he rested his head upon his forearms. “Aithusa and I must continue with her training. She requires a short respite, and so do I.”

His crusty dismissal stung deeply as Morgana’s hopeful expression faltered. Her lips thinned, frustration simmering beneath the surface. But before casting a biting remark at him, she rallied her composure once more, and released a controlled breath. Bridges, not chasms, she reminded herself. She must try to close the rift between them.

“Great dragon,” she said, her poise returning like a silk veil settling into place, “behold my state.” She motioned to unkempt and matted hair clinging to her skull. Opening her cloak, the simple linen dress was streaked with soot and cave dust from the ever-present smoke and winds of their wings. And after enduring the monthly troubles inherent to her sex in these deprived conditions, she longed desperately for a thorough cleansing. “As you can see, I and my clothing, are in need of washing.”

Morgana glanced away as she secured her cloak about her, feeling a flush creeping into her face, struggling with how to broach the more delicate issue of feminine cleanliness with – a male dragon. Tense silence stretched between them as she forced herself to meet Kilgharrah’s inscrutable gaze. Finally, her words emerged, tinged with a faint note of deference.

“I only request the opportunity to properly attend to my needs, as befits a noblewoman’s virtues.” Her eyes dropped momentarily before finding renewed resolve. “I simply would like to bathe, clean my few belongings. It will not take long.”

Kilgharrah slowly rose, staring at her with an expression of disbelief that seemed directed not at her request itself, but rather at the regal humility with which she made her petition. His nostrils flared almost imperceptibly, his heightened senses no doubt picking up on the evidence of her feminine cycle. Then his features transformed back into his familiar, reproachful self.

“The stench of this cave clings heavily to you indeed,” he rumbled bluntly. “You do reek, Lady Morgana.”

Morgana’s cheeks burned with embarrassment, hot like embers this time. The insufferable lizard wasn’t making the appeal any easier. Still, he was the jailer – she was at his mercy.

“I won’t try to escape, Kilgharrah. You have my word.” Her plea remained measured, but the weariness of her condition showed through the cracks – made worse by the misery of nature’s monthly calling in these surroundings.

Kilgharrah held her gaze for a long moment, as if his ancient eyes were piercing straight through to her core, assessing the truth of her words. Finally, he said, “There is a hot spring not far. We will go at dusk.”

His gravelly voice, so often foreboding, echoed through the cavern like the rich tolling of a great bell, bringing a rare swell of joy to Morgana’s heart. Aside from Aithusa’s cherished company, it was the happiest she’d felt in what seemed an eternity. She would be out of the cave for a time, breathing fresh, untamed air, even if under watchful guard. It was a start, a small step toward cooperation – maybe trust, but a glimmer of hope for her amidst the oppressive darkness, the first faint rays of light breaking through her perpetual night.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

Kilgharrah dipped his neck in acknowledgment, the graceful movement reminding her of how he bowed in acquiescence to his dragonlord. Returning to the cave’s depths, she gathered her other garments, equally soiled, and a soap stone. Placing them into a wooden bucket, she set them next to the opening, anticipation bubbling within her like a hot spring itself.

Throughout the day, the dragons continued their training – master and student. At least observing them eased the stagnant passage of time. They were beautiful creatures, the old and the new – wisdom and innocence intertwined, battle-scarred scales shining alongside the pristine, unblemished hide of youth. What would it be like if they did find more of their kind, she wondered? Would more noble beasts soaring the skies bring hope of freedom or hasten her end, forgotten and abandoned?

New kindred might compel young Aithusa toward her true draconic destiny someday. And that ponderous reptile regarded her barely higher than dung in his path... how readily would he dismiss her should mythic horns sound the call of his kin?

Morgana pulled her cloak tighter and watched the dragons soar gracefully around the mountain peaks, an effortless ballet dancing on wind and will. No newly found dragons needed for fate to abandon her here in solitary confinement, she realized, each sunrise might herald that dawn Aithusa flew solo, leaving her sole company to silent stones. At least pondering the arrival of winged allies provided a welcome distraction from the specter of darkness looming to envelope the rest of her life.

Daylight finally dwindled, the last fading rays disappearing behind jagged peaks, and the first glimmers of evening stars began to blink into the twilit sky. Kilgharrah lowered himself to allow her to climb upon him, her wooden bucket of laundry nestled in the crook of her elbow.

As she hesitantly hoisted herself up, the evening’s blues slowly shifted to starry firmament above. Her fingers found purchase rough scale after rough scale, the thrill of anticipation coursing through her – though tempered by fearful memories of being clutched in his talons. Still, nervous excitement fluttered within as the great dragon waited patiently. When Morgana settled behind one great horn, he powerfully pushed off from the ledge.

She gasped with sheer elation and clutched his rock-hard horn tightly, the wind buffeting her face with a rush of crisp mountain air. With powerful beats of his massive wings, they climbed through cloudbanks, emerging into the brilliant canopy where the cosmic river arced resplendent across the heavens, the moon had yet to crest the horizon. Thousands upon thousands of stars twinkled in that celestial expanse as they soared far above unseen lands.

For long, precious moments, the lingering embers of her former bitterness dimmed, the nocturnal majesty softening all earthly troubles as she breathed deep the cold, clear air. A dreamlike serenity settled over her as they soared aloft. They wheeled through lavender-hued clouds, gliding weightless, before descending through misty veils that gradually revealed a secluded alpine valley far below. Aithusa soared effortlessly at their side, trilling joyfully, her high-pitched voice echoing like tinkling bells.

The flight seemed all too short before they arrived at the large steaming pool of water nestled amongst the lush forest. Morgana’s heart leapt with joyous disbelief at the unexpected luxuries – tranquil mists beckoning her parched soul. She barely waited for Kilgharrah to come to a rest before hastily scampering off, dropping the bucket somewhere behind her.

Without inhibition, she peeled off her cloak, her dress and leggings, stripping down to her thin shift. Wading into the warm pool, liquid bliss enveloped each limb as tense muscles slackened willingly. A soft, tremulous sigh escaped Morgana’s lips as tears of relief pricked her eyes. She glanced at Kilgharrah – this small comfort prompted rare gratitude, tightening her throat. Her taciturn jailor possessed some mercy after all.

Aithusa splashed happily in the shallows before taking flight once more, soaring in joyful loops and dives over Morgana’s head before plunging into the water with a mighty splash. Kilgharrah effortlessly conjured several glowing blue orbs that drifted lazily through the air, casting a soft luminance around them, before settling on the grassy bank to maintain his vigilant guard.

Aithusa suddenly darted out of the water, a shimmering silver streak erupting from the pool’s depths. Morgana caught her breath, a tiny sound of delighted surprise escaping her lips at the beautiful, unexpected sight. The young dragon spiraled upwards into the sky before leveling off, gliding gracefully along the surface, dodging the orbs as wingtips trailing delicate ripples across the tranquil pool.

Morgana then submerged fully into the enveloping warmth, allowing it to fill every pore, soothe her chilled bones. If only she could remain here, suspended in this tranquil oasis... forever… Coming up for air after a blissful moment, she treaded water, breathing in the fragrant steam and taking in her mysterious surroundings. The foliage seemed to glow an otherworldly bluish-green under the orbs’ ghostly luminance – the scattered wildflowers more vibrant, their petals alien gemstones sparkling like sapphires and amethysts. Even the croak of unseen toads carried a curiously musical, yet haunting quality.

“Do not tarry long,” Kilgharrah’s rumbling voice warned, intruding into her thoughts. “These lands may not take kindly to a witch and dragons in their midst.”

Morgana nodded hesitantly with assent, though longing for more time in the revitalizing water. It was then she realized with dismay that she had left the soap stone inside the overturned bucket she had dropped. A soft curse escaped her lips as her shoulders slumped momentarily.

Her gaze cut over to where Kilgharrah lounged, catching the glint of amusement in his draconian eyes before she looked away and focused her sights on the soap. Need warred with embarrassment until finally, pragmatism won out over pride. With a resigned exhale, she splashed out of the pool and swiftly snatched up the much-needed stone from the upended bucket. While returning to the water’s comforting embrace, she heard Kilgharrah’s rumbling chuckle echoing mockingly behind her

After thoroughly scrubbing herself and her matted hair clean, ensuring no remnants of dirt lingered, not even beneath the cursed bracelet, Morgana waded back to the grassy shore, her soaked shift clinging to her body. She gathered fallen branches, piling them high, forming a makeshift pyre. Upon Kilgharrah’s deep exhale, cheery flames soon crackled invitingly among the kindling.

As the fire cast flickering, golden light across the clearing, Morgana moved closer, allowing the gentle radiance to gradually ease the aches from her muscles and dry her undergarments. The fragrant smoke curled upwards, mingling with the vaporous mists still wafting from the spring’s tranquil surface in a mesmerizing dance.

Knowing their respite was fleeting and her shift dried enough, Morgana reluctantly retrieved the trail of clothing she had hastily discarded and the wooden bucket holding her few other garments to clean. Aithusa continued to frolic in the water as she knelt at the edge and vigorously began scrubbing the soiled dresses, aprons, and undergarments against the smooth rocks. As a noble, such menial tasks would have been unthinkable. But surprisingly, she enjoyed this rare moment of simple domesticity before her inescapable return to the bleak darkness, with nothing else to occupy her mind but the inexorable passage of time.

She rinsed the freshly cleaned clothes thoroughly and draped them on nearby bushes and low-hanging branches to dry. Relaxing in the fire’s flickering glow, gentle breezes danced loose strands of damp hair around her face. A hard-won tranquility unmatched for years stole over her tender, clean skin as unbidden visions surfaced – wistful memories of past splendors taken for granted in her bitter pursuit of vengeance.

Visions of Camelot – of rank, privilege, and cherished friendships carelessly squandered in her blind quest to force change. She had only wanted what was best for the kingdom, for her magical kin to be accepted and for the injustices against sorcerers to end. But had her embittered sister Morgause truly enchanted that accursed healing bracelet to slowly warp her honorable objectives and feelings toward her home over time? She shuddered at that thought, that this was truth, and suddenly conscious of the unburdened lightness she felt without that tainted object’s suffocating presence.

And could she not have attained her righteous desires for a reformed, enlightened Camelot without so ruthlessly severing those true bonds of loyalty and love, and causing such widespread ruin in the process? Arthur appeared to be succeeding where she had failed, ushering in that new enlightened era without needing to burn all bridges behind him.

A solitary tear slipped free, not born of lingering bitterness but of remorseful mourning for what could have been, for the path her life may have taken without that poisonous seed planted in her mind. Would those all-consuming vengeful passions inevitably return to overwhelm her, like the perpetual cycle of the tides? Or could she chart a new course, heeding the beckoning call toward redemption sounded by the powerful voices in her dreams?

Morgana sighed, the heat of the fire soothing her troubled soul. The cave was her existence now – a fate she deserved. But how she wished this peaceful interlude could linger – even if she did remain in the care of the dragons. Her eyes floated lazily to Kilgharrah across the fire. He had remained a silent, imposing sentinel through it all, allowing her this uninterrupted time of solace, comfort and quiet reflection. Could kindness and newfound connection sustain them past this fleeting, stolen moment of respite? Could understanding bridge the chasm of their divide once they returned to her confinement? She felt unsure. For now though, she allowed herself to bask fully in this haven, pretending for a few precious hours that it was her sole reality.

The gentle night breezes carrying the scents of moss and woodsmoke caressed her face as if already mourning the loss of this tranquil escape. Morgana inhaled deeply, searing every sensory detail into her memory to recollect in the darkness – the crackle of flames, the ethereal glow illuminating the misty poolside flora, the melodic night chorus of unseen creatures coalescing into nature’s serenade, the steaming hot spring of rejuvenation.

Morgana’s gaze drifted to Aithusa frolicking joyfully in the shallows, nipping at some unseen thing in the water. A small, wistful smile played across her lips before her eyes turned to Kilgharrah once more.

“Thank you,” she said softly, gratitude distinctly lacing her words.

The great dragon regarded her contemplatively for a moment before giving a slight incline of his regal head. “There comes a time when wants and needs align, Morgana,” he said, a subtle undercurrent of something akin to... compassion in his voice? An eyebrow lifted into hair fallen onto her forehead, surprising from one who so often looked upon her with disdain.

“Such moments are fleeting,” he added, his words more measured. “But for this eve, let peace reign. Savor the night’s tranquility while you can.”

Kilgharrah’s deep voice settled over the clearing like a warm blanket as his eyes drifted skyward to trace the unhurried path of the celestial bodies wheeling overhead. An odd sense of serenity stole over Morgana as she studied the ancient beast. For all his blustering disdain, she wondered if he too felt a strange kinship with her – two exiles bound together by circumstance, both at the mercy of powers greater than themselves. For this brief respite at least, the formidable dragon seemed willing to allow a moment’s reprieve from the enmity between them, granting her a glimpse of peace amidst her shadowed existence.

Chapter Text

Elyan cracked the shutters of the small window, enough just to view Camelot’s bustling lower town. He scanned the lane – merchants across the way hawked fresh catches and peddled wares while children darted underfoot. To the casual observer, the house appeared long-abandoned. But Elyan knew better. This was the former home of Gwen, once a humble maidservant, now Queen of Camelot.

When his sister was exiled for betrayal, Arthur had decreed that her house be boarded up and left untouched. Though some whispered it was a waste of good lodging, none dared defy the king’s command. Elyan couldn’t recall how many times he had patrolled or passed by her vacated home during her banishment. Each instance was a gnawing reminder of how he had abandoned her. He also had been keenly aware of Percival’s constant glare of criticism of how he had prioritized his duty and oath to Arthur over his own sister. Still, even when Morgana’s forces seized the citadel and the nobles were forced into the lower town, Gwen’s home had remained a silent, unviolated sanctuary – though rumors circulated that one family had settled for a brief time.

Now, with Gwen restored to her rightful place on the throne, the house still stood vacant. Elyan wondered at her attachment to this humble abode. Perhaps, like him, she clung to remnants of a simpler past, before magic and crowns tore their lives asunder. He shook off this thought, burying any shred of sentimentality. The Gwen of old was gone, and her home was now merely a hideout for the man he had become.

His ears suddenly perked up at a familiar sound coming towards him, his head snapping toward the narrow alley behind Gwen’s house, his heart thrumming as a patrol of Camelot’s soldiers marched by. In the three days since abandoning his duty and oath, Elyan kept out of sight, using no candles, even during the day. The house still had to maintain the appearance of being unoccupied. The rhythmic beat of the soldier’s bootsteps receded and life in the citadel carried on as usual, oblivious to him and the ruptures beneath the veneer of normalcy.

With an exhale of relief, Elyan clicked the shutters back into place and retreated deeper into the quaint house that once sheltered his family – before he left for adventure, before his father’s death. The room had changed since then. Where the weathered writing desk now stood was once his father’s bed, a reminder of the absence that still ached in his heart. Gwen’s presence, however, was still evident in the neatly-kept space. Traces of her lingered in the herbs hanging dry from the rafters and the small bed tucked along the wall – once his, now hers. The storage cupboard in the corner, its curtain drawn, held what few belongings she had left behind when she moved to the castle. This place offered little solace from the ghosts tormenting him, yet where else could he go? He was a fugitive in his own city now, but he couldn’t stay here forever.

He only ventured out at night in a concealing cloak, slipping unnoticed into the alleyway and towards the seedier taverns where dissent had once simmered. Many voices had gone silent since Lord Badawi’s arrest, fearful of the same fate, but there were still muttered curses against the king every now and again, accompanied by hushed calls for purges of sorcerers. Perhaps extreme by his standards, but Elyan had felt the truth in their warnings against sorcerers’ dark nature the moment the nathair’s fangs had pumped its venom into his veins near two months ago. If only he could make his friends understand the folly of their trust before magic corrupted everything...

Elyan sighed, lowering himself onto a bench. He ran his hands over his face, lost in recollection of oaths shattered and bonds severed. His thoughts turned to his friendships with Percival, Gwaine, and especially Merlin. Percival, a gentle man of unwavering faith and loyalty to family above all else, had forgiven him for choosing his duty to the king over protecting Gwen during those dark times. Now, with him once again abandoning her, this time for his own personal convictions, Percival was likely praying not only for Elyan’s safe return and a resolution to the turmoil in his heart, but also for the strength to forgive him despite his actions, a weakness in Percival’s own eyes.

Gwaine, on the other hand, would undoubtedly be shocked and disappointed by Elyan’s actions. The gallant knight, currently away on a mission, would likely hunt him down if he were here, dragging him back to the ranks after giving him a piece of his mind and a thorough beating for his betrayal. Elyan could almost feel the sting of his friend’s fists, a physical manifestation of the harsh criticism he knew he deserved.

And then there was Merlin. Despite Merlin’s magic and the fact that he represented everything Elyan now stood against, the memories of their camaraderie tugged at his heart. The young man had always been a loyal friend, a constant presence at Arthur’s side, but now a symbol of the very thing Elyan feared. There was no coming back from this, no way to reconcile the bond they once shared with the bitter truths that now divided them.

Elyan swallowed hard, his throat tight with emotion. For all his conviction, they had been his brothers. Shame and regret roiled to sickness within, yet they were of the same mold as Gwen and Arthur, bound by their unwavering loyalty to the crown and their belief in the goodness of magic. He couldn’t go back after what he’d said and done and believed. His die was cast, and he must see his chosen course through to the end.

He glanced again toward the windows where Camelot shone on the other side, untarnished on the surface while rot crept at its roots. How could one tiny flicker of light pierce the darkness surrounding his great city? “So what now, Elyan?” he muttered, having asked himself this question over and over since fleeing.

A grumbling from his stomach interrupted his brooding, a hand pressing against it as if to ease his hunger. He’d already rummaged through Gwen’s cupboards, finding not even a heel of stale bread. Reaching for the leftovers from last night’s meal on the table beside him, he surveyed his meager provisions.

A half-eaten loaf of coarse, dark bread sat wrapped in a cloth, its crust hard and crumbling. Beside it, a small wedge of cheese, its surface slightly oily and pungent. A single apple completed the sparse array, its skin dull and slightly bruised.

Elyan sighed, breaking off a piece of the bread and nibbling at it slowly, trying to make it last. He’d have to ration these scraps carefully to sustain him until he risked leaving this sanctuary at nightfall. The cheese and apple would have to be saved for later, to break up the monotony of the stale bread.

As he chewed, he pondered his next steps. Perhaps it was time to leave Camelot, not just the city proper, but the kingdom entirely. He had plenty of coin with him, but the thought of fleeing to enemy territories made his stomach churn more than the hunger. He could seek refuge in an ally kingdom, however, one that wouldn’t necessarily know of him nor his past good deeds as a knight – if that were possible given that just last week, he partook in celebration ceremonies and tourneys for all the visiting kingdoms to witness.

Still, was that his only option? To run and abandon everything he’d ever known, fleeing to enemy or ally territories? In his haste to leave the barracks, he had barely taken the time to gather his few possessions before leaving behind a life he had built over years of service. What else had he expected with such a hasty and unexpected departure? He had been driven by emotions, ever considering the consequences of his actions, the bridges he would burn, and the trust he would shatter. Yet, another fire burned even greater within him—a desire to stand firm and do... do what exactly? Fight against the very people he once called friends and family? The questions swirled in his mind, each more daunting than the last. Elyan clenched his fists, frustration mounting. No longer a knight who confronted challenges head-on nor a decisive man of action, here he sat, hiding in shadows, unsure of his path forward. The irony of his current situation compared to his former role was not lost on him.

He needed a plan, a purpose, something to guide him out of this shadowy realm. But the more he grasped for answers, the more they slipped through his fingers like wisps of smoke. Once again, he found himself at a loss, uncertainty bearing down upon him.

Wrapping the remaining bread, cheese, and apple in the cloth, Elyan stood and began to wander quietly through Gwen’s house. His fingers traced the rough wood of the table, the cool stone of the hearth, each surface holding a memory of a life left behind.

Finally, he came to a halt before Gwen’s writing desk. The weathered surface was bare save for a few books, several scraps of parchment, and a quill resting in a dried-out inkwell. Elyan stared at the blank pages, a sudden thought taking hold. Perhaps he could write to Gwen and Arthur, try to explain his feelings and point of view. Maybe if he poured his heart onto the page, they would understand why he had to take this stand.

He reached for the quill, his hand hovering over it, hesitating. What words could possibly bridge the chasm between them now? How could he make them see the danger they were courting by allowing magic to seep back into the kingdom?

Slowly, he lowered himself into the chair, the wood creaking under his weight. He dipped the quill into the inkwell, surprised to find a substantial pool of ink still glistening at the bottom.

With a deep breath, Elyan began to write, the scratching of the quill against parchment the only sound in the quiet house. He took his time, carefully choosing each word, pouring out his troubled soul onto the page. He sought to understand the world that had turned upside down, to make sense of the chaos swirling within him.

Minutes stretched into hours as he wrote, stopping long enough to eat another small portion of his rations before returning to his letter. At times, he paused, reading over what he had written, considering scratching out a line or two. But each time, he decided against it, letting the words stand as a testament to his raw emotions.

Finally, Elyan set down the quill, flexing his cramped fingers. He had filled several pages with his thoughts, emotions, and explanations, his heart in written script. Gently, he sprinkled a bit of sawdust over the final page, ensuring the ink would not smudge. He held up the pages, reading over his words one last time, making sure he had left nothing unsaid. With a small, satisfied nod, he carefully folded the letter, tucking it securely into his breast pocket. The simple act of releasing his thoughts and emotions onto the parchment brought a sense of comfort, even if he never had it delivered to his sister.

The evening bell rang in the ninth hour. It was only then that he realized how much time had slipped away, the last of the daylight fading from the windows. The room was darkening around him, the streets outside quieting as night began to settle over the city. Elyan stood, stretching his stiff muscles, his body protesting the long hours spent hunched over the writing desk. It was not time to venture out, so Elyan crossed to Gwen’s bed and reclined upon it, sighing a cleansing breath as he threaded his fingers together across his stomach.

At the toll of the twelfth hour, his eyes opened and Elyan slowly rose, shaking the grogginess away. Strapping on his sword and then donning his cloak, he slipped outside through the back, sticking to the shadows as he wound through obscure alleys towards the lower town’s rougher edges. He’d been on many patrols chasing thieves in the darker places around Camelot, so he knew the safer establishments for men like him to patron. Tonight, he would alter his route though, venturing closer to the middle-class section adjacent to the lower class, seeking to avoid any potential recognition in his usual haunts.

Elyan navigated the narrow streets, finding himself approaching the Black Boar, a tavern situated on the border between the two districts. He paused, eyeing the building with its creaking sign. It was a step up from the seedier taverns he had frequented the past few nights, catering to the more respectable tradesmen and craftsmen of the city, but still far enough from the citadel to avoid unwanted attention. Raucous voices and laughter leaked from the open windows, a mix of patrons unwinding after a long day’s work. Deciding to alter his plan and prevent establishing patterns, Elyan pulled his hood lower over his face and took a deep breath before slipping through the door.

Inside, the tavern was crowded with hard-working men gathered at tables, enjoying food, dice, and cards. A pretty barmaid wove through the patrons with skill and a smile, deftly balancing trays of drinks and dishes. The pungent smoke from tallow candles stung Elyan’s eyes, mixing with the sour stench of spilled ale that burned his nostrils. Most of the patrons were too deep in their cups to pay him much heed, their boisterous laughter and lively conversations filling the air as he navigated through the throng, keeping his head down.

He found a quiet corner, signaling to the barmaid for a bowl of stew and a mug of ale. He kept his face hidden beneath his hood, his eyes darting around the room, alert for any sign of recognition or trouble. His hand drifted to his chest, feeling the letter folded in the pocket. It was indeed a small comfort, a reminder of his purpose. He may be alone in this crowded room, but his words, his beliefs, were committed to the papers. Somehow, that made the isolation a little more bearable.

The barmaid returned, setting a bowl of steaming stew, a loaf of warm bread, and a tankard before him. The tableware, while not pristine, was in better condition than what he had grown accustomed to in the darker corners of the city. Elyan glanced up, briefly catching her eye before slightly lowering his head. “Any chance of a bit of cheese and an apple to go with this?” he asked quietly, keeping his voice low.

The barmaid eyed him for a moment, her gaze lingering just long enough to make Elyan’s heart skip a beat. Did she recognize him? Had his identity been compromised already? But then, she shrugged, her expression neutral once more. “I'll check the larder. We might have a bit of cheese and an apple or two left.”

She disappeared into the kitchen, and Elyan released a quiet sigh of relief, his shoulders sagging slightly. As he waited for her return, he chastised himself for his growing paranoia. The barmaid’s shrug and nonchalant response had only suggested that she didn’t find his request or presence particularly noteworthy, nothing more. He needed to be cautious, yes, but jumping at every shadow would only exhaust him and draw more attention than necessary.

A few minutes later, the barmaid returned with a generous wedge of aged cheddar and a ripe, unblemished apple. She set them beside his bowl as Elyan nodded his thanks, sliding a few extra coins across the table. She briefly smiled at the additional payment before scooping up the money and moving on to the next patrons.

Elyan first carefully wrapped the cheese, apple, and a most of the bread in the cloth he’d used these last few days, tucking the bundle into his pocket for later. He then hunched over his remaining meal, and taking a spoonful, the rich broth flavors tantalized his tongue, the warmth of the stew seeping into his bones.

Chewing on a small piece of bread, he began overhearing snatches of conversations from the nearby tables. Talk of a blacksmith’s wife expecting their third child, of the long hours spent toiling in the rejuvenated fields. A weaver complained about the rising cost of wool, while a tanner boasted about a lucrative order from a wealthy merchant. But amidst the everyday chatter, it was the muttered complaints about the king’s new policies that caught Elyan’s attention.

“...allowing sorcerers to walk among us. It’s unnatural, that’s what it is.”

“Aye, and what of Merlin? A mere servant, now elevated to lordship? What’s next, shall we see pigs take to the sky?”

“That’s quite possible these days, William.”

Elyan’s grip tightened on his spoon as he took a mouthful of stew. He preferred not to linger in public, usually opting to eat his meal swiftly and depart. But the conversation captured his interest – others voicing doubts about the changes in Camelot. He washed down the sustenance with a swig of ale. Then stirring his stew idly, he listened intently, slowing the pace of his consumption.

“...seen more of them around the king and queen. I hear even one of the new doctor’s a druid. I’d rather die than have a sorcerer touch me! Bloody fiends...”

Elyan continued eating the soup and bread, the savory taste lost on him as he focused on what he was hearing. These men echoed the very thoughts that had driven him from the castle, the doubts that gnawed at his mind day and night. He stole a glance at the pair of tradesmen, taking in their appearance, his curiosity piqued by their shared sentiments.

The older man was lean and wiry, with a shock of graying hair and a weathered face that spoke of years of hard work. Despite his age, he had the look of a man who kept himself fit, his arms corded with muscle beneath his rough leather apron.

His companion – William, he was called – was younger perhaps in his late twenties, with a strong jaw, keen eyes, and long dark hair past his shoulders. He too wore a leather apron, the material worn and stained from long hours of labor. His broad shoulders and sturdy build suggested a man accustomed to physical work. Elyan returned to his meal, straining to hear their conversation, his mind racing with implications.

“Mark my words, trouble’s stirring,” the older man grumbled, his voice low. “Sorcerers crawl out the woodwork... My neighbor’s son, a boy I've known since he was a babe, just admitted to having magic. Now they won’t even speak to each other. It’s tearing families apart. And where’s the king? Busy pampering the blasted sorcerers!” 

William shook his head, his expression a mix of confusion and concern. “Rumor has it that Sir Elyan abandoned his post. I wonder if that’s why he left. A good sort, he was. Did you see him during the tourneys…?”

Elyan’s spoon paused halfway to his mouth, his heart quickening, drowning out the rest of their words. They knew of him! He supposed his departure was less than secret given his explosive accusations directed at Gwen and then his sudden disappearance from the Arthur’s ranks of knights. Now shocked, his defection sparked talk amongst like-minded men, though it didn’t appear they were aware of the true reasons why – but they had a sense. Possibilities turned in his mind. Perhaps these dissenting voices could aid his cause...

He scoffed inwardly, dropping his spoon into his bowl of stew with a plop. What cause is that? he asked himself again, reclining in his chair. Was he truly considering this – throwing his lot in with near strangers over his own lord and kin? Should he try to reconcile with Gwen, Arthur, and his comrades before things escalated or they deemed him a lost cause – if not done so already?

Elyan’s eyes roamed over the sympathizers across from him. These men, with their honest faces and callused hands, represented the true heart of Camelot. They reflected the same grave concern that drove his flight from his family and friends. Since they harbored doubts about the king’s actions, perhaps there was still hope for his cause.

But the question remained: what was his cause? To protect Camelot from the threat of magic? To open the eyes of those blinded by the false promises of sorcery? Or was it something more personal, a quest to heal the wounds that magic had inflicted upon his own soul?

He shook his head, the questions swirling in his mind like the dregs of ale in his mug. He needed time to think, to plan his next move. Rushing into an alliance with these men, no matter how sympathetic they might seem, could be a grave mistake.

And yet, the temptation was there, the desire to find others who shared his fears and doubts. In a kingdom where magic was now welcomed with open arms, it was a lonely path he had chosen now. The thought of walking it alone was a daunting one.

Finishing his ale with a gulp, he rose slowly, moving towards their table, hands trembling like leaves in the wind.

“The king ignores all reason,” Elyan stated softly. Their eyes shot to him in surprise. He drew back his hood just enough for them, raising his brows before concealing his face once more.

William blinked, awe-struck, gaping at Elyan’s sudden appearance. His older companion recovered first, a calculating look entering his eyes. “Well, Sir Knight... seems we agree on one thing,” he said carefully.

“Heaven above,” William finally gasped. “My lord? You’re here…”

“I hear your words.” Elyan claimed an empty chair, his pulse racing, the wood groaning under his weight. “The king has endangered Camelot with his trust in magic,” he said, dropping his voice. “I can stand idle no longer. But others like us can open his eyes.”

The men glanced between each other. “And... what is it you aim to do, my lord?” asked the elder.

Elyan considered them shrewdly, his hand slipping over his pocket with the letter. How much could he trust these strangers? But he sensed honest concern in their words – and that may prove useful. Who else might help restore sanity to Camelot if not them? These common men resonated the warnings he’d shouted unheeded – perhaps there were more. He clasped steady hands on the sticky, ale-stained table, its surface pitted and scarred from countless nights of revelry.

“Action must replace empty talk,” he declared. “You have seen – magic’s corruption spreads unchecked. The people must know the folly of sorcery before it takes root. I cannot sway the king and queen alone anymore...” He hesitated, doubts and resolutions clashing like swords in his mind – Lord Badawi’s fate reminding. Then the angry bite of the nathair flared once more in his memory, Elyan involuntarily flinching from phantom pain – though it steeled his nerve to continue. He leaned forward intently. “So I turn to those who see the truth. Will you stand with me?”

The pair stared, stunned. The older man slowly nodded. “Aye, you’ll find allies yet, Sir Knight,” he said. “Not all are blind to the danger.” He held out a calloused hand. “I’m Gar, bowyer by trade. This here’s my apprentice, William.”

Elyan clasped it firmly, a bold purpose kindling within. He then gripped William’s in camaraderie. “Then let us leave here and talk more of righting the wrongs that imperil Camelot’s soul … and how we can sway more citizens to our cause.”

Chapter Text

Master Alator’s gaze swept over the gathering of sorcerers assembling in the sacred grove in Nemeton, not far from the Great Stones. Hovering blue orbs cast an ethereal glow along the outer edges while torches and candles lit the inner circle around representatives seated at the ancient stone table with him, respected leaders in their sects. Some he knew personally, others only by reputation, but all carried the hopes and fears of their people. Yet ancient rivalries and mistrust still kept these factions divided, an invisible barrier that even the enchanting atmosphere could not dispel.

A trio of sorcerers stepped out from a shimmering portal, their flowing robes rustling softly as they made their way to join their brethren. To his left, a druid materialized from a whirl of leaves and vines, the earthy scent of forest magic lingering in his wake. As more figures emerged from the shadows, Alator noted with unease how they navigated to their own kind – sorcerers huddling with sorcerers, druids seeking out fellow nature-dwellers, witches whispering with witches. The eerie amalgam of torchlight and orb glow cast strange, ethereal shadows upon their faces, some illuminated with cautious optimism, others obscured by deep-rooted suspicion, the interplay of the light and dark emotions stirring within the grove.

Out of necessity, Master Iseldir, the druid chieftain of the peaceful Taeron tribe, had appealed to him to call this council – these were transformative times for all in Camelot and emotions ran hot in the wake of its lifted ban. As Alator surveyed the gathering, he couldn’t help but recall the tales of Helva’s own turbulent history, the stronghold’s struggle to become a sanctuary for magic wielders not unlike Camelot’s current plight.

Alator’s gaze drifted to those chosen elders who had not spoken in earnest to each other in countless years – at least three advisors flanking each of them, pressed in by new arrivals filling the grove. His eyes settled on Iseldir, his old friend and ally, seated beside him with an air of serenity. Iseldir’s pale blue robes, so light they almost appeared grey in the flickering torchlight, seemed to shimmer with an ethereal quality.

Memories of their first meeting flashed through Alator’s mind, a chance encounter during one of his sojourns many seasons past. They had both been young then, seeking knowledge and purpose in a world that feared their kind – even before the purge had begun. In the intervening years, their paths had diverged, yet their bond had endured. His old friend had risen through the ranks of the druids to become a respected leader and elder, while Alator himself had ascended to the role of high priest and head of his own order.

Iseldir, with a head thick of greying hair and clear blue eyes, had retained the same well-featured appearance that Alator remembered from their youth. Time had been kind to the druid, leaving only the graceful traces of age upon his visage. In contrast, Alator’s fingers grazed the side of his bald head, a rueful smile playing across his lips as he reflected on the outward changes he had undergone. The years had stripped away his lustrous golden locks, leaving behind a gleaming scalp that served as a reminder of the wisdom and experience he had gained.

To Alator’s right was Master Ngakaukawa, a Nigerian high priest whose power commanded respect even from the most formidable among them. The priest’s eyes, black as onyx, held a depth of wisdom that spoke of ancient knowledge and untold secrets. Alator had always found him to be a stimulating conversationalist, their discourses often delving into the esoteric realms of the arcane.

Across from them, Mistress Zenobia, the witch, regarded the others with cool detachment. Friend to no one, even those within her own coven, she exuded an aura of icy power, her raven hair stark against her pale complexion. Decades of living through the purge, fighting or fleeing for her life, had forged her words into weapons, sharp and unforgiving. The darkness that had consumed her heart seeped into her very essence, tainting her outward beauty.

Beside her, Lord Kebes, a cunning sorcerer of many talents, absentmindedly traced arcane symbols on the table’s surface, his fingertips glowing faintly. Older than he looked, Kebes’ youthful appearance belied the decades of knowledge learned and experience gained. His eyes, a striking amber that seemed to shimmer in the torchlight, darted between the gathered elders, observing each subtle gesture and whispered word with a keen intelligence.

He knew that beneath the sorcerer’s casual demeanor lay a mind as sharp as a blade. It was said that Kebes could weave spells so intricate and convincing that even the most discerning of their kind could fall prey to his machinations. The sorcerer’s wealth and resources were the stuff of legend, with whispers of vast estates, rare magical artifacts, and a network of loyal allies that stretched across the realms.

Alator inhaled a quiet, satisfied breath. Small and other highly-regarded leaders filled the remaining few seats, their hushed conversations weaving a tapestry of wariness in the night air. He raised his hand, and with a whispered incantation, a pulse of energy radiated from his palm. The orbs flared brighter, rising above their heads and casting a brilliant glow across the grove. The sudden surge of ethereal light and power drew the attention of every sorcerer, druid, and magic-user present, their voices falling silent as all eyes turned to him.

In the flickering illumination, Alator could feel his features sharpening, a familiar sensation that accompanied this particular incantation. It was a subtle change, but one he knew would enhance his presence and command their attention.

“Our kingdom stands on a precipice,” he began, his highland brogue thick, but words clear. “At the behest of Master Iseldir, my order has called this council to discuss the recent lifting of the ban on magic in Camelot. The young King Arthur has extended a momentous act of peace and reconciliation, a chance for our kind to emerge from the shadows and take our rightful place in the kingdom – to bridge the chasm that still divides us from the ordinary. It is an opportunity that my order urges you seize, to forge a new future where our magic continues to flourish openly, without fear – to work and live in peace and cooperation.”

“It is a ruse,” Zenobia warned, her dark eyes smoldering with distrust. The firelight danced in her obsidian irises, like embers waiting to ignite.

“Patience, Mistress,” came Iseldir’s steady tones, his assuasive words a shield against the witch’s simmering suspicion. “Prudence must guide our steps.”

“Prudence?” Zenobia’s lip curled, a sneer marring her otherwise striking features. Alator could practically feel the bitterness radiating off her in waves, pulsing in time with the flickering torches. “While Pendragon plots in shadows to placate us before rounding us up?” The witch’s words were caustic, corroding the fragile hope in near every expression in the assembly.

“Fear speaks for you, Mistress Zenobia,” came Master Ngakaukawa’s thick accent. The man’s rich, deep voice resonated through the grove as he spoke, his words measured and thoughtful. “I believe that is not the king’s intent.”

Eurysthenes, a highly-regarded Sidhe leader known for his mastery over the elements, sat at the ancient stone table. His ethereal beauty was striking, with delicate, angular features, and ears with tips that reminded Alator of glistening dew drops. Delicate, translucent wings were tucked behind his iridescent robe, their gossamer edges catching the light as he shifted in his seat. The robe itself seemed to change colors with each movement, a mesmerizing display of the Sidhe’s innate connection to the natural world.

He leaned forward, his musical voice carrying a note of caution as he spoke, his wings fluttering slightly as if to emphasize his words. “The ban could return if we are defiant and prideful. We must tread carefully in this new era, lest we risk undoing the progress made.”

“This is a chance to build trust indeed.” Iseldir replied in agreement.

Zenobia’s fist slammed down on the stone table, the sudden impact causing those nearest to her to flinch. “Or expose our throats for slaughter!” she shouted, the witch’s words a sibilant hiss, each syllable a serpent’s strike aimed at the heart of their fragile unity.

As angry voices pervaded the nocturnal sounds in the grove, Alator’s gaze darted around the stone table, opinions rising and falling like the tide. Brother argued with brother, kin shouted at kin, their words clashing like swords in the night.

“The king has made a gesture of good will that benefits us all,” Lord Kebes reminded in a loud voice. Despite his formidable abilities and influence, Kebes usually maintained an air of mystery and aloofness, rarely taking sides in the political machinations. His enigmatic nature only added to his allure, with many seeking his favor or fearing his displeasure. Yet, when he did choose to intervene, his words carried a considerable weight.

“He’s a Pendragon,” Zenobia bitterly countered.

“My friends, we must be in accord amongst ourselves,” Iseldir implored, his hands outstretched in a plea for unity.

“Accord?” a scarred witch behind Zenobia scoffed, her eyes flashing with barely contained rage. “When some of us still bear the scars of Uther’s purge?”

“That is not why we are here,” Alator rebuked, his brogue accent cutting through the din like a blade through silk.

“Are you so sure?” Zenobia contested. Alator’s eyes drifted to her loathsome expression. He could feel the antipathy radiating from the sorceress, a deeper venom yet in her spite. Her words, charged with a lifetime of anger and resentment, held the power to stir dissension among the gathered, especially those scarred by the decades-long conflict – be that physical or psychological.

Alator nodded soberly. “Word of the recent slaying of one of our own has reached me, a viscount who had lived in secrecy and a family who did not understand him. Consider the circumstances of this case, that his death was born of the same fear that still grips the hearts of Camelot’s ordinary peoples. It has cast a pall over our ability to find that common ground of acceptance.”

If Zenobia were to lash out, to rally others to fight back against the rising rhetoric and retribution from those who still dreaded and despised magic, it could jeopardize any chance of cooperation with King Arthur. The witch’s influence, fueled by her unyielding determination to survive at all costs, could easily sway those who wavered in their commitment to peace.

That, they could ill afford.

“Safety for our kind remains precarious as it stands,” Alator continued, “treading a delicate line between hope and trepidation. You must see that these challenges we face are manifold, extending far beyond the mere acceptance of magic within the kingdom.” He shook his head solemnly. “Much depends on magic being wielded with wisdom and restraint, a show of our good faith to the Once and Future King and his vision of a united kingdom.”

“Yes,” echoed Iseldir. “Novice sorcerers newly revealed or coming into their gifts must be mentored.”

“Aye,” replied Alator, “trained, and protected to prevent harm, damage, or catastrophe.”

“A daunting task, one that required a delicate balance of nurturing the young and tempering the impulsive.” Iseldir’s calming gaze floated around the table, meeting the eyes of the other elders. “This responsibility falls upon us, my friends, and the other chosen leaders here, to organize ourselves and guide our people, ensuring that the power they possessed is used for the greater good, not selfishly.”

Alator could see the weight of this burden reflected in their expressions and stiffening postures. The scars of the past ran deep, etched into the very fabric of their beings. For some, the temptation to continue striking back, to meet violence with violence, simmered just beneath the surface, a seductive whisper that promised retribution and a twisted sense of justice.

Yet, he knew that succumbing to such base instincts would only breed more hatred and mistrust. The path to lasting peace had always proved arduous, demanding sacrifice and compromise from all sides. It required these differing factions to rise above their pain, to forge a new identity that embraced both the ordinary and the magical cultures, to create a world where their children could grow and thrive without fear of persecution from either side.

“We must look to the future, and not dwell in the past,” Ngakaukawa agreed solemnly, eying Zenobia and her coven sister with subtle warning, his dark skin seeming to absorb the flickering torchlight, giving him an otherworldly aura that never failed to mesmerize Alator.

“Without trust, we can build nothing with King Arthur,” Iseldir restated, his gaze sweeping across the table, meeting the eyes of each elder in turn. “We must work together towards a mutual goal, acknowledge our different perspectives, and strive to find common ground. King Arthur would expect no less from us, and we must rise to the challenge if we hope to forge a lasting peace.”

The druid chieftain’s words carried a hope, a call to unity amidst the swirling currents of suspicion and doubt. Alator watched as the gathered leaders exchanged glances, some nodding in agreement, others still furrowing their brows in contemplation or utter contempt.

Suddenly, from the shadows beyond the flickering torchlight, a brazen voice rang out, interrupting the moment with its sharp, mocking tone. “And I suppose you will prostrate yourself before the king, Iseldir, and plead on our behalf?”

Alator turned to face the speaker of the curt remark, his eyes narrowing as he sought to identify the source of the disruption. Ruadan Firestone stepped forward, nearby sorcerers parting before him like water before a stone. Several wide belts held tight long, dark robes and an equally long broadsword. Bejeweled rings glistened on several fingers, and an amulet of wisdom – values that bestowed understanding and careful consideration upon the wearer – was draped about his neck. As piercing blue eyes above graying facial hair keenly fixed upon Iseldir, Alator could see the druid clan boldly inked upon his neck – Maeldur.

Despite his aggressive presence, Ruadan was known to have a good-natured temperament, a rare and balanced quality among most of the druids’ battle-hardened warriors. And yet, when provoked or called to arms, his demeanor could shift like quicksilver, transforming him into a formidable adversary, the very fire of his namesake blazing within him.

To his credit, the chieftain remained unmoved by Ruadan’s antagonism. The druid elder’s voice was steady when he replied, his words cool and carefully chosen. “If that is what I must do to ensure peace amongst both peoples, then I shall humble myself before the king. And you, Master Ruadan, are you not now employed by the king as a healer, thereby entering into an understanding of cooperation yourself?”

Alator found himself suppressing a grin, appreciating Iseldir’s clever way of highlighting that even Ruadan had the potential to negotiate with a once-adversary, inferring that both of them had to make concessions to reach an amenable agreement. Ruadan, on the other hand, appeared caught off guard by Iseldir’s astute observation, surprise and indignation warring on his hardened expression.

A hint of a rebuttal danced on warrior’s lips, but before he could voice his thoughts, a powerful gust suddenly swept through the grove, tossing torch and candle flames into a frenzied dance. Robes fluttered madly in a wild wind as a collective uproar erupted through the assembly of sorcerers, their voices rising in confusion and alarm at the sudden intrusion. A blinding flash of white light then silenced them, hands instinctively shielding eyes squeezed tight against the overwhelming brightness.

When the air finally settled and the light receded, Alator’s vision refocused against the returning darkness and glow of torchlight and ghostly blue. A lone figure now stood in their midst, power crackling the air around an aged, white-haired man donning dull, crimson robes, unimpressive and just as worn, and slightly hunched against an ornate staff – of Sidhe design, Alator believed.

An uneasy silence spread through the grove while Eurysthenes’ angular eyes narrowed to slits, his ethereal features sharpening with recognition as he beheld the pulsating blue staff in the intruder’s bony grasp.

Alator saw a flicker of longing crossed his face, a fleeting glimpse of a desire to claim the artifact that rightfully belonged to his people. Yet, as quickly as the impulse seemed to arise, it faded, replaced by a resigned acceptance in the Sidhe leader’s disappointed visage, perhaps recalling the history behind the exchange of ownership that Alator was not privy to.

But Iseldir had frozen as he too seemed to recognize the newest arrival, the other druids gasping with astonishment as well. As all the druids knelt immediately, exalting the stranger with palms raised high and heads low, Alator’s lips parted, his brow creasing in curiosity. Ruadan, ever the proud warrior, stood firm amidst their display of obeisance. He tilted his head, a grudging acknowledgment of the aged figure’s significance, yet refusing to fully yield.

Alator studied the mysterious figure, taking in every detail. The visitor’s eyes, not as old as his outward appearance, seemed to pierce through each of them, as if laying bare their very souls. Many diverted their gazes in fear, awe, or curious amazement, unable to withstand the intensity of the man’s scrutiny. When the sorcerer spoke, his ancient voice resonated through Alator’s being, sending an invigorating vibe that left him inexplicably empowered.

“Rise, my friends,” the visitor tenderly bade Iseldir and the other druids, his tone timeworn, yet filled with a gentle warmth. As they stood and either seated themselves or returned to their positions, the aged sorcerer maneuvered among them at a slow, steady pace, his lean frame heavily dependent upon his staff, but his gaze alert and purposefully searching out each of them.

“We all seek the same ending,” he said, “though uncertainty grips reason right now…. I know the struggles of our kin, for I too have felt the sting of oppression and faced the whip of persecution.”

His piercing gaze finally landed on Alator. In that moment, he realized that neither the man’s frailty nor his young eyes could belie the power emanating from him, something almost as old as time and finely restrained – a force that could likely bring them all to their knees with a mere thought.

“We distrust those unlike us, though we have had sound motive to, my friends,” the intriguing sorcerer continued, circling the stone table in careful steps. “Many of us have suffered. Our families, our sisters and brothers – all victims of injustices unforgivable.”

“Aye!” many voices rang out, their cries echoing through the grove in a chorus of righteous anger.

“We owe them nothing!” another voice bellowed, the words searing the air like a curse, igniting the resentment that smoldered within the group. A resounding ripple of “Ayes” surged from the crowd, their collective rage palpable in the charged air.

“With magic unleashed, they’ll pay for their crimes!” The declaration was met with a roar of approval, some of the faces contorted with a thirst for vengeance.

“No!” The aged sorcerer’s voice boomed, the sheer force of his word – that ancient power within him – surged outward in a burst of unseen, unrestrained energy, tendrils of raw magic spiraling through the grove and cutting through the clamor like a blade. His crimson robe darkened to majestic black, the sleeves and collar in thick white trim with glowing druidic symbols writhing upon them.

The assembly was jolted backwards, their bodies pushed against the sudden force as the earth trembled beneath their feet, a startled gasp escaping Alator himself. The display of might silenced all in its wake, the tangible manifestation of immense power leaving only the crackling of the flames and the whisper of the wind. Alator stared in awe as the aged sorcerer’s eyes blazed with a fiery gold, the intensity of his gaze once again searing into the very souls of those who dared to meet it.

“Violence only breeds violence,” he warned impassionedly, his wardrobe returning to mundane crimson. “Have you learned nothing, my friends?! Is it not the time for healing and unity?”

The ancient man’s thunderous refusal and rebuttal against extremism inspired Alator, a clarion call for reason and restraint in the face of overwhelming emotion. As he listened to the sorcerer continue his ardent plea for unity, a flicker of recognition began to stir within him, a half-remembered legend from ages past. Was this powerful man, sometimes withered and so in need of his staff, the very figure Alator’s order had long awaited? The one foretold to guide them through a tumultuous time? Could this be the legendary... Emrys?

He glanced at Iseldir, the chieftain’s face alight with reverence. Given the druids’ deep connection to the lore and their reaction to this man now, it must be so. The thought sent a shiver down Alator’s spine, sheer admiration and threads of trepidation contending profoundly within him. If the prophecies were true, then the fate of not only Camelot’s magical community but all of Albion hung in the balance, dependent upon the looming decisions ahead for all concerned and the wisdom and power of the man who now stood before them.

Alator had not expected such an honor in his lifetime, but he stood and approached Emrys hesitantly, his steps measured and cautious as the aged sorcerer turned, discerning eyes raking him from head to toe. This distinguished man was a force to be reckoned with, and it had been many years since another sorcerer had stirred such a deep sense of veneration within him, a feeling that left him humbled and shaken to his core.

As he drew near, Alator sank to one knee, bowing his head before the legendary figure, murmurs of astonishment coursing through the crowd. “Great Emrys,” he said, his voice thick with emotion, “you honor us with your presence.”

“Stand, Master Alator,” Emrys said gently. “We are brothers and sisters. We serve one another – lift me no higher than yourselves.”

Alator obeyed, rising to his feet. As he met Emrys’ gaze, he saw a warm smile gracing the aged sorcerer’s features. A deep admiration welled up within him for the humility displayed by so great a man.

“From which house do you hail, Lord Emrys?” Ngakaukawa asked thickly, his deep voice crashing through Alator’s connection with Emrys like a wave against a rocky shore, leaving him adrift in the sudden shift of focus.

Iseldir spoke up, his tone lilting, filled with adoration. “It is said Emrys was sired from magic itself, preceding all magical houses and orders. He is magic incarnate, the first and most powerful of all warlocks across time and space.”

“Foretold to bring balance during a time of great upheaval,” Alator added, recalling the legends preserved in his order’s annals. “After the time of the—” he searched his memories for the final piece, “—the purging of the innocent.”

Whispers of amazement and wonder rolled through the gathered sorcerers, growing in strength like distant thunder heralding an approaching storm. The power of prophecies was well-known among their kind, and the knowledge that Emrys stood before them, a living legend made flesh, sent a collective shiver of awe through the assembly.

Alator looked at the timeless warlock, the urgency to cut to heart of their concerns pressing upon him like an insistent hand on his shoulder. “Great Emrys, the scars of the past run deep within our community. Many here have suffered at the hands of Uther Pendragon, and the fear of persecution still lingers in their hearts. While we are aware of Arthur’s recent deeds as king, how can we be certain that his intentions are true? How can we trust that this is not a ploy to lure my kin into a false sense of security?”

Emrys turned his wizen gaze to Alator. “Arthur Pendragon is not Uther Pendragon,” he replied, his voice carrying a quiet authority that seemed to resonate through the very earth beneath their feet. “Indeed the young king has shown a willingness to break from the cycles of the past and forge a new path forward. His actions in lifting the ban on magic demonstrate a desire for reconciliation – a first step. While the wounds of the past cannot be healed overnight, we must not let our fears blind us to the opportunities that he has presented to us.”

Alator nodded solemnly, the sage response speaking volumes about the character of both kings. He had lived through the purge, tasted Uther’s cruelty, constantly dodging his persecutors. The news of Arthur’s tentative steps had sparked a glimmer of hope within him, a chance for a brighter future where magic could flourish openly here, as Emrys himself strived to do now.

Yet, not all in the grove were so easily convinced.

“He slaughtered us nonetheless upon the order of his father.” Zenobia’s voice shattered the silence like a stone through a stained-glass window. “His soul is just as black, yet he expects us to forget?!

Emrys met Zenobia’s gaze unflinchingly, his expression a mask of calm understanding tinged with sorrow. “There were atrocities on both sides, Mistress – be not naïve nor slight this truth,” he reminded, his words a gentle admonishment. “Even now, some of our kin wreck unchecked mayhem across the kingdom, jeopardizing the ordinary’s fragile trust. And there are others – those hurt or harmed by sorcerers have scars so deep that their hatred of us is more of a threat to Camelot’s unity than we are.”

Alator watched as Emrys held Zenobia’s defiant gaze, the ancient sorcerer’s eyes seeming to lance through the layers of pain and anger that shrouded the witch’s heart. “The Once and Future King risks all to break old cycles. Will you cling to past wounds while our children face new ones... or help to heal those in pain as Arthur is trying to do for you?”

A moment of silence descended upon the grove as Zenobia’s gaze dropped, a bitter frown tugging at the corners of her lips, Emrys’ words demanding introspection and contemplation.

“We all desire peace, Emrys,” Iseldir said, his gaze drifting to Zenobia, rancor still etched upon her face, before coming to rest on Ruadan.

Alator followed Iseldir’s line of sight, the druid warrior crossing to Emrys, his broad shoulders and towering frame dwarfing the frail looking wizard. Yet, despite Ruadan’s imposing presence, the fire in his piercing blue eyes dimmed in the face of Emrys’ ancient power.

“Change does not come easy for some,” Ruadan said, his words a simple statement that echoed with the struggles of countless generations.

Emrys nodded, his gnarled fingers tightening around his staff as he met Ruadan’s gaze. “Indeed, it does not,” he agreed, his voice a whisper that seemed to carry across the grove. “And the path forward may yet hold more pain before peace takes root, Master Ruadan. Many of our own will need to be restrained, their magic controlled and marshaled, lest they jeopardize the trust we seek to build with the crown.”

Ruadan’s brow furrowed, a flicker of frustration passing over his features. “And what shall we do with our... rebellious then, Emrys? Leave them to the crown to have them executed?”

Alator’s jaw cinched, the question clearly a challenge, a test of the ancient sorcerer’s wisdom.

“I think it would be just for us to judge our own, do you not?” Emrys’ response came swiftly, his words a sudden shift in the conversation that sent ripples of surprise through the gathered magic users. “Petition the king that this is our right.”

Alator’s eyebrows rose as shocked silence filled the grove, and a sudden realization dawning upon him. In one deft move, Emrys had turned the question back upon them, placing the responsibility of justice for their own people squarely upon their shoulders. It was a clever tactic, one that sought to empower the magical community while simultaneously fostering a sense of accountability and cooperation with the crown. He tried to moisten his suddenly dry mouth. Would the king agree to such a diametric shift of power? he pondered. Were they ready for such a monumental step?

After a long moment, Zenobia broke the silence. “You place our lives and much faith in this king’s commitments,” she said, her tone less severe than Alator had heard in a long time. Still, doubt flickered in the deeps of her eyes.

“You have mine as well, Mistress,” Emrys said solemnly, unexpectedly, easing doubts perhaps. “I have Arthur’s ear, and will counsel him on magical matters, great and small, with your help. He will consider your appeal earnestly. But be warned: he and the queen are under my protection now. Should any harm or enchantment befall them, the consequences would be dire, for the wrath of Emrys knows no bounds.”

The ancient sorcerer’s voice grew deep and menacing as the shadows seemed to lengthen and twist around him. Now standing to a full, impressive height, his clothing darkened once more to mysterious black trimmed in glowing white. A collective gasp ran through the gathering, the sorcerers exchanging fearful glances as a palpable chill settled over the grove.

Alator felt a shiver run down his spine too, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end as the power of Emrys and his words washed over him. He could sense the unease and trepidation that now gripped the assembled leaders, a grave reminder of the legendary sorcerer’s immense power and the gravity of his commitment to Camelot’s royal couple. But he had also made a pledge of equal measure to his people that could not be ignored.

“I shall speak to the king of what was said here,” Emrys promised, his voice softening once more, though the air still tingled with residual energy and his robes retained its darker form. “Now. Talk amongst yourselves. Find other reasons to unite despite our pain and differences – we must, for the sake of us all. Master Isildur, Master Alator, you shall hear from me soon.”

They both nodded, Alator swallowing thickly as Emrys’ eyes swept around the assembly. “My friends, my people,” he said with genuine regard. “I bid you all fair night.” His voice resonated with a warmth that seemed to embrace each and every one of them. “Bedyrne ús, Ridge of Ascetir! Astýre ús þanonweard!”

As grand as his entrance, bathing them in wind and light, so was his exit. A swirling vortex of energy engulfed the ancient sorcerer, his form shimmering and fading as the magic transported him away.

In the aftermath of Emrys’ departure, a profound silence fell upon the grove, broken only by the soft rustling of leaves in the gentle breeze, the flicker of the flames, the unsteady breaths of those around him. Glances passed between the druids and sorcerers, the witches and Sidhe, each grappling with the implications of the legendary figure’s words and the path he had laid before them.

A small chuckle unexpectedly escaped Alator’s lips as his racing heart began to subside, the thrill of Emrys’ display still prickling his skin. He couldn’t help but smile, marveling at the raw power and artistry of the ancient sorcerer’s magic.

“Does he think we are fools?” Zenobia asked at last, her eyes glinting with a stubborn defiance, a clear indication that she was not as swayed by the great Emrys as they might have believed.

Alator fixed her with a stern gaze, his voice filled with conviction. “We would be fools if we do not follow him,” he warned, his tone leaving no room for argument. “My order has long awaited the return of Emrys and the wonders he will bestow upon us. To disregard his counsel would be to court calamity and beckon ruin upon ourselves and future generations.”

Iseldir nodded, his expression one of steadfast faith. “He has power and influence far beyond our abilities,” the druid chieftain affirmed. “He’s much wiser than when we first met. I do not doubt him.” He turned his gaze to Ruadan, his eyes searching the warrior’s face for any sign of hesitation. “Do you?”

Druid challenged druid once more, master tested warrior, and Alator’s brows raised as they locked gazes, a silent battle of wills unfolding.

“Emrys’ deeds are known among the druids – though some have not been so worthy,” Ruadan replied, his words carrying a hint of skepticism. The warrior’s eyes then flickered with a surety that did not reflect in many of those assembled. “But he is a legend. It remains to be seen what he can do now and what the future holds.”

Zenobia’s frustrated curse led the sudden outbursts erupting once more, the grove descending into a cacophony of arguing voices and clashing opinions. Amidst the chaos, Alator caught sight of Iseldir, a small smile playing on the chieftain’s lips as he seemed to accept the caution displayed by Ruadan. It was a moment of understanding between the two druids, a recognition of the delicate balance they must strike in the days to come.

Nodding at the small concession, Alator called for order, a whispered enchantment that flared the orbs’unearthly light to silence the din. “Let us adjourn tonight and ponder what was heard here,” he advised, his tone firm and authoritative. “Perhaps cooler heads will prevail on the morrow. We meet in the third hour.”

His words had the desired effect, the arguing subsiding as the druids, witches and sorcerers began to disperse, each lost in their own thoughts and contemplations. He exchanged a farewell nod with Iseldir before watching them drift away, some in small groups, others alone, their faces a mix of hope, fear, and determination.

As the last of them departed, Alator turned his gaze to the stars above, their celestial dance unchanged by the momentous events of the night. A great responsibility had been unexpectedly thrust upon him. He had not sought to play such a crucial role in shaping the future of his kin, but there it was, entrusted to him by the eminent Emrys himself.

Alator drew in a deep breath. The path ahead was unclear, fraught with challenges. He knew that the decisions made in the coming days would echo through the ages, and in this sacred grove tonight, he vowed to do everything in his power to help guide Camelot’s diverse communities toward a harmonious unification, where all could prosper side by side.

Merlin trembled uncontrollably as he transformed back into his younger self, the transportation spell landing him precisely at the ridge’s snowy mountain peak. Cold bit without mercy into him, yet exhilaration coursed through his veins, magic tingling and exciting his nerves – he yearned to share this incredible experience with Arthur and Galahad.

Puffs of breath escaped his lips, dissipating in the frigid air as he surveyed the pristine, perpetual winter landscape. Snow drifts concealed the isolation of his surroundings, but Merlin felt confident that no one had attempted to follow him. He had chosen to teleport to this general location instead of directly to the mill house, fearful that some might seek out his sanctuary closer to home.

With the whispered incantation, Merlin whisked himself safely back to his private training grounds. Despite his smooth landing, wobbly knees caused him to stumble, his body still adjusting to the surge of power that had coursed through him. His breath came in shuddering gasps as the emotions gripping him slowly began to dissipate and warmth creeped back into his bones.

After a moment in the quiet, calming solitude, his gaze drifted to Chestnut, the loyal mare grazing contentedly nearby. With a soft whistle, he called her to him, his fingers gently caressing her velvety nose as she nuzzled his palm. Mounting the horse with practiced ease, he set off towards Camelot, his mind still whirling with the events of the night.

As the familiar landscape blurred past him, Merlin reflected on the uncertainty he had felt when he first transported into the midst of the elder’s gathering, unsure of what to expect or what words he would find to address them. Only a few hours before it began, Isildur’s urgent missive concerning the fledgling council – of and how Alator the Catha was to mediate – had initially filled him with surprise and delight, but as the weight of the druid leader’s request settled upon him, a sense of trepidation had taken hold. The realization that discord fractured their leadership had not come as a shock, but the idea that Emrys could mend so great a rift had seemed an almost insurmountable challenge. To stand in the presence of those mighty sorcerers and many more was a humbling thought.

Yet, somehow, he had risen to the occasion, summoning the essence of the ancients to command the attention of the array of sorcerers present and lend weight to his words. Embracing the persona of Emrys had come more naturally than he had anticipated, the wisdom and power of his legendary self flowing through him like a conduit, altering his very appearance with a thought. It was as Galahad had told him – the spirit of Emrys had always resided within him, waiting for the right moments to emerge.

The night air cooled his skin, whipped at his tunic and through his hair as Chestnut carried him ever closer to the citadel, and Merlin found himself pondering the reactions of the magical leaders to his proposals. Would they truly unite behind the vision of a Camelot where magic and mundane could coexist in harmony? Or would the decades of mistrust and persecution prove too difficult to overcome?

These questions swirled in his mind, intertwining with the anxiety of how Arthur would receive the news of the petition on his kin’s behalf. Arthur had already taken bold steps in lifting the ban on magic and acknowledging those suffering by it, but the appeal for the magical community to govern their own was a significant departure from tradition. Even so, for this crucial step in forging a lasting peace between the two worlds to take hold, Merlin knew that convincing Arthur of its necessity would require all of his wit and wisdom.

Chapter Text

As the first light of dawn seeped through the windows of his private quarters, Arthur signed off on a speech draft and turned it over upon the stack of finished papers. He sorted through the witness accounts for several upcoming trials but set them aside. Briefly skimming a proposal from a visiting dignitary, he placed it upon a different stack before reaching for the next document in the waiting pile.

Reports from Percival detailing the latest patrols and security measures around the citadel caught his eye – a few more magical incidents across the kingdom and a reminder of the ever-present need for order. Amidst the mound of responsibilities, an evolving landscape since his own coronation, Arthur’s hand settled on a copy of the letter he had penned a few days ago, addressed to his people.

He read the carefully crafted words, a message meant to reach those who had suffered at the hands of magic, whose lives had been irrevocably altered by the actions of his father, Morgana and himself, and to those like him ignorant of their inner struggles.

Today, the letter would be disseminated, carrying with it his hopes that the sincerity of his words would resonate, that all the people would see the olive branch he was extending, a gesture of reconciliation and healing that perhaps many others might also see and tender to the wounded around them.

Contemplating the potential impact of his letter, Arthur’s mind wandered to his brother-in-law. Would it find its way to Elyan, and if so, would it have any bearing on his actions? The thought of Elyan’s possible return and Gwen’s reaction to her brother’s presence after all that had transpired sent a flicker of unease through Arthur’s heart.

Amidst the sea of documents, a scrap of paper bearing Merlin’s hurried scrawl fluttered to the floor, its presence disrupting the morning’s established order and catching Arthur’s eye. Retrieving the paper, the bold script stood out from the rest.

Arthur – Urgent matter. Sorcerers’ council last night requested right to govern their own. Emrys advocated you would see reason. Do not make liar of me, sire. We must speak at first light.

—Merlin  

Arthur’s brows rose, a quizzical arch punctuating his thoughts. Sorcerers’… council…? Last night…? He scratched his forehead, grappling for meaning, then cupped his mouth in a futile attempt to contain his bewilderment.

“Sorcerers…? Governing themselves?” he spoke aloud, flipping the paper over as if the reverse side held the key to deciphering this cryptic message. “Does Merlin mean allowing them to pass judgment and mete punishment?” The implications of such a request settled in his mind like an uninvited guest. Surely, Merlin knew such authority must remain within the purview of the court and crown, Arthur reasoned, his thoughts as steadfast as the stones of the castle walls.

“What on earth is he into now?” he muttered.

A heavy sigh escaped Arthur’s lips as the wonted weight of Excalibur, strapped at his hip, anchored his rising frustrations. The revelation of Merlin’s secret meeting and unheard of promises would have normally set Arthur’s temper ablaze – kindling for his fiery concerns. Yet, the mighty sword’s presence seemed to temper his agitation, allowing greater priorities to take precedence. Whatever this nonsense entailed, it would have to wait.

The sudden burst of the doors shattered the quiet of Arthur’s contemplation as Merlin blew into the room like a whirlwind, momentarily taking him aback by the abrupt intrusion. Arthur’s arm froze midair, scrap in hand and ready to drop it atop the read later pile. Feeling the familiar tug of exasperated fondness, he recognized the telltale signs that some new epiphany or scheme had taken root in his friend’s mind, even before words spilled forth – Merlin’s scribbled cryptic note the harbinger in this instance.

“Well? What say you?” Merlin’s voice blended brightness and urgency, a melody that demanded quick response. His hair, tousled by his haste, seemed to mirror the wild enthusiasm that danced in his eyes.

Arthur blinked, calmly setting the scrap down and lacing his fingers upon it, an attempt to anchor himself amidst the chaos that Merlin brought with him. “That my servants might consider waiting to be announced before entering their king’s private chambers and accosting him,” he replied, his words a gentle reprimand veiled in amusement.

“Apologies, sire,” Merlin said with an exaggerated bow, his tone as breezy as the morning air that swirled in his wake. “Shall I prostrate before you as well?” His words carried a hint of playful defiance that had long been absent between them. Despite himself, Arthur chuckled, the moment of levity a pleasing reprieve.

“At least kneel occasionally when making outrageous demands like these,” he countered with mirth. He waved the scrap of paper, the motion a silent accusation. “I only just received your note that sorcerers petitioned for autonomy last night – with Emrys’ support…” His words trailed off, an unspoken question, a bridge waiting to be crossed.

“Um…yes – Emrys guaranteed you’ll grant it.” Merlin winced, his expression a tapestry of optimism and uncertainty.

Arthur braced his hands on the desk, his fingers drumming a staccato rhythm that echoed the disquiet in his mind. “Did he now?”

“That is...” Merlin cleared his throat, the sound no doubt a fleeting attempt to gather his thoughts, “we must discuss terms agreeable to all.”

“Terms?” Arthur leaned back in his chair, thumb and fingers absently scrubbing his chin as if still unable to quite believe the credibility of the request. A slight smile played at the corners of his mouth as his gaze settled on Merlin, betraying his amusement at the notion.

“And how soon before my crown ends up in druid hands?” Arthur’s words, as ridiculous as they sounded, carried a challenge and a warning woven into one that required no answer. Merlin opened his mouth as if he could offer a reasonable response, but Arthur held up a palm, silencing the unspoken. “Merlin, are you mad?”

“I… don’t think so.” he replied, his teeth worrying his bottom lip. “Though Emrys might be a bit touched.”

Arthur threw his hands up in exasperation as Merlin beamed with excitement, rushing to sit in the chair before Arthur’s desk, his enthusiasm a bright flame that refused to be extinguished.

“You should have been there, Arthur! It was incredible – magical leaders from all across Camelot had assembled in Nemeton. Alator the Catha and druid Master Iseldir – the power vibrating the very air! I felt like a forest sprite stumbling upon the Fair Folk! Only these were witches, warlocks, sorcerers – an amazing array! A gathering of many factions! Your new physician was there, Arthur – Master Ruadan – still so impressive and frightening! And so was Mistress Zenobia! Oh!” he exclaimed, eyes wide.

Merlin’s words painted a disjointed picture, cascading from his mouth like a roaring waterfall, each detail a deluge of wonder. Arthur’s eyes narrowed, his brow furrowing in confusion, the jumbled account a maze skirting the crux of the matter. He was sure of one thing: Merlin was serious about the sorcerers’ petition, and as he raved on, Arthur diverted his glance. The strain of doubt started to nag at the back of his mind not over considering the request itself – that notion seemed utterly unthinkable as it were – but what granting it could potentially unleash.

As Arthur returned his gaze to him, Merlin’s animation had tempered slightly, his energy settling like leaves after a gust of wind. Leaning back in his chair and arms at rest, Arthur laced fingers across his stomach, a posture of contemplation as Merlin’s torrent of words ebbed.

“But not all welcomed Emrys’ call for patience and unity under your vision, Arthur. Some still harbor hatred too deep – a chasm, I fear, that words alone cannot bridge. Like Mistress Zenobia – bitterness consumes her, that one. I’m not sure I convinced her. But I could tell that many others don’t feel the same, their hearts more open to the possibility of change. They were listening—really listening!”

Merlin sprang to his feet suddenly, startling Arthur to sit upright. He began pacing the room, his hands waving like flags in the wind, each gesture a declaration of his fervor. “You should have seen me! Emrys argued that in exchange for self-governance, the council would stop the defiance of their ilk. Judge and punish them as internal affairs. Oh! There’s so much potential!”

Merlin turned earnest eyes upon him, his gaze shining with its customary beacon of hope. “They may even help heal the wounds of people harmed by magic – those like Elyan. I don’t know how, but by granting them authority over magical crimes and disputes, they would feel as if they truly are a part of us, that you are sincere in your words concerning cooperation. I promised them. This could be a chance to build lasting trust and restore order.”

Arthur leaned forward, fingers still laced, an inward sigh resounding. Restoring order was indeed paramount, especially with recent incidents straining his forces. Yet Merlin’s proposal felt discordant with that very aim.

“First, Merlin,” Arthur replied, the calm of his voice so far from the roiling in his gut. “In regards to Elyan and those like him, I was under the assumption that my letter addressed to the people would start the healing process. Second, I had also assumed that we’d agreed to set our unification endeavors aside for a time – this would include our relations with the sorcerers, I believe – notwithstanding Emrys’ appointment later today as a court official, thereby displaying the trust and cooperation that you speak of. Third, extending autonomy was not what I had in mind to entrust good will between the crown and magic users – far from it, as a matter record.” His words were measured, each syllable a careful attempt to balance the scales of diplomacy and ire, a feat he had not achieved with Gwaine some days prior. Arthur moistened his lips, scratched the edge of his brow.

“You do not know what you ask, what is at stake, Merlin. We venture down a treacherous path if we pursue this course – we jeopardize losing a great measure of control. And there are other potential risks that we cannot possibly foresee.”

“But there are benefits for both sides that we can see! And those we have yet to discover!” Merlin’s words tumbled out in a rush, a river of possibilities that threatened to sweep them both away. “Arthur—”

Arthur silenced him with a stern gaze, his jaw feathering as he fought to quell the frustration that sparked beneath his skin. “I wasn’t finished,” he said, his voice sharp and unyielding as their eyes locked, his final point demanding to be addressed. Sometimes Merlin overstepped his bounds, Arthur knew, and at those times required reminders of his station – even if it was just the two of them behind closed doors.

“Lastly, you made a grandiose promise – on my behalf! – with sorcerers in a clandestine meeting.” His voice was a controlled storm, the thunder of his rage barely restrained. He had no desire to extinguish the flames of Merlin’s enthusiasm or tarnish the nobility of his intentions. The fact that his friend had convened with sorcerers did not perturb him; rather, it was Merlin’s tendency to allow his emotions to eclipse reason, at times exacerbating the situation that ignited Arthur’s vexation. The petition Merlin sought carried monumental consequences, colliding with current efforts, presenting ramifications that he seemed unwilling or unable to acknowledge.

Merlin glanced away, his lips pressed in a thin line, a flush of embarrassment coloring his cheeks. Arthur watched his shoulders droop, the disappointment in Merlin’s eyes flickering like candle flames buffeted by the harsh winds of reality. A pang of guilt twisted in Arthur’s gut, his friend’s crestfallen manner sparking sympathy and forcing him to wonder how much hope the other sorcerers had invested in Emrys’ promises.

Would Merlin’s integrity be diminished if he failed to deliver on this crucial endeavor? The thought ignited a new worry over the delicate balance of trust between Emrys and the magical community – a trust that had led to his appointment as court wizard in the first place. Pinching the bridge of his nose, a futile attempt to find the words to soften the blow, not only for Merlin’s sake but for his as well, Arthur knew that the final decision would rest squarely upon his shoulders and would have far-reaching implications for Camelot’s future.

Arthur sighed deeply, clasping his fingers together on the desktop once more. “I need time, Merlin – many discussions with the circle and council. This matter cannot be taken lightly or decided hastily. I cannot make any promises at this juncture.” The words rang with pragmatic caution, tempering Arthur’s realistic approach with his severe rebuff.

“But let them know their request will be given sincere consideration,” Arthur added, his tone gentler now. “Work with Geoffrey and Galahad on your proposal so that we have a clear understanding of what needs to be deliberated. Perhaps, start considering which sorcerers would be best for us to consult during this process as well.”

Merlin’s optimism resurfaced like a sturdy blossom thriving in winter’s bitter bite. He nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, his eyes alight with a flicker of renewed hope. “Thank you, Arthur.”

“Now, better get ready, Emrys,” Arthur said. “Gwen and I will see you in court later.”

As Merlin departed, tension threaded Arthur’s shoulders taut as cured leather, that habitual yet unwelcome companion bringing along its usual stresses. The impending trial and this unexpected sorcerers’ petition bore down on him, twin burdens that threatened to overwhelm. He dragged a hand across his brow, as if the gesture could somehow ease the tempestuous sea of thoughts that churned relentlessly in his mind.

The proposal for sorcerer self-governance loomed before him, casting a shadow even over the grave matter of Lord Badawi’s trial of treason and sedition. It presented yet another fork in the road, a path that could either lead to a new era of cooperation or send Camelot stumbling into the chaos of the unknown. Arthur could not perceive the potential Merlin spoke of – a distant promise that benefited both sides – the way to reach it obscured in a surrounding fog of doubt.

As he gingerly massaged a temple, Arthur’s eyes drifted close, the hope that had illuminated Merlin pushed forward in his thoughts. That infectious enthusiasm had so often drawn him into Merlin’s optimistic vision even if his own doubts threatened to overshadow it. The man possessed a rare gift, the ability to inspire belief in the improbable, to make the impossible seem within reach. Perhaps, with careful navigation, they could find a well-reasoned compromise that satisfied all parties.

Arthur glanced at Merlin’s scrap of paper, the bold lettering speaking out, clamoring to be heard. He shook the imagery away as he exhaled a small sigh, knowing that idealism alone could not guide his decision. Rationality must be his compass, his advisors the map that would help him navigate this uncharted territory. Every perspective must be weighed, every angle considered, before he could chart a course forward. The future harmony of Camelot rested upon his ability to strike a delicate balance between caution and hope, control and trust – his sword hand poised between the petition’s embrace and its denial. It was a daunting task, like traversing a narrow path along the edge of a precipice, with peril lurking on either side.

For now, Arthur resolved to approach this challenge one step at a time. Drafting initial governance terms could take months, perhaps up to a year, but it would provide a solid foundation, a starting point from which to build. Through thoughtful deliberation and open dialogue, perhaps they could discover the elusive harmony between safety and freedom – a fragile stability based on a delicate balance. It would require constant attention and adjustment.

Alarms tolled in his head, hands unconsciously balling into white-knuckled fists. To even consider such a monumental change filled Arthur with trepidation. Deep down, he wasn’t sure he truly wanted to entertain something so drastically reshaping the realm’s governance – removing power from him and the judicial court. Laying any groundwork toward sorcerer autonomy felt like traversing a knife’s edge. Could he risk putting a single brick in place upon a path he wasn’t sure he wanted to travel down?

Releasing a long, weighted breath, Arthur forced those worrisome thoughts aside, determined to focus on current urgent matters. He reached for the stack of trial testimonies, jaw setting as parchment crinkled loudly in his firm grip. Eyes scanned the pages, but the words blurred, his mind unable to fully escape a disquieting sense that everything surrounding him now tread that same perilous ledge – a precarious balance between order and chaos, trust and fear, sorcerers’ vows and the warrior’s blade.

What had started as a seemingly straightforward change to help unite the kingdom was rapidly spiraling into much murkier ethical and governing territory than Arthur had anticipated. The weight of managing magic’s reintroduction while also being pressured for further radical reforms like this sorcerer autonomy was having an immense personal toll on him.

For the first time, doubt crept in on whether allowing magic’s return had truly been the wisest course for his kingdom.

Chapter Text

Yaminah’s eyelids fluttered open, consciousness seeping in like a slow tide. The first pale light of day slowly invaded her vision, each blink a measured effort against the pull of exhaustion. Today her baba would stand trial, his fate in the hands of the lord magistrate and King Arthur.

As she stirred to wakefulness, fear unfurled within her, its tendrils reaching into every corner of her being. The days since her father’s arrest and Sir Gwaine’s departure had blurred together, marked by sleepless nights and meals left untouched. Youssef’s silence too only deepened her isolation.

She willed herself to move, her silk robe whispering against her skin as she rose, feet carrying her to the chamber windows. Beyond, Camelot lay hushed, the early morning light now bathing the citadel towers, the day’s secrets yet to unfold.

Questions darted through her mind, elusive as shadows. Where was Youssef? Had word of their father’s plight reached him, or did he wander unaware, a traveler oblivious to the storm at home? When would Sir Gwaine return from his mission? And yet, how would she meet his gaze after all that had transpired? What fate lay in store for her baba, trapped in the dungeons below? Would he be condemned to live out his final days in that dark pit, awaiting the executioner’s blade?

Her eyes traced the brightening sky, seeking answers in the clear morning air. Her lips moved in silent supplication, each prayer a fragile hope cast into the new day. She implored Allah to soften King Arthur’s heart, to plant the seeds of mercy in ground that seemed so unyielding.

With a deep sigh, Yaminah turned from the window to perform her daily ablutions. She carried out the ritual cleansing with care, finding a moment’s respite from her troubled thoughts in the familiar motions. After completing her prayers, she made her way to the main chamber where Ishka had set out bread and dates. Though anxiety dulled her appetite, she forced herself to eat a few bites.

“Al-Sayyidah,” Ishka’s voice reached her as if through a veil, pulling Yaminah back from her somber contemplation. She turned to her maiden, reality settling around her like a heavy cloak. “Come, mistress. Let us prepare you for the day ahead.”

At her vanity, Yaminah sat motionless as Ishka’s gentle hands unwound her braids, loosening hair into thick, cascading waves. The mirror before her reflected a stranger – a woman whose once-unshakeable confidence had eroded like ancient stones worn smooth by relentless winds. She had believed her strength unyielding, her resolve unbreakable. Now, isolation revealed hidden fractures, exposing vulnerabilities she had never acknowledged.

Drifting in uncharted waters, her once steady ship now at the mercy of unpredictable currents, Yaminah finally acknowledged her need of the men she had relied upon – her father, Youssef, even Sir Gwaine for a short time. Their memory lingered in the ache of her broken heart, a constant, underlying pain that flared with each reminder of the gulf between them. The past five days had brought a raw clarity, illuminating how deeply she cared for them all. Now, the void left by their separation was more keenly felt than their presence had ever been.

Ishka lined her eyes with kohl, applied a tint of crushed berries to her lips, and dusted her cheeks with a fine powder of ground ochre, each line and stroke made with care and precision. “Beautiful, Al-Sayyidah,” she said.

Lost in her thoughts, Yaminah neither heard the words nor noticed Ishka’s initial smile. Only when she turned her sober gaze upon their reflection did she catch the gentle curve of her handmaiden’s lips. The familiar ritual felt hollow, a futile attempt to paint over the cracks in her world. Yet, even as grief threatened to pull her under, Ishka had been an anchor since that fateful morning. More than a servant, she had become a lifeline, creating moments of calm amidst the storm of Yaminah’s emotions.

As Ishka continued to tend to her, Yaminah’s mind raced ahead to their palace in Aethelmearc, Qasr Al-Zafar – Palace of Victory. The name now seemed a bitter irony, its grandeur ringing hollow in the absence of her family. What victory could there be in halls echoing with emptiness? The castle and all it represented loomed on the horizon – a bastion of their family’s power and influence, now overshadowed by the loneliness awaiting her in those vast, silent chambers. If the trial went poorly, she would need to steel herself not only for the arduous journey north, but also for the daunting responsibility she had never truly prepared to bear.

Ishka and Farouk had been instrumental in carrying out her father’s contingency plans. They’d dispatched letters to Qasr Al-Zafar’s steward, the marshal of the nearby garrison, and several other great houses of Aethelmearc. Yaminah knew the importance of informing these key figures of recent developments. As the Zahirs were the lords of the land, these allies and vassals needed to be prepared for potential changes in leadership.

Ishka retrieved a traditional ensemble from the wardrobe – layers of finely woven cotton and linen in rich, muted hues. As her maiden carefully arranged the flowing fabrics, draping her in the loose-fitting thobe and adorning her with an intricately embroidered abaya, Yaminah regarded her reflection with a distant gaze. Once, she had reveled in such finery, taking pride in her beauty and dress. Now, this adorned version of herself seemed a stranger – a gilded facade concealing a fractured core. What use was outward splendor when her spirit lay in ruins? A tremor coursed through her body, threatening to unravel her composure.

Yet, as Ishka gently placed the soft, patterned shayla over her hair, framing her face, something shifted within Yaminah. For Baba, she would enter the court not as a broken daughter, but as the noble heir of Al-Sayyid Al-Ajal Badawi Zahir. She drew herself up, shoulders back, chin lifted. Her dignity and courage would be her true raiment, as commanding in presence as her father’s had always been.

A sharp knock at the outer chamber door shattered the fragile quiet. Ishka moved to answer it, stepping into the spacious antechamber. Yaminah followed, her posture straight and composed as Ishka ushered in her escorts. Farouk entered first, his face etched with concern, followed by young Ahmed, the stalwart Coptic warrior.

“Al-Sayyidah,” Farouk said, his voice low, “it is time to make for the great hall.”

Their small procession moved through the castle corridors with measured steps, an island of silence amid the bustling keep. Farouk led the way, with Ishka at Yaminah’s side and Ahmed guarding their rear. Despite their efforts to pass unobtrusively, their presence drew attention like a lodestone. From shadowed doorways and alcoves, courtiers and servants paused to watch their passage. Whispers and furtive glances followed in their wake, but failed to pierce Yaminah’s carefully constructed composure.

Each step through the public spaces of the castle was a testament to her resolve. Though exposed to curious and often judgmental gazes, Yaminah remained unbowed. Her rich Arabic garb, a symbol of her heritage and strength, set her apart not as an outsider, but as a woman of noble bearing. She kept her gaze resolutely forward, each breath steady and controlled. Those who watched could never truly comprehend the depth of her determination. Their stares and ignorance of her plight were mere pebbles against the fortress of her will.

Farouk guided them into the throne room, now transformed into a solemn court of law. As they entered, Yaminah drew a deep breath seeing the empty thrones upon the raised dais, looming ominously ahead. The familiar hall, stripped of its vibrant pageantry and heraldry, felt strange and foreboding. The air itself was smothering, each step bringing them closer to the moment that would decide her father’s fate.

As they progressed down the aisle amid the sea of bodies gathering for her baba’s trial, people and servants peeled off into rows on either side. With no benches or seats, the standing assembly obscured Yaminah’s view as she moved closer to the front.

Through gaps in the crowd, she caught sight of a diminutive figure with wild, greying hair seated behind a large table and offset to the left of the raised dais. If this was indeed the lord magistrate, his blue silk robes, richly adorned yet rumpled, seemed incongruous with his solemn duty. He surveyed the room through eye lenses perched upon his nose, his presence, small yet commanding. On the table before him, a large round stone rested next to candles flanking an array of scrolls and books – tools of judgment for the proceedings about to unfold.

“That is Lord Magistrate Aldred?” Yaminah murmured to Farouk as they edged through the crowd. She had immersed herself in preparation, struggling to comprehend the intricacies of law. Farouk’s knowledge had been invaluable, but now she clung to the hope that Allah’s grace would guide them through this ordeal.

“Yes, Al-Sayyidah,” Farouk confirmed softly. Then he and Ahmed fell back, joining other servants at a respectful distance somewhere behind her and Ishka.

As they neared the front, Yaminah’s gaze finally fell upon her father off to the far right of the dais. Her breath caught, the sight of him in chains striking her core. Baba stood flanked by Sir Percival and two guards, his proud stance unwavering despite his bonds.

It was she who faltered however, her steps suddenly leaden. Ishka’s hand at her elbow steadied her, gently urging her forward. Yaminah’s heart splintered, a maelstrom of emotions threatening to breach the walls of her self-control. Ishka guided her to the front row, choosing spots closer to the aisle and the magistrate’s table rather than nearer to her father and the guards.

Yaminah couldn’t tear her eyes from his face, drinking in every detail as if to memorize it anew. The commanding presence of Al-Sayyid Al-Ajal remained undiminished – freshly attired in kaftan and traditional tunic she had ordered Ahmed to deliver, crisp and clean. Time slowed, the courtroom’s bustle fading to a distant hum as Yaminah’s world narrowed to her father’s stoic figure. Despite having her loyal servants nearby, an overwhelming sense of isolation engulfed her – Youssef and Baba so far from her side.

As if sensing her gaze, Baba’s eyes met hers. In that brief moment, a flicker of warmth softened his stern features. His subtle nod conveyed a world of unspoken comfort and strength, a silent reassurance that transcended their physical separation. Yaminah felt a surge of resolve, drawing courage from her father’s unwavering spirit.

Only the piercing call of trumpets finally broke her trance, snapping her attention back to the unfolding spectacle around her. A hush fell over the assembly as all eyes turned to the grand doors. King Arthur, resplendent in his royal raiment, entered with Queen Guinevere at his side, her elegant crimson gown a beacon of color in the somber atmosphere.

Yaminah sank into a deep curtsy along with the others paying respect to their sovereigns, her movements fluid and graceful. As she rose, her chin lifted slightly, her posture a testament to the inner strength she’d drawn from her father’s gaze. Her eyes followed the royal couple’s progress, her resolve suddenly giving way to a wave of bitterness.

King Arthur’s tender gesture – offering his hand to Queen Guinevere and guiding her gently to the ornate throne upon the dais – struck Yaminah like a barb. The loving look they exchanged before the king took his seat sent a surge of resentment through her heart.

Once, she had admired their pursuit of equality, their vision of a just Camelot. Now, watching them preside over her father’s trial, that admiration curdled into anger and disappointment. How could they speak of justice and equality while deeming her baba’s freedoms a threat to the kingdom?

Is this Camelot vaulted justice? No trace of regret upon their faces? she wondered silently, her faith in the realm’s fairness flickering like a candle flame in a draft. The stark contrast between the royal couple’s open affection and her own heart, starved of her father’s presence, only deepened her sense of betrayal.

The lord magistrate turned to the king, his quill poised expectantly. King Arthur’s solemn nod set the wheels of justice in motion.

“Step forward, Lord Badawi,” Magistrate Aldred called, his voice carrying across the hushed hall.

The muscles in Yaminah’s jaw tightened as her father moved. Each clink of his chains pierced her like a dagger, yet she forced her face to remain an impassive mask. Any flicker of emotion, any tear shed, might be seen as weakness – or worse, bring shame to her baba.

Her fingers twitched with the urge to reach out, to offer comfort and reassurance. She longed to embrace him, to whisper promises that all would be well. But as her father came to stand before judge and throne, uncertainty coiled tightly in her chest. The space between them seemed to stretch, a chasm of protocol and circumstance that left her father isolated. Yaminah stood rooted, torn between duty and desperation, watching as the man who had always been her pillar of strength now faced his accusers alone. She swallowed hard, pushing down the lump forming in her throat.

The magistrate unfurled a scroll with deliberate slowness, the parchment’s crinkle piercing the silence. His quill scratched against the surface, each stroke seeming to echo in Yaminah’s ears. Without raising his gaze, Lord Aldred began to read, his voice carrying the same dreadful charges Sir Percival had delivered in private five days prior.

Each word carved deeper into Yaminah’s soul, reopening wounds barely scabbed over. The litany of accusations dragged forth memories she’d struggled to suppress – knights uninvited into their quarters, Gwaine’s averted eyes – anguished and reluctant, baba’s dignified silence as they led him away. She clutched Ishka’s hand, seeking that anchor in the storm of emotions.

The magistrate’s voice droned on, each charge more damning than the last. Yaminah willed herself to stay strong, but as Lord Aldred neared the end of the list, tears burned behind her eyes, straining against the dam of her resolve.

“... And seeking to undermine harmonious unity among all subjects under crown jurisdiction.”

The final words settled over the court like a shroud, stifling the rising buzz of murmurs. Yaminah’s gaze drifted to Queen Guinevere, unexpectedly meeting the royal’s eyes. Though the queen’s face remained a mask of regal poise, Yaminah caught a fleeting shadow of sympathy in that steady gaze. In that brief connection, the true magnitude of her father’s predicament – and its implications for their entire family –crashed over her with renewed force.

The magistrate’s gaze pierced over his ocular lenses, his voice ringing clear in the silent hall. “Most serious. How do you answer these charges, Lord Badawi?”

Baba straightened, his voice steady. “I spoke truths, lord magistrate, nothing more.”

“Truths that eventually led to Viscount Pierrefonds’ demise,” Lord Aldred countered. “Numerous witnesses recount your words against magic and sorcerers in taverns across Camelot.”

“I did not advocate violence, my lord.”

The magistrate hummed with disbelief, his fingers rustling through the scrolls before selecting one with deliberate care. “On June 11, at the Red Lion, you were heard saying: ‘Do not allow soft hearts to welcome evil within the gates—within your homes. Do not be deceived. Magic corrupts utterly. Its very existence is a plague upon the righteous and just.’ Do you recall uttering these words?”

“I cannot shy from truth because wicked men may abuse it. Am I culpable for another’s actions?”

The magistrate’s frown deepened, a low grunt of disapproval escaping him. “Lord Badawi, you maintain no accountability for your words, yet during the council meeting held on –” he rifled through his papers again, impatience evident in his movements “—Friday, June 6 – did you not quote scripture expressing intolerance? Shall I read it back to you as recorded by the scribes?”

“I am familiar with the passage, lord magistrate,” Baba said, his voice faltering almost imperceptibly.

The magistrate’s eyes narrowed, his gaze boring into Baba with unmistakable irritation. He leaned forward, fingers gripping the parchment before him. “Some of us are not, sir.” He cleared his throat, the sound sharp in the tense silence. “‘Do not turn to mediums or seek out spiritists, for you will be defiled by them. I am the Lord your God.’ – Leviticus 19:31, as it is written.” He looked up, his face a mask of stern disapproval. “Rather inflammatory words, Lord Badawi, that portrays those with magic as something vile to avoid. Hardly the tempered speech to expect from someone not inciting strife.”

Yaminah stared at the magistrate, indignation rising within her. She knew this verse well, having heard Baba quote it often as a guide for personal morality. To her, it represented the essence of their faith and cultural heritage. Its use against him now, stripped of context and twisted into something sinister, filled her with dismay.

Baba drew himself taller, though she glimpsed a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. “I spoke truth from holy scripture, as my faith compels me. This passage offers spiritual guidance and protection, not incitement. I sought not to inflame, only to warn against practices my religion deems harmful. It is a matter of personal conscience and religious freedom, not a call to arms.”

King Arthur leaned forward, his knuckles white on the throne’s arms as he addressed Baba. “Your words undermine peace, and you refuse to temper rhetoric I’ve deemed dangerous.” His face hardened in lines Yaminah had never seen on the king’s handsome visage. “Your ‘truth’ brings violence and instills fear amongst many of my subjects, Lord Badawi.” As he sat back, his icy blue eyes darkened, sending chills careening through Yaminah. Baba’s gaze remained unrepentant, yet questions began to swirl within her at the king’s bitter accusations.

“Lord Badawi,” the magistrate continued, his voice taut with barely contained frustration, “we have numerous accounts of you holding meetings with families grieved by magical incidents, inciting mobs, and whispering of sedition in taverns and other public places.” Lord Aldred’s fingers curled around several scrolls, his knuckles whitening and eyes flashing with growing impatience.

As he read more witness testimonials sealing Baba’s fate, a cold dread seeped into Yaminah’s bones. Murmurs rippled through the hall, but she barely heard them over the pounding of her own heart. She knew well her father’s opposition to Camelot’s magic edicts – his impassioned reasonings often echoed among his allies. But had zeal obscured wisdom, clouded judgment? Had his quest for truth jeopardized peace? The dreadful statements of witnesses rang in her ears – what scripture could absolve one who condemned magic so thoroughly and who, directly or indirectly, bore responsibility for civil strife?

Voices swelled through the hall, a tide of rising whispers and gasps. Lord Aldred’s hand shot out, grasping the large round stone on his table. He brought it down with a resounding thud that silenced the room instantly. In the sudden quiet, his voice rang out, sharp and final.

“Lord Badawi, on this day of our Lord, June 16th, in the year 699, I, Aldred, Lord Magistrate of Camelot, do find you guilty of treason against the realm.” The words fell like a hammer on an anvil. Lord Aldred’s gaze bore into Baba, both triumph and exasperation evident in his stern features.

“No,” Yaminah uttered, the word escaping her lips unbidden. “It cannot be so.” Her heart pounded in her ears, disbelief warring with the harsh reality before her.

Lord Aldred turned to the king. “Sire, as monarch, I invite you to formally pass whatever sentence as you see fit.”

The king’s gaze found Yaminah – her heart seized – her grip on Ishka’s hand tightened to the point of pain. Those blue eyes, ever discerning, seemed to pierce her very soul.

“I take no pleasure in this judgment,” King Arthur said, his gaze shifting to her baba, his voice laden with somber authority. “But a monarch must safeguard stability and order, even when decisions grieve us.” Pausing, his face hardened again. “Unchecked dissent threatens the very fabric of our realm. Therefore, in accordance with the lord magistrate’s judgment and for the protection of our people, I, Arthur Pendragon, King of Camelot, do hereby sentence you, Al-Sayyid Al-Ajal Badawi Zahir, to five years imprisonment in the castle dungeon.”

The pronouncement sank like a stone in her belly. She stifled a cry as her vision blurred, her knees threatening to give way. Faithful Ishka braced her, her touch grounding Yaminah in the midst of her distress. King Arthur stood, signaling Sir Percival and the guards to approach.

Baba turned to her, his shackled hands reaching out before they seized him. “Be strong, Yaminah,” he urged, his fingers grasping at air as they led him away. “Allah watches over us.”

Tears welled in her eyes as she watched him go, her father’s form blurring as she turned towards the throne. Queen Guinevere accepted the king’s extended hand and rose. As they drew closer, Yaminah’s heart raced. She stepped forward, dipping into a graceful curtsey despite her inner turmoil.

“Your Majesties,” Yaminah began, her voice remarkably steady, “I implore you to reconsider. My father has served Camelot faithfully for many years. His words, though perhaps misguided, came from a place of devotion to this realm and its people. I beseech you, mighty King Arthur and gracious Queen Guinevere, in your wisdom and mercy, see the truth of his intentions. Please, do not separate us.”

King Arthur’s face softened, but his eyes remained resolute. “I understand your pain, Al-Sayyidah. Truly. But the judgment stands. I’m sorry.”

Queen Guinevere’s gaze met Yaminah’s, a flicker of empathy returning in her eyes. Her hand briefly touched Yaminah’s arm, a gesture too subtle for most to notice. Her voice was low, meant only for Yaminah’s ears. “Have faith, child. Even in darkness, hope endures.”

The words offered little solace to the ache gripping Yaminah’s heart, yet the queen’s small kindness stood in vivid contrast to the harshness of the day’s events. ‘Hope’? Yaminah wondered bitterly. What hope was there for her to grasp in this maelstrom of loss and uncertainty?

As the royal couple disappeared from view, the full weight of her new reality settled upon her shoulders. A sudden, chilling thought struck her: execution could have been her father’s fate. Even as this realization sent a shudder through her, a wave of conflicting relief washed over her. Five years of imprisonment was cruel, but at least Baba would live. Perhaps, in his own way, the king had shown mercy after all.

The bustling courtroom faded to a distant hum, the world narrowing to the loyal faces of Ishka, and now Farouk and Ahmed who had joined them. Her voice, barely above a whisper, still carried authority in her decision.

“Farouk, begin preparation for our journey north,” she said calmly, “but the Sabbath approaches swiftly, and we must also prepare for the Lord’s Day. Our efforts to pack and settle affairs here will likely press us and extend to next week. Ishka, send word to Aethelmearc of our anticipated arrival in about three weeks’ time.”

Even as she spoke, a part of her heart clung desperately to a faint glimmer of hope that the queen promised. Perhaps Sir Gwaine or Youssef might appear before her departure, offering some reprieve from the loneliness that threatened to engulf her. Yet the rational part of her mind cautioned against such wishful thinking. She could not rely on their return, no matter how fervently her heart yearned for it.

As Yaminah steeled herself for the tasks ahead, her thoughts raced between the immediate preparations required and the uncertain future that awaited her at Qasr Al-Zafar. The coming days would test her resolve, but she was determined to face them with the dignity befitting her father’s daughter.

Chapter Text

Merlin urged Chestnut forward, the rhythmic clop of hooves matching his racing thoughts. Dawn’s earlier confrontation with Arthur over the sorcerers’ petition lingered in his mind, a tangle of frustration and hope. The king’s initial amusement had given way to smoldering fury, and though Arthur had offered a compromising, yet wary approach, the path ahead remained as twisting as the road to the millhouse.

At his training ground, Merlin dismounted and tethered the mare to a weathered post. The air hummed with possibility however, charged like the moments before a storm. He closed his eyes, feeling the day’s potential crackling around him. Court Wizard, a proposal for autonomy, aiding the magically wounded, fostering discourse with sorcerers – each task a crucial thread in an intricate design he was only beginning to weave.

Merlin reached for the Sidhe staff secured to Chestnut’s saddle, feeling the familiar thrum of power as his fingers closed around it. The ancient metal seemed to pulse with anticipation, as if it too sensed the magnitude of the day ahead. Gazing in the direction of Camelot, he shielded his eyes. The castle remained hidden beyond the thick forest, but its presence loomed large in his mind. Merlin smoothed Chestnut’s mane with one final stroke before gently patting her and setting off on foot.

The staff his walking companion, Merlin trod the undulating terrain, each rise and fall mirroring the uncertain journey ahead for magic in the kingdom. Conflicting emotions swirled within him – excitement and apprehension alternating in rapid succession. These familiar sensations were often present during pivotal moments, and now they surged again, offering challenge and comfort, terror and exhilaration. Merlin embraced the solitude of this trek, allowing his thoughts to coalesce, not into clarity, but into a determined resolve to face whatever awaited beyond Camelot’s gates, both today and in the future.

Arthur’s letter to the people fluttered through his thoughts, its impact spreading like ripples on a pond. Would those carefully chosen words reach Elyan, drawing Gwen’s brother back from the shadows of distrust? Beyond that, could they soothe the hearts of those hurt by magic, offering a balm to old wounds? Might they also soften the stance of those who viewed the magical with suspicion, opening paths to cooperation and understanding?

Merlin’s chest constricted, hope and doubt warring like twin dragons within. The letter was a seed planted in fertile ground indeed, but whether it would sprout into unity or wither in the face of long-held fears remained to be seen. Such delicate shifts in perception could reshape the kingdom’s future, healing rifts that had long seemed unbridgeable, or keep them stagnant in fear and mistrust.

He moistened his lips, and considered the sorcerers’ petition that now demanded equal attention. This new labyrinth of desires and fears needed careful navigation. As he walked, fragments of a proposal took shape – freedoms balanced against safeguards, ancient traditions meshing with a new era, benefits weighed against risks. Each element was a thread in a delicate tapestry, one that needed to be woven with utmost care.

Master Iseldir’s wisdom, as deep and steady as an ancient well, would be crucial to infuse the proposal with the calm reason of the old religion. Iseldir’s vast knowledge could bridge the gap between Arthur’s understanding and the ancient ways more effectively than he or Gaius ever could, grounding the king in lore that had long been misunderstood.

Alator the Catha’s experience could prove invaluable too – his order’s emergence from the shadows of prophecy signaled their readiness to become staunch allies of Emrys. His keen understanding of the magical world’s complexities would be essential in drafting the document.

Galahad’s fresh perspective would also be vital, offering insights as bright and unexpected as a spark in darkness. And as Arthur had suggested, Merlin planned to leverage the exceptional pen and knowledge of Geoffrey of Monmouth, whose scholarly expertise would lend additional credibility to their proposal. Together with these extraordinary men, they might craft a document truly unifying – something powerful enough to sway even Arthur’s cautious heart.

It wasn’t until he reached a familiar bend in the road that Merlin realized he’d walked more distance from the mill house than he’d intended. The morning had slipped away too unnoticed, and as he crested an incline, the sun high in the sky, he found himself both thirsty and winded. He’d meant to teleport to the southern gates by now, but had become so lost in thought that he had noticed neither where he was nor how far he’d come. He was likely an hour behind schedule now.

As he stepped off the path into a quiet glade, Merlin’s heart thundered in his chest, his hands trembling at his sides. The aged Emrys he was about to transform into – and the future this old self represented – triggered doubts within again. Would he truly embody the wise and revered figure Arthur had spoken of so confidently over a fortnight ago? Could he match the powerful presence he’d projected as Emrys the night before? Should he even attempt to? Or would he falter, exposed as a fraud before a crowd still wary of magic?

He clenched his fists, willing the tremors to subside. The enormity of his task—bridging the world of magic and Camelot’s court—suddenly bore down on him like a tangible force. Sweat beaded on his forehead and above his lip. Yet beneath the fear, determination burned strong and constant. He had faced seemingly insurmountable challenges before and prevailed. Now, with the fate of magic and Camelot teetering in the balance, he had no choice but to do the same.

Merlin drew a deep breath, steadying himself, still wrestling with the persistent doubts. He and Galahad had saved Camelot from crisis, breathing life back into barren lands. That feat alone validated his worth. And it was merely one moment of service to the kingdom. He was not a fraudster. This was who he was. There was so much more he had accomplished in secret, and still more waiting to be unleashed for Camelot’s benefit.

But Emrys in Arthur’s court – a delicate balance indeed. The druids knew his dual identity, accepting both his youthful and aged forms without question. In court and council, however, these dual personas might be more than just misunderstood. If – no, when – they discovered that he was Emrys, the revelation could spark outrage and distrust. Many would not appreciate that he had been amongst them for years, conceivably influencing kings and other powerful figures with his magic. Would the court view the king as a puppet, manipulated by a hidden sorcerer? This could severely undermine their ultimate goal: trusting in Arthur and Emrys and in their ability to bring about Albion.

Swallowing against a dry throat, Merlin’s stomach churned at the thought of how this might truly affect Camelot. But time alone would reveal what destinies these days set into motion. For now, he and the inner circle must focus on controlling the present the best they knew how, with Arthur leading the way.

Drawing one last steadying breath, Merlin began to chant the aging spell. As the words of power flowed from his lips, his body groaned and bent under added years not earned. Youthful hands dried to mottled skin as the vibrancy was sucked from soft flesh, revealing gnarled and aching bone. White hair and beard cascaded like a snowy waterfall to his waist, the quickened growth tingling and tickling his skin.

Merlin knew his azure eyes would appear dimmed under a weathered brow – all the solemn wizard and blithe youth in one vessel. A rust-red robe enveloped him, patched yet strangely comforting. Strange, he mused, to inhabit this venerable form as easily as shedding a coat. He leaned into his iron companionship, his bony hand feeling the staff’s familiar power coursing through him, ready to usher in this destined age.

With another flash of magic, Merlin materialized on a distant hilltop overlooking Camelot. The castle’s proud spires pierced the sky on the horizon, flags waving atop them like beacons. The sprawling meadow before the gates, once bustling with coronation festivities, now stood empty and grand. The absence of tents and allies lent an air of solitary majesty to the scene.

Merlin’s keen eyes scanned the area, noting the smattering of people still coming and going along the winding path out beyond the wall. He carefully assessed potential landing spots, mindful of choosing locations that would make his appearance both safe and suitably dramatic.

He vanished again, materializing halfway down the hill, the air crackling with energy, leaves and dust swirling in his wake. From this vantage point, he could make out the gates and the tiny figures of guards standing watch. Another blink, and he reappeared beside an ornate carriage making its way towards Camelot. The horses startled, whinnying in surprise, as the driver jerked the reins in shock. He offered a quick, apologetic bow before vanishing once more.

Merlin reappeared near a lord and lady on horseback traveling south out of Camelot, far enough from them not to startle their mounts. The couple’s eyes widened in surprise. He smiled broadly, bowed low, and disappeared before they could react, leaving them gaping at the empty space where he had stood.

With a final, dramatic flash, he appeared directly before the gates, the sudden materialization sending a shock wave rippling outward, startling nearby travelers and guards alike. Some stumbled back, shouting with agitation. Others froze in place, squinting through the dust, unable to comprehend the display of raw magical power before them. Horses whinnied in fright, their hooves clopping loudly on the cobblestone as astonished pages struggled to settle them. A cart laden with produce tipped over, spilling apples and cabbages across the ground. The cacophony of curses, neighs, and rolling fruit created a chaotic backdrop to Merlin’s arrival – perhaps more dramatic than he’d intended.

Merlin winced inwardly at the mayhem he’d caused. Beyond the guard’s shoulder, he spotted Percival and Ranulf striding into view, their expressions filled with concern and resignation as they surveyed the turmoil.

The two guards on duty—unfamiliar faces, likely new recruits—struggled against the sudden gust of wind and swirling dust. One guard coughed and rubbed his eyes, irritation clear in his furrowed brow as he tilted his halberd towards Merlin. His companion, equally distressed, tried to blink the grit from his eyes.

“You must be Emrys,” one guard stated flatly, his tone more exasperated than awed, red eyes tearing.

“I am expected,” Merlin rasped with a smile, his voice crustier than normal.

“Couldn’t you have arrived without all the...” the guard coughed, gesturing vaguely at the settling dust, “...commotion?”

Merlin clicked his teeth, raising an eyebrow. “Oh. My apologies,” he grumbled. “Next time, I’ll aim for less dust and more... sparkles!” He leaned on his staff as if it were a third leg, deliberately appearing feebler and putting on a convincing show of frailty.

Percival and Ranulf shouldered through the still-discomforted guards. “Emrys,” Percival said, his tone impressively even. “I see you’ve... cleared the way for your arrival.”

“I have indeed,” replied Merlin. He noticed Ranulf, the knight’s expression a mask of practiced indifference. Even in the face of such a dramatic magical display, the knight had recovered with remarkable speed, his stoic demeanor reasserting itself as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.

“We’ll escort him,” Percival said to the guards, ushering Merlin beyond the gate. He tossed over his shoulder, “The king and queen command a word with you.”

“Command?” Merlin asked, stopping in his tracks, his voice sharp with feigned indignation. He stared at Percival expectantly, his aged brow lifted high and a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Percival crooked his mouth sideways, shrugging his mountainous shoulders. “Perhaps, ‘request’ is a more suitable word. They would like to thank you for what you’ve done.”

Merlin smiled broadly then, his aged features crinkling with mirth. “Only them?” Surprisingly, he noticed Ranulf’s cool defenses crumbling, the knight struggling to retain his composure, his hand covering to his chin in a poor attempt to hide a growing grin.

Percival’s eyes darted between Merlin and Ranulf, clearly measuring the situation. After a moment, he spoke, genuine gratitude warming his voice. “Thank you, Emrys. From all of us.”

Merlin chuckled warmly, and as they walked, he reflected on the change in Percival’s demeanor these last few days. The first knight seemed less burdened than he had in recent times. Merlin knew that as a Christian, Percival had likely wrestled with guilt over some of their more morally ambiguous actions. But since the crop restoration, a weight appeared to have lifted from his shoulders. Perhaps some faith – in magic, in their cause, in himself – had also been renewed. Whatever the reason, Merlin was glad to see the change.

“It is my honor to be of service, young Percival,” Merlin replied, infusing his aged voice with a touch of playful condescension.

Percival looked away, biting back a grin now. Merlin too suppressed a chuckle, knowing that in truth, “young Percival” was probably ten years his senior.

People in the square turned toward them as they made their way across the courtyard, some stopping to gaze. Merlin glanced at familiar and unfamiliar faces, surprised by what he saw – or rather, what he did not see. His very appearance embodied the essence of ‘sorcerer’, from his flowing beard to his gnarled staff, yet fear was absent from their expressions. Instead, he saw wariness, indifference, and a healthy dose of curiosity. To his relief, no one cried for the head of this sorcerer who walked so boldly among them.

As they moved through the crowd, Merlin caught glimpses of parchment in the hands of nobles, knights, and servants. Could these be copies of Arthur’s letter? he wondered. If so, it might explain the unexpectedly calm atmosphere. The king’s words, reaching far and wide, perhaps had softened the ground for Emrys’ arrival.

Unable to contain his curiosity, Merlin snatched one of the parchments from the closest person – a woman. Her indignant “I beg your pardon, sir!” echoed behind him as he shuffled onward, his eyes already scanning through the letter’s contents.

“Apologies, my lady,” Merlin heard Ranulf say behind him, his voice tinged with embarrassment and resignation.

“The king is indeed a complex individual,” Merlin cackled gleefully to no one in particular, stuffing the letter into the cuff of a sleeve. He caught Ranulf and Percival exchanging shocked and worried glances from the corner of his eye, their uneasiness only adding to his amusement.

The climb up the citadel steps commenced, Merlin affecting a slow, hobbling pace. What began as an act, however, soon became uncomfortably real. His knees started to ache, bone grinding against arthritic bone with each step. He grasped his staff, found himself genuinely grimacing as they ascended. The line between performance and reality blurred, his aged form no longer just a disguise but a physical challenge.

“Come now, old man,” Ranulf teased behind him. “Surely your bones aren’t that fragile.”

Merlin shot him a stern scowl, the tangible ache in his joints lending authenticity to his expression. Despite the pain and the unsettling truth of his aging body, he secretly delighted in the banter. “Have some respect, boy,” he rasped, infusing his voice with both feigned and real weariness. “Do you know how far I walked to grace this kingdom with my presence?” He leaned heavily on his staff, shoulders slumped with fatigue that was only partially exaggerated.

“Walked?” Ranulf countered, eyebrow raised. “That’s not how it looked to us.”

Merlin opened his mouth, ready to continue their sparring, when Percival interjected. “The king and queen await,” the first knight said, his tone firm.

“Yes, yes, I know,” Merlin grumbled, his tattered robes fluttering like weary wings around his stooped frame. “Do not rush me.”

Reaching the landing at last, he made quite a show of catching his breath, stretching and cracking his aching bones, smacking his dry lips. In all honestly, he really was thirsty too, having forgotten his waterskin on Chestnut’s saddle.

“Water,” he demanded, eyeing Ranulf’s supply. “I’m parched.”

With a raised brow, Ranulf passed him a waterskin. Merlin took a long, grateful drink as Percival scratched his cheek, shuffled his feet.

“Merlin,” Percival leaned in, his voice low and tinged with frustration, brow furrowing, “we really must—”.

“Ha!” a familiar laugh cut Percival’s words short. Galahad strode towards them from the castle doors, his eyes dancing with delight as he took in Merlin’s aged disguise.

“Is this the fearsome Emrys? You look ancient!” he chuckled, shaking his head in amazement, raking his gaze over Merlin from head to toe. He glanced at Percival and pointed. “He looks as if he might crumble to dust with a strong breeze!” He laughed heartily again, his joy permeating the air.

Despite his teasing tone, Galahad’s eyes shone with wonder and pride. Merlin realized that though his mentor had inspired him in ways that had made him appreciate this aged form as much as his youthful one, this was the first time Galahad beheld the transformation.

“Thank you,” Merlin said to Ranulf as he returned the waterskin. Unable to keep from smiling, his gaze drifted to Galahad. Out of respect for the journey they’d shared, Merlin decided to let Galahad have his moment of playful teasing. He mused that his friend’s humor rivaled even Gwaine’s, a thought that both warmed and amused him.

“The king and queen ponder your delay, Sir Percival,” Galahad reported to the first knight, grinning and staring with undisguised awe at Merlin.

Percival’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “Let us proceed then,” he said, shooting Merlin a frustrated scowl. “Follow me, Emrys.”

Merlin winked at Galahad as the young knight fell in behind with Ranulf, both struggling to contain their mirth. Percival, maintaining his role as first knight and marshal, led the way through the citadel with a determinedly neutral expression. Along the corridors, people paused their tasks, craning for a glimpse as he passed. He softened his features and wiggled his nose at the onlookers, his aged ears picking up hushed whispers.

“He looks familiar. Could he be the one? Isn’t that the sorcerer who escaped the pyre?”

Though odds remained this introduction could still go awry, he had observed a spectrum of reactions since entering the courtyard: some faces showed wariness, others curiosity, and a few even displayed cautious hope. At least open hostility wasn’t bubbling on the surface with his imminent ascension in the king’s court. At least not yet. His gaze drifted to the parchment clutched in many hands. Arthur’s letter, he mused, a throaty grunt of approval escaping.

They arrived at the familiar doors of the great hall, entering amidst an influx of curious followers. As Merlin crossed the threshold, the change in atmosphere shifted abruptly. The cool stone of the great hall seemed to leech away the cautious optimism he’d felt outside, replacing it with an undercurrent of unease pervading the chamber.

His eyes glided with purpose across the room, taking in the same medley of court life – nobles, knights, and servants, their faces beginning to blend together in a sea of expectant gazes. Yet amidst this familiar crowd, a few rows from the front, two figures stood out: the new physicians, Leonard Vanne and Ruadan Firestone. Curiosity and professional assessment marked their expressions, a refreshing change from the usual court masks. However, Ruadan’s eyes narrowed slightly, a hint of suspicion darkening his gaze.

Several knights flanked the rear of the dais, their formidable demeanors rigid with vigilance. Before them, George stood at attention on the left, his face as impassive as ever, and Sefa hovered on the right, her eyes wide with wonder. Only Geoffrey of Monmouth dared to stand close, positioned calmly and centrally behind the throne chairs, his face a mask of scholarly interest that belied the significance of his presence.

Finally, Merlin’s gaze settled on the king and queen sitting on their thrones, and he felt his heart sink. Unlike their subjects, who had displayed varied emotions, the royals presented a united front of controlled impatience tinged with guarded caution. Arthur's jaw was clenched, his eyes a steely mix of irritation and wariness – perhaps also recalling the terrible incident with his father, but also clearly annoyed at being kept waiting. Gwen sat rigid, her gaze fixed on Merlin's aged form with shock and apprehension.

He swallowed hard, suddenly parched again. Their disquiet emotions radiated outward, challenging his resolve. In the whirlwind of preparations and concerns about the kingdom’s reaction, it seemed the three of them had overlooked how profoundly this moment might affect them personally. This realization threatened to unsettle Merlin’s composure, but he braced himself. There was no turning back now.

Percival stopped before the throne, the soft clink of his chain mail echoing in the hushed hall as he bowed his head respectfully. “Your majesties,” announced the first knight, stepping aside. “Here is the man we seek.”

Merlin stepped forward, the tap of his staff on the stone floor seeming to match his heartbeat. He bowed low to his friends, his beard nearly brushing the floor.

“My name is Emrys. I come to you in peace.” Merlin paused, his aged eyes meeting Arthur’s steady gaze. “May I commend your majesties for your bravery in embracing such changes concerning magic.”

Arthur’s blue eyes measured Merlin up and down, his silence stretching long enough that Merlin began to fidget, his aged joints protesting the stillness. The quiet in the hall became unsettling, smothering, broken only by a symphony of subtle sounds: the soft rustle of clothing, the muted clink of knights’ chain mail, the whisper of leather as hands tightened on sword hilts, and the barely perceptible shuffle of countless feet shifting uneasily around the chamber.

Finally, Arthur leaned forward, the leather of his royal short coat creaking softly. His tone and expression severe though a glint of mirth at last sparked in his eyes. “You told us long ago your name was Dragoon the Great.”

Memories flooded Merlin’s mind: being escorted into King Uther’s council meeting, blurting out that silly name, innately knowing not to call himself Emrys. He had been there to save Gwen, acting on impulse and desperation. Years later, assuming this persona again, he and Arthur had dared another encounter to save the dying Uther—an incident that could discredit them both if fully known. Those pivotal moments lingered between the three of them, a shared history as complex as any spell. Yet, despite the greys of their past—its triumphs, near-catastrophes, and shadowy dealings he was not proud of—Merlin managed a grin, feeling the wrinkles around his eyes deepen.

“Another name, my lord, used for protection,” he replied, his aged voice carrying a hint of mischief. Turning more sober, he added, “Camelot… was a dangerous place for people like me.”

“Despite the change in our laws, your presence here is... bold, considering our history.” Arthur’s voice carried clear across the hall, firm yet tinged with curiosity.

“Did you summon me for execution, King Arthur?” Merlin’s challenge rang out, sudden and sharp.

Arthur stiffened, his jawline feathering, clearly taken aback. His eyes widened slightly, surprise and something akin to hurt flashing across his face.

“That… was never my intention,” Arthur replied, his tone carefully measured. “We seek to build bridges, not burn them.”

Merlin’s eyes flashed, his posture straightening despite his aged appearance. “Then let us speak plainly, King Arthur. Have I not proven my loyalty to Camelot time and again?”

His staff struck the stone floor with a sharp crack that startled the onlookers, including Arthur and Gwen. The sound echoed through the hall, emphasizing his words.

“Did my actions not save your future queen all those years ago?”

“Yes,” Gwen said softly, nodding her head. “You did.”

Merlin turned to her, noticed how she leaned forward slightly, her earlier concern giving way to keen interest. Sunlight from the high windows danced on her crown like stars on a river as the court around them seemed to hold its collective breath, hanging on every word of this exchange.

“You have a question for me, Queen Guinevere?” Merlin prompted gently, recognizing the inquisitive look in her eyes.

“I am as curious as perhaps everyone else here,” Gwen said, her voice soft as down and her head tilting slightly. “But why would you do that for me? Save me? I had never seen you before, yet you risked everything.”

He gazed at his friend solemnly, his aged eyes crinkling gently at the corners. “Because I have been amongst you, and I’d watched you over the years, my queen. Your kindness, gentleness, and compassion flowed freely to all who needed it, noble and commoner alike. It was crucial to extend the same grace to you, for your ascension to the throne was but the first step of your greatest destiny – to nurture Camelot beside her greatest king, guiding the realm toward true equality and justice.”

As he finished speaking, Merlin’s solemn expression changed for just a moment. His eyes twinkled with warmth for his first friend in Camelot. Gwen’s features softened, a ghost of a smile playing on her lips before she composed herself.

Merlin then shifted his attention to Arthur, his face once again the picture of aged wisdom. “And you, Arthur Pendragon. Your life is a beacon to many, illuminating the path for a united Albion. Your wisdom in embracing change, your commitment to justice for all your subjects – these qualities mark you as a truly great king, one I am duty-bound to protect.”

Arthur lifted his head, brow furrowed deeply, lips pressed in a thin pout. Merlin recognized the look— it was Arthur’s way of processing praise without letting it go to his head, a trait Merlin had always admired. The king’s gaze drifted away from him, roaming soberly over his people, as if seeking confirmation of Emrys’ words in their faces.

The crowd’s voices rose and fell through the hall like waves on a shore. “How can this be? He’s lying. He’s enchanting us all even now. No, he is true, sincere. But what if he’s right? What if magic could truly help Camelot? Can we trust any sorcerer? Careful now…”

Merlin stood steady, allowing the murmurs to wash over him. He kept his gaze fixed on Arthur and Gwen, watching as they exchanged meaningful glances with him and those of the inner circle.

Then he continued, his voice resounding in a tone that seemed to still the very air in the hall. “My king,” he said, advancing a few steps, his staff tapping against the stone, “your kingdom was built on many faiths, once a tapestry of peaceful coexistence. And then the darkest of ages befell Camelot, plunging magic and the world into horror. Many died. Many families broken. Many faiths shattered. Almost thirty years hence, light returns as magic breathes free once more.”

He turned slowly, regarding the audience with a stern stare of judgment. “Discord lingers. I’ve glimpsed unrest and distrust among you – not much, but it threatens all. And to what purpose? I have restored your fields – you’ve partaken of its bounty, yet some would embrace hunger rather than accept a sorcerer’s goodwill. Yes, some of us on both sides have caused great harm of late. But they are mere drops in an ocean of those who freely offer their gifts to the kingdom, or those who lend a tender, merciful hand. What folly to spurn such blessings?”

With a flourish, he pulled Arthur’s letter from his sleeve, his eyes flicking to the king. Arthur’s lips parted in surprise, another murmur rippled through the crowd at this unexpected reveal.

Merlin held the letter aloft. “A brave gesture for a monarch to acknowledge wrongs, extend hope, and to know that his kingdom must mend its wounds or risk fading like mist at dawn. Your efforts shine with honor, courage, and wisdom, King Arthur, and I commend your service to so many.” He drifted back to the throne with dignified slowness, ignoring his aching joints, each movement a calculated performance.

“Opposition will always exist, like shadows in sunlight, but it need not define us. Know this: my magic and support stand ready to aid Camelot. The time has come to nurture harmony, to forge a unity from the diverse strengths of the people of this kingdom.”

Arthur sat taller, his eyes blazing with determination and conviction. “Your words strike at the very heart of what we seek to achieve,” he declared, his tone resonating through the hall. “As I have come to believe, and as it must now be clear to all, you are not our enemy, Master Emrys, but a vital ally in the future we strive to build.” He stood, his presence commanding the attention of all present.

“Emrys, please approach,” Arthur commanded as Gwen rose beside him. Merlin advanced upon the dais, his heart racing beneath his aged exterior. This was the moment he had long dreamed of, yet never truly believed would come. Arthur extended his hand. “Camelot not only thanks you but embraces you as a cornerstone of the new era we forge together.”

The world seemed to slow, sounds to fade as Merlin grasped the king’s wrist. He gripped it firmly, squeezing as tightly as his bony fingers pressed into Arthur’s flesh, the physical contact anchoring him in a moment that felt almost unreal. Was this truly happening? Years of secrecy and struggle coalescing into this single, defining instant.

“I thank you, King Arthur,” he heard himself say, his voice loud in his own ears. A smile, broader than any he’d worn before, spread across his face, crinkling his aged features. Merlin deftly tucked the letter back into his sleeve, the motion automatic and fluid. “You are indeed wise for one so young,” he added, the words floating out of him unbidden.

Arthur chuckled, his teeth capturing his bottom lip to suppress amusement, humility, and subdued surprise. “This is where I formally ask Emrys to be my Court Wizard.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice to a mere whisper that seemed to resonate through Merlin’s very being. “You’ve journeyed far to reach this moment, Merlin. Are you ready to assume this mantle?”

“Am I ready to assume the mantle? Despite all appearances, I’m terrified,” Merlin replied, his face folding into a frown that was only partially feigned. “My body aches fiercely after all my theatrics, and I’m more than a touch weary. Sleep eluded me last night as you know, considering what kept me awake, and I walked further to Camelot this morning than wisdom would have dictated. I’m exhausted, Arthur, and I still need to speak with Galahad and Geoffrey about the proposal, let alone contact the other masters.”

“I understand,” Arthur said, though his tone and the way he brushed aside Merlin’s own concerns like leaves in the wind suggested otherwise. “Tomorrow’s challenge will be steeper still – protocol now demands I introduce you to my council.”

Arthur leaned even closer, curiosity and mirth mingling in his eyes, and it seemed to Merlin that the king’s “understanding” was indeed as shallow as a puddle as he continued. “Nice touch with the letter,” Arthur said. “I have some ideas about that, by the way, so join us for a meal later to discuss them.”

He paused, his voice dropping to a near whisper, a hint of wariness in his tone. “But I need to know, Merlin – are there any more surprises I should be prepared for?”

“Not…sure,” Merlin admitted, exchanging an exasperated glance with Gwen, who offered a sympathetic smile. His voice an exhausted rasp, he leaned heavily on his staff, fatigue truly gnawing at his old bones now. “But, three days in a row of transforming into Emrys – my nerves are already over-excited, Arthur. Might we postpone a few days?”

“No,” Arthur said without hesitation, his word falling with unmistakable finality. “Better get used to it, Emrys.” A smile tugged at the corner of Arthur’s mouth, a familiar blend of authority and amusement that Merlin had seen countless times over the years.

“Arthur…” Gwen interjected gently, her tone a soft rebuke to her husband’s stubbornness.

“What?” he defended, turning to her with crossed arms. His expression softened slightly at her look. “He kept us waiting for near an hour.” Returning his attention to Merlin, Arthur’s smug grin reappeared. “Consider this your penance.”

He shifted slightly, maintaining eye contact with Merlin while addressing the knight. “Sir Percival, ensure any outstanding records against Dragoon are cleared.”

“Yes, sire,” Percival responded, a crooked grin playing on his face.

Merlin pressed his lips together, irritation and reluctant amusement flaring beneath his aged visage. Of course Arthur would find this situation entertaining, he thought. Some things never change, even when you’re suddenly the most powerful sorcerer in the realm.

He supposed he did keep the royalty waiting unnecessarily though and conceded to… some form of penance. But he could feel the strain of maintaining his aged form intensifying, a dull ache settling into his bones. How long could he keep up this charade today without arousing suspicion?

“Take respite the remainder of the day, Merlin,” Gwen intervened after a soft roll of her eyes at Arthur, her voice compassionate. “Sir Galahad, come forward please…” She paused, considering her words carefully. “Have the steward find him quarters. Um, somewhere close to Merlin’s perhaps? And ensure he spends this time resting, not working. Merlin, we’ll see you at supper tonight.”

“Yes, my queen,” Galahad responded, a small chuckle in his throat.

“Thank you, Gwen,” Merlin said with a strained bow, relief flooding his tired frame like warm honey. As he turned to leave, his eyes twinkled with mischief.

“Well,” he mused loud enough for Arthur, Gwen, and the nearby knights to hear, “I didn’t realize how much fun deception could be, having so many accomplices along for the ride.”

The reaction was immediate. Arthur’s eyes widened, alarm flashing across his face. A hand flew to Gwen’s chest, her lips pressed together, clearly fighting back apprehension again. Percival and Ranulf exchanged panicked glances, while Galahad’s shoulders shook with barely contained mirth. Merlin grinned, nodding as these same shared feelings coursed through him, officially welcoming them to his world.

“Fair day, Arthur, Gwen,” Merlin acknowledged with smug satisfaction before turning slowly.

“This way,” said Percival, pivoting on heels, Galahad and Ranulf flanking him like honor guards.

Merlin glided down the aisle with practiced poise, balancing the frailty of his aged form with the dignity of his newfound position. His shoulders were pulled higher now despite his growing fatigue, buoyed by today’s success. He’d weathered his first audience with the king, queen, and court like a ship through a tempest. Next, he’d need to navigate the treacherous waters of the council’s harder scrutiny.

Chapter Text

Youssef traversed the empty corridors and stairwells of the citadel, each step a reluctant march towards familial obligation. News of his father’s arrest had reached him just beyond the border, far from his intended destination, yet despairingly had compelled him to turn back towards Camelot. Poor Yaminah – enduring this ordeal alone, he thought once again, clicking his teeth.

He might have sent a pigeon to her announcing his return, but his father’s arrest had first stunned him, then infuriated him as it derailed his meticulously crafted plans. This unforeseen crisis had earned him his patron’s ire too, deepening Youssef’s own frustration at the abrupt shift in circumstances.

He paused outside the heavy oak doors, key in hand. The steward had informed him that Yaminah still occupied their rooms, and for a moment, he considered turning away, seeking refuge in some forgotten corner of the castle where he might postpone their reunion. He dreaded any interaction now with his ever-composed sister, especially given his current state. Weariness gnawed at his bones, his mind a fog of jumbled thoughts. In this moment, coherent conversation seemed beyond his grasp, his exhaustion threatening to unravel what little composure he maintained. Still, he yearned for the sanctuary of his own chambers and the warmth of his bed just beyond these ornately-carved doors.

Sighing, he inserted the key, exhaustion propelling him forward. As the lock clicked open, he braced himself, hoping for a reprieve before facing Yaminah’s inevitable inquisition. Youssef stepped into familiar surroundings and scents, comforts of home that now felt strangely alien, his fatigue and inner turmoil casting the once-welcoming space in an unsettling light.

Closing the door gently behind him, Youssef’s brow furrowed. An eerie quiet pervaded the space, giving it an air of abandonment despite subtle signs of habitation. The source of his unease dawned on him swiftly: his father’s beloved icons, typically adorning the chambers, were conspicuously absent. He hummed softly, exhaling as realization settled. Yaminah, ever thoughtful, had likely moved them to their father’s dungeon cell, allowing him the solace of his cherished relics.

Easing quietly around an ornate divider screen and heading for his room, the sound of soft footsteps from the adjoining chamber caught his attention. He turned, tensing involuntarily as Yaminah appeared in the doorway, her silhouette framed by the dim candle light behind her.

“Youssef!” she gasped, her delicate features lighting up with relief. She crossed the room in swift strides, throwing herself into his arms. As she pressed her head against his chest, he felt her trembling like a lone date palm in a sandstorm.

“Sister,” said Youssef, disarmed immediately by her warmth and joy at seeing him. He relaxed in her embrace, guilt mingling with unease as she began to weep unrestrained. How truly difficult it must have been for her. He wondered if Ishka or even her valiant knight had been able to provide the comfort that he had not.

As she wept, he inhaled the faint scent of jasmine perfume emanating from his twin. Since girlhood she had coveted their mother’s fragrance, dabbing the floral oil on herself to feel closer to a parent robbed from them too soon. Even now, amid chaos and grief, Yaminah clung to this delicate connection to their past. Youssef felt a twinge of envy; he had never found such a tangible link to cherish, nothing of their father to revere or emulate. Baba’s stern teachings and unyielding expectations had left little room for sentiment.

“Tell me what happened,” he urged gently. Dropping his bedroll and unclasping his cloak, he tossed it carelessly onto a chair. He then wrapped an arm around Yaminah and guided her to the chaise.

As they settled, Yaminah took a moment to compose herself, but the effort only brought fresh tears. Looking over her, Youssef noticed faint shadows beneath her eyes, signs of sleepless nights etched into her otherwise flawless features. Her resilience in the face of adversity struck him, stirring feelings of admiration and growing annoyance. While he pursued his own ambitions, chafing at the bonds of family duty, she’d predictably stood firm, shouldering burdens he’d gladly left behind. His quest for personal freedom and her unwavering commitment to their family’s welfare reinforced his belief in the rightness of his choices, even as a small, unwelcome voice whispered of obligations unfulfilled.

“You cannot imagine,” Yaminah began, her voice quavering, “the agony of seeing the man you adored all your life ripped away by the man whose affections you craved.” Her words seemed to echo in the stillness, each syllable infused with betrayal and shattered dreams. Tears traced silvery paths down her cheeks, silently conveying her anguish. “In that moment, Youssef, it felt as if two pillars of my world crumbled simultaneously – Baba and the man I thought might be my future.”

During her raw and bitter telling – the arrest, the knight’s absence, baba’s instructions and trial – Youssef found himself unexpectedly detached. He observed her pain with clinical interest, almost fascinated by the depth of her anguish. As she poured out her heart, he studied her trembling hands, the catch in her voice, the way her eyes glistened with tears. It was as if he were watching a stranger’s grief, not his sister’s. As she finished her account, he realized he’d been holding his breath, his jaw clenched tight.

Yaminah reached into the folds of her gown, producing a crinkled piece of parchment. Her fingers trembled slightly as she handed it to him. “I will see to baba’s comfort for what it is worth,” she said, drying her tears as he read a note hastily written by their father. “We leave for the Northern Plains when all is settled here. After the Sabbath.”

As he looked at the words, Youssef was struck by how uncharacteristically messy the handwriting was, coming from a man who had often cracked his knuckles for less than perfect penmanship. He scoffed, clicking his tongue against teeth once again, though he didn’t lose the deeper meaning behind the scrawled script.

Youssef was relieved all responsibilities had fallen to her, leaving him free to pursue his own desires, while her entire world splintered around her. With baba imprisoned and his hard scrutiny of Youssef’s absences diminished, he only had to contend with Yaminah’s disapproval now.

“He has since written a few more instructions for me,” Yaminah said, her voice soft. “But this one… I can’t explain it, Youssef. Having it close somehow keeps a part of baba with me. Foolish, I know, but...”

He scowled, a flicker of annoyance passing through him as he realized he wasn’t mentioned in the note, but it quickly faded. After all, hadn’t he proven himself unreliable in family matters? The brevity of the message spoke volumes about baba’s limited time and priorities too. It said more about his father’s character – and perhaps his own – than any flowery sentiment could have. Part of him felt a twinge of – regret? resentment? – at being so easily discounted, while another part reveled in the freedom this exclusion granted him. He passed the note back to his sister. Yaminah gently folded it, carefully returning it to its hiding place.

“I know you will make baba proud as the new matriarch of our house.”

Yaminah’s hazel eyes hardened, piercing him with reproach. “Matriarch?” she scoffed, straining for control. “Our house is accursed. Baba will languish in the dungeon for five years. Will you not fulfill your duty as the only male heir? Despite this note, surely the responsibility to care for him and our home falls to you. Or will you forsake us for your adventures away?”

Youssef lowered his gaze, a muscle twitching in his jaw, knowing she was shouldering burdens that should have at least been shared between them. “I deserve your anger, sister,” he conceded.

“That does not answer my question,” she countered, her voice level but unyielding. “You vanish for months on end without a word, then return as if nothing has changed. But this time, calamity struck. Baba and I needed you.”

He inhaled deeply, choosing his words with care. “How could I have foreseen such a disaster? You know I never wished for any of this.”

“Your wishes change nothing, Youssef.” Her calm reasoning, delivered without raising her voice, cut deeper than any shout. “As matriarch, am I to expect the same of your behavior? Tell me where your loyalties truly lie, brother. What force has torn you from your family?”

Youssef bristled at her use of ‘matriarch’, irritated by how quickly she’d embraced the title he’d bestowed upon her mere moments ago. The word rankled, regardless that he’d willingly relinquished responsibility and authority over to her. Still, he shifted under her scrutiny, unable to fault her for demanding answers after enduring such solitary grief.

“I cannot say,” he muttered, the words tasting of betrayal, the bitter truth coiling in his throat like a venomous serpent, poised to strike. Even though her new role demanded it, Yaminah stood vulnerable as she tried to draw out the secrets he harbored.

“You will tell me, brother,” she said tightly, her hazel eyes glinting. “Does my new role not command the same respect as baba’s?”

Youssef stood and turned away, fingers raking the thick and unkempt growth on his chin. Memories flickered of countless interrogations – a dance he had perfected over the years. Yaminah and their father would start with gentle inquiries, their concern barely masking their curiosity. As his evasions persisted, their patience would fray, baba’s voice rising in frustration while Yaminah held to her usual grace. But Youssef had learned to hone his defenses.

With a disarming smile here, a well-placed half-truth there, he’d weave a tapestry of mystery that left them satisfied, yet unknowing. Deflecting their questions with charm, his charismatic lies soothed their worries without ever revealing the truth. No matter their approach, gentle or heated, his secrets remained his own, locked safely behind a wall of carefully crafted ambiguity.

“Where do you go?” Yaminah rose from the chaise and stepped into his line of sight. “To a woman, perhaps?” she ventured, her tone a blend of concern and disappointment. “Whose honor you protect?”

“No, sister. My affairs are far more consequential,” he said, diverting his gaze, a hint of disdain coloring his tone. Her composure, usually so admirable in the past, now grated on his nerves.

“Then what?” she pressed, searching his face. “A mission of some import? For whom?”

Youssef felt the familiar dance begin again. With a practiced smile, he turned to face her, his voice smooth as silk. “Yaminah, you know I won’t discuss such matters. Let’s just say I’m involved in a delicate situation that requires the utmost discretion and it’s best if I keep the details to myself.”

But Yaminah had grown weary of his evasions, it seemed. Her eyes narrowed, unconvinced. “What could be so vital that you’d shut out your own family? I worry for you, Youssef. As does Baba.”

“I cannot say,” he insisted, skin prickling. “Please, Yaminah. Let it be.”

“No, Youssef. Not this time. No more secrets.”

At her words, something within him fractured. His shoulders tensed, jaw clenching so tight a muscle twitched visibly along his cheek. When his eyes met hers, they burned with an intensity that made Yaminah take an involuntary step backwards. Gone was the charming brother she knew, replaced by a stranger whose gaze cut like shards of ice.

Why couldn’t she leave well enough alone, as Baba had eventually learned to do? Too late now. He silently agreed with her demand, his eyes boring into hers, his gaze intense and unflinching. His patience, worn thin by years of deception, finally unraveled. With Baba imprisoned, the old need for secrecy suddenly felt hollow, meaningless. Why maintain this exhausting charade?

Yaminah’s whole body seemed to tremble as she witnessed his transformation and she edged away from him. The air was thick and oppressive, as if the realization of years of deception had suddenly materialized between them. Good, he thought, as he straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin. Let her uncertainty bloom into fear. He was done crafting pretty lies to soothe their delicate sensibilities.

He took a step towards her. For too long, he’d played the role of the dutiful son, tempering his true nature to appease their father. But now, with that watchful gaze locked away, why continue the facade?

She wanted to know his priorities? Where his true loyalties lay? Very well. He would reveal the creature their father’s oppression had truly created – a being of ambition and vengeance, no longer fettered by false notions of familial duty and pious restrictions. The caring brother she knew had been a construct, a mask he’d worn for their sake. A bitter smile tugged at his lips as he took another careful step in her direction.

Poor Yaminah, clinging to her illusions – his adventures, baba’s nobility, even her foolish infatuation with that knight. Indeed, it was time to tear away those comforting veils and show her the harsh realities of the world. As the matriarch, she was no longer a child to be shielded, and he was done coddling her.

“I was on a mission,” he said advancing toward her, his voice low and dangerous. “For a king.”

“What...?” Yaminah’s brow furrowed, confusion etching her features. “For King Arthur? But he’s the cause of baba’s disgrace. How could you possibly—?”

“Not Arthur,” Youssef interrupted.

Yaminah’s eyes searched his face. “I don’t... What do you mean ‘not Arthur’?”

Youssef advanced another step, savoring her bewilderment. Each word fell from his lips, deliberately provocative. “As it sounds. Not... Arthur.”

“Then who?” Yaminah’s voice quavered, a tremor of fear creeping in. “Youssef, why are you—?”

He cut her off, his words sharp as a blade: “The king I serve is Lot. I am his… magician.” A surge of triumph coursed through him as he finally spoke those words aloud, watching Yaminah as the truth sank in.

She edged backwards, her eyes wide with shock and dawning horror. “Youssef,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, “why would you say such things? Lot? Magician? I don’t understand.”

Youssef paused, studying his sister’s face. The disbelief etched in her features seemed to please him, a cruel satisfaction flickering in his half smile. He tilted his head slightly, as if considering how best to shatter her remaining illusions. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft but tinged with contempt.

“You’re right, sister. Our house is cursed thanks to our father.” His gaze drifted to the delicate jewel dangling between her breasts, a predatory glint in his eyes. “Your pendant,” he murmured, resuming his stalk towards her, “and my signet ring – they’re not mere heirlooms. They’re shackles binding our magic.”

She grasped the diamond pendant, her mouth opening and closing, but no sound emerging. A choked gasp finally escaped her lips, her features a maelstrom of confusion, anger, and burgeoning dread.

“We have magic, Yaminah,” he said tightly. “Baba suppressed our innate powers and concealed the truth of what we are.”

“You lie,” she insisted, her voice trembling despite its measured tone. Water brimmed her eyelids again, her features contorting in anguish as she keep space between them.

“Five years ago, I discovered the truth,” he said, relishing her distress. “I began to notice Baba’s… secretive trips into town, hushed conversations with strangers. It’s a long and frankly tedious tale, but suffice it to say, it took years of careful observation and investigation to uncover his deception. At first, I thought it madness, but curiosity gnawed at me as more pieces fell into place.”

His eyes gleamed with the memory and he held up his hand, his signet ring glistening in the candlelight. “Each year, as we grew, he would replace my ring and your chain, adjusting them so that they better fit us, all the while imbuing them with a binding spell.”

The tears fell down her cheeks and a cruel smile played on his lips, the exhilaration of finally shedding his mask intoxicating. No more lies, no more pretense indeed – he could revel in the raw truth, heedless of the pain it caused.

“The day I finally slipped it off... for good… Yaminah, it was like awakening from a lifelong slumber. By then, I had already replaced the ‘heirloom’ with a replica and destroyed the original. A few days passed, but then I could feel it. Magic surged through me, raw and untamed. Surely, you have felt it, sister?” he taunted, “when you’ve removed your pendant for a time? A strangeness at your core that you did not understand?”

“No,” she whispered, her frightened gaze flickering away from his while trying to keep her distance.

Youssef’s eyes narrowed, noting the thin veil of denial upon her face, the slight tremor in her voice. He recognized her poor attempt at deceit and grinned, his pulse racing as he watched her composure continue to crumble.

“That first spark of power for me was just the beginning. I began my travels to other places where I could learn about magic – my magic. If you could only comprehend what I’m capable of now... It’s beyond your wildest imaginings. Candle flames dancing at my command, whispers of the wind bringing me secrets, the very earth trembling beneath my feet.”

“No, it cannot be,” Yaminah uttered feebly.

Youssef’s jaw clenched, her continued denial igniting a fresh wave of fury within him, and in two swift strides, he closed the distance between them, his hands gripping her arms. The gesture, so unlike their usual gentle interactions, seemed to startle them both.

“Listen to me, Yaminah,” he insisted, his voice gruff and intense. She flinched, trying to pull away, but his grip on her tightened, his fingers digging into her flesh as he held her fast. “You’ve always been perceptive. Look beyond your grief and our family’s stifling traditions. See the truth that’s been hidden from us. Remove this curse from your neck and feel the magic and power within you.”

His sister’s eyes, wide with fear and confusion, darted across his face, perhaps searching for any trace of the brother she once knew. Finding no familiarity, she tried again to pull away, her breathing ragged. He could feel the warmth of her rapid exhalations on his face, sense her growing panic.

Uncaring, he gave her a slight shake, emphasizing his point. “He bound us, Yaminah,” he continued, as she flinched at his words, her body tensing under his grip. “Can’t you see? Baba feared and hated magic so deeply that he was willing to cripple his children with pretty trinkets and lies.”

Youssef realized he was trembling, years of suppressed rage coursing through him. He loosened his grip on Yaminah but maintained contact, as if severing their physical connection might shatter this moment of revelation. Steeling himself, he pressed on, determined to make her understand.

“Consider this,” he said, his voice strained with forced composure. “Those endless hours of study, the rigorous adherence to culture, rituals, and our faith – it wasn’t nurturing, nor was it out of love. It was containment, molding us into vessels for his beliefs – distracting us, rather than allowing our true selves to flourish.” He released her with a slight push, his hands quivering. Yaminah stumbled backward, her eyes wide with horror.

“And you, sister,” he continued as she wrapped her arms around herself, as if trying to shield her body from his words. “You’ve always strived so hard to please him. Your ceaseless efforts to be the model daughter – did they ever truly satisfy him? His approval always seemed just out of reach, didn’t it? Because at his core, we disgusted him. He dreaded what we might become if left unchecked and the jewelry were tools to keep us from discovering our true nature.”

Yaminah flinched, her eyes squeezing shut in shock and pain. Her lips parted, but no sound emerged, his revelations seeming to render her speechless.

Stepping back from her, Youssef’s tone softened, pity and frustration tinging his words. “We’ve both been living a lie, Yaminah. It’s time to see baba for who he truly is – a man so blinded by his fears and biases that he’d sacrifice his own children’s potential.”

Youssef looked away, angry, frustrated – he couldn’t stay now. His eyes darted to where he’d tossed his cloak across a chair earlier. He moved to retrieve it, the stiff fabric grounding him as he clasped it around his neck. He lifted his bed roll not far from the chaise, draping the strap across his shoulder.

As he turned back to Yaminah, the sight of her utterly struck him. Gone was the poised, elegant sister he’d always known, whose grace and smile could captivate both men and women alike. In her place stood a small, fragile figure, her face streaked with tears, the proud fighter he’d admired retreated behind devastating truths.

“Brother…” she choked out, her lips quivering, her mouth struggling to form words. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper, cracking with emotion. “Please, Youssef... do not go. Not like this. Do not leave us in ruins...”

For a moment, he felt a flicker of his old affection, a desire to comfort her. But the bitterness that had taken root in his heart quickly smothered it. “There’s nothing left for me here. I’m sorry.” He paused, the words tasting sour in his mouth. “This family, these secrets... they’re poison. Perhaps someday I’ll mourn what we’ve lost, but not today. Good bye, sister.”

Youssef straightened, resolved. He would forge his own path now, unburdened by his father’s fears and restrictions. As he turned to leave, he allowed himself one final glance at his twin.

Yaminah remained motionless, her fingers clutching the pendant between her breast – the very symbol of their suppressed heritage. The sight only reinforced his determination.

Without another word, he strode from the chambers, the door left ajar, sounds of the castle stirring with life and giving way to the morning. The sharp click of his boots on stone echoed through the corridors, a fitting requiem for the family he was leaving behind. With each step, he felt the ties of obligation and shared history unraveling, falling away like shed skin.

Ahead lay freedom, power, and a legacy of his own making. He didn’t look back.

Chapter Text

Seated at a sturdy worktable scratched and stained from glue and tools, Elyan glanced around the large single-room workshop. Gar, the master bowyer, moved between racks of finished longbows and crossbows, his expert eyes appraising his creations and selecting a few choice pieces from around the shop space. Quivers full of completed arrow bundles leaned here and there. In the back, a small forge and oven for making glue, sinew and heating tools smoldered, a foul smell permeating everything as William, Gar’s apprentice, clumsily affixed arrowheads.

Near the windows, where thin cloth hung to let in light, stood a nervous young soldier. His lean frame was clad in Camelot’s red-crested uniform, chain mail glinting beneath, a worn satchel strapped across his chest. Calloused hands and dirt-rimmed fingernails betrayed his commoner origins as he examined bundles of long wooden staves and staffs leaned against the wall. Despite the signs of hard work, his face retained a hint of boyish enthusiasm. Though they had never spoken, Elyan recognized the new military recruit from the training fields – Constanc, he’d been introduced as, was friend to William.

Across the cluttered workshop stood two nobles, new faces to Elyan. A lady, dressed in fine but practical clothing, examined the draw knives and planes on the walls with interest. Beside her, a man with flowing sandy hair that partially obscured the left side of his face studied the various jugs of glues and oils. These strangers had arrived with Sir James only today, their presence adding an air of mystery to the gathering. Elyan studied them for a moment, trying to discern their true motivations for being here.

Sir James hovered near a pole where strings and cords of various thicknesses hung from the ceiling to dry. His fingers absently ran over the bales of flax plants ready to be pounded and woven into bowstrings. Having fought side by side with him in battle, Elyan’s mind flashed back to how their paths crossed just days ago.

James had been waiting in the shadows of Gwen’s home one evening, catching Elyan off guard as he returned from a meal. With him, James had brought provisions to last several days – a gesture that spoke volumes about his understanding of Elyan’s precarious situation. It was clear James knew the severity of Elyan’s absence from his duties and his need to remain hidden. By being there, by offering support, James was essentially harboring a deserter, perhaps even a traitor to the crown.

They had talked at length about why James was there, quickly revealing that he shared Elyan’s concerns about the kingdom’s direction. It was a pivotal moment, one that cemented their alliance and led them to this secret gathering in the bowyer’s workshop and surrounded by other allies.

Still, Elyan shifted with unease on his rickety wooden stool. He ground his teeth, willing himself to remain in their midst despite his misgivings. A hand pressed lightly against the letter in his coat pocket, grounding him. He had written it to his sister, and he pondered what Gwen would think of him now. Would she understand that his pain had brought him to this precipice, or had he already driven an irreparable wedge between them that any actions he took or any words he uttered would make no difference?

As his eyes swept across the room, the wave of doubt churned sour in his stomach. Was he truly considering conspiring with near-strangers rather than setting aside his pain and carrying out his sworn duties? These people – nobles and commoners – what bound them together beyond shared grievances? Could he trust their motivations, or were some here merely seeking to exploit the unrest for personal gain or political maneuvering?

As he wondered about the group’s motivations, the young soldier, Constanc, caught his attention. So eager, so untested. Did this boy truly fathom the consequences of their deliberations? And William at the forge – were these youths’ futures worth jeopardizing if their chosen path proved misguided?

A sudden dryness seized Elyan’s throat as the enormity of his position dawned on him. No longer a knight, he now stood as a potential leader of dissent. The realization both terrified and steeled him. Whatever came next, there would be no going back. He moistened his mouth as best he could, cleared his still dry throat.

“Everyone, come,” he said. “Please be seated.”

Constanc looked up, startled, but then moved towards the table, sitting beside Elyan. Sir James nodded, guiding the two nobles with him. The lady settled onto a stool across from Elyan, while the other nobleman remained standing, one hand resting on the table’s edge. James claimed the last available stool, while Gar paused in his bow selection, turning to listen. William looked up from his work at the forge, the heat momentarily forgotten.

“You may know me,” Elyan began, his words deliberate. “I am Elyan, knighted by King Arthur, brother to the queen. You may wonder why I’m here… why I’ve abandoned my sacred oaths to them…”

Elyan didn’t miss the subtle exchange between Gar and William – the first two he had approached days ago in a dimly lit tavern. They had been the first to believe in him, to take this risk. Their presence now reaffirmed the commitment of what they were undertaking.

“I’ve served the kingdom faithfully during my time here,” Elyan continued, his voice steady. “But recent changes in Camelot have me concerned. King Arthur has welcomed magic back into the kingdom. I do not understand his reasons for doing so –” he lied, for he would not betray the inner circle’s secrets – “and I fear for the safety of our people. Many of us have suffered at the hands of magic users in the past.”

He touched the faded mark on his neck briefly. “This scar is a reminder of those times. Imagine now magic unchecked. I worry that in our rush to embrace change, we’re forgetting the lessons of history. I’m not here to incite rebellion, but to discuss these concerns openly. I want to know if any of you share my fears, and if so, what you think we should do about it.”

The sandy-haired nobleman leaned in. “I am Lord Brycen, brother to the late Sir Athelred,” he said. He gestured to the woman beside him. “And this is Lady Estrid of House Merrick.”

Lady Estrid inclined her head gracefully. “Sir Elyan,” she said, her voice soft but clear. “Your words resonate with all of us here. It is an honor to be here.”

Sir Brycen nodded in agreement. “Indeed. I share your concerns about Camelot’s future as well. My family has suffered losses due to magic in the past.” He paused, his expression growing somber as he pulled back his curtain of hair and brushed long fingertips over his own pale facial scar.

“Dragon attack a few years ago when the city burned. Ancient fire and old hatred had opened many graves that day – including my brother’s. This mark signifies an oath not just sealed to words, but to action and vengeance. You have my blade’s fealty, Sir Elyan, whatever we decide.”

“I am Constanc,” the soldier spoke up, his voice timorous. “There’s something I must share, Sir Elyan. I wasn’t certain if anyone else had seen it, but since I was last to arrive…” His hand moved to his satchel, withdrawing a folded piece of parchment. The paper crinkled as his calloused fingers unfolded it with care. “A proclamation from the king himself – they’re being posted in the towns as we speak. Should be here not long now.”

The others in the room shifted, their attention drawn by the unexpected development. Sir Brycen shoulders stiffened, his curiosity piqued, while Lady Estrid’s eyes widened slightly, a hand to her midsection. Even Gar and William drifted closer to them around the worktable.

Elyan extended his hand, his movements controlled despite the tension in his shoulders. “May I?” he asked, taking the parchment from Constanc. His gaze moved over the first paragraphs, his brow furrowing slightly. He spoke after a moment, his voice derisive.

“Arthur speaks of abundance and celebration. He talks of magic as a ‘benevolent gift’ flowing through the earth.” He scoffed, a bitter smile twisting his lips. “Flowery words, indeed. As if pretty phrases could erase years of suffering.”

“What else does it say?” Sir James asked, his voice taut with apprehension and intrigue, coming beside him.

Elyan nodded, his eyes flicking around the room before returning to the paper. His voice was strong as he read aloud, “‘Too long have we turned our gaze from those scarred by the horrors of the Great Purge and the bloody conflict surrounding sorcery’s prohibition. In pursuit of forging a new era of unity and acceptance, we ignored the fact that old agonies have yet to fully heal.’” He paused, swallowing hard from the prick to his conscience, his gaze briefly meeting Sir Brycen’s.

Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, Elyan continued, uncertainty creeping into his voice. “‘While our pursuit of acceptance was well-intended, we cannot stand idly by while citizens remain crippled by the past.’”

He glanced at Gar, noting the older man’s tightened jaw and distant gaze. Elyan knew the story – how Gar’s first wife had been caught in the crossfire of a magical duel decades ago, their dreams of a family together shattered in an instant. Though Gar had remarried years later, the loss still haunted him, a constant reminder of magic’s destructive potential. The bowyer’s massive arms, reminiscent of Percival’s girth, were now crossed tightly over his chest. His calloused hands, usually so steady in crafting bows, gripped his biceps, knuckles white with suppressed emotion.

Elyan read on, his voice faltering slightly. “‘We see you, people of Camelot who still bear the burns of magic’s perversion.’” He pulled a deep breath. “‘Your fears, your rage, your grief – they have not gone unnoticed by the Crown, merely overlooked in our eagerness to move forward. But no more.’”

Elyan slowly lowered the parchment and scanned the faces around him, searching for reactions. He handed the paper to Sir James as the silence stretched, his earlier derision now replaced with indecision.

“What does this mean?” William asked.

“There’s more here,” Sir James said, drifting closer to Sir Brycen and Lady Estrid, who gather around him to read over his shoulder. William came closer too.

“This... changes things,” said Elyan quietly. The words in Arthur’s proclamation nearly echoed his own grievance against the crown, acknowledging error, promising hope, sending his thoughts reeling.

Sir James continued to read aloud, his brow furrowed. “It seems the king is more aware of our struggles than we thought,” he said when he finished.

“But is this just words,” retorted Lord Brycen, “or will there be action?”

Lady Estrid, her hand still at her midsection, took a deep breath. “It’s a start,” she said cautiously. “At least our pain is being acknowledged.”

Elyan’s gaze lingered on her, noticing the way her fingers splayed protectively over her stomach. What tragedy lay behind that gesture? What loss had she endured at the hands of magic? How little he knew about the people gathered here, but each one must carry their own burdens and scars.

Despite Arthur’s proclamation, a newfound resolve settled in his chest. Over time, he would learn their stories – all of them. From Sir Brycen’s facial scar to William’s youthful determination, from Gar’s haunted eyes to Constanc’s nervous energy. Each tale would fuel his desire for action, remind him of why they had gathered in this workshop. Their collective pain would become his driving force, pushing him to seek the justice and healing they all desperately needed.

Lord Brycen ran a hand through his sandy hair, conflicted. “I want to believe this, but after all we’ve suffered... it’s not easy to trust.”

 “What if this is genuine, my lord?” Constanc asked. “What if the king truly wants to help?”

Elyan nodded. “We came here today seeking answers, looking for a way to address our grievances. I know some of you – perhaps all of you – have considered sparking revolution in some fashion. I’d be lying if I said the thought hadn’t crossed my mind as well.” He paused, his voice softening. “Believe me, war with your enemy is terrifying; civil war... it’s a nightmare that turns neighbor against neighbor, brother against brother. But this letter... it offers us a path. A chance for healing without bloodshed.”

He paused, his mind racing as he considered Arthur’s words. If there was one thing he knew about his king and brother-in-law, it was that Arthur wasn’t a liar. Perhaps Gwen had recognized the pain beneath his fury after all, and had whispered words of counsel into her husband’s ear. The possibility of avoiding a violent uprising both relieved and unsettled him – would they have chosen such a drastic action? Could there be the chance of it still occurring?

“I propose we wait,” Elyan continued, confident in this decision. “Arthur has acknowledged our suffering. That’s more than we expected when we gathered here today.” He stood and took a few paces away from the table, hands on his hips, gathering his thoughts. The floorboards creaked under his feet, reminding him of the precarious ground they all stood on. Should he reach out to Gwen?

Turning back to face the group, his gaze settled on two faces. “Sir James, Constanc, you’re our eyes and ears in the castle. We’ll need you to be vigilant, to watch for any signs of change – or lack thereof.” He paused, letting the call of responsibility settle on their shoulders. “Let’s see if the king follows through on these promises. If he does, we have an opportunity to work with him, to address our grievances openly and honestly.”

He hardened his stare. “If not...” The unfinished sentence was clear to everyone present, the air seeming to crackle with unspoken possibilities and the potential for drastic action.

Gar had moved to the back of the shop to tend the forge William had abandoned. Without looking up from his task, he spoke. “As Sir Elyan said, revolution is a heavy thing, not to be undertaken lightly.”

Elyan took a deep breath, nodding at Gar’s words. “Our last resort, Master Gar. We’re not there yet – far from it. But we don’t abandon our concerns either. Let us speak on this matter in a month’s time to reassess the situation. This gives Arthur a chance to prove his sincerity – to make good on his word, and us time to gauge the true intent behind them.”

He looked around the room once more, noting hope, skepticism, and wariness on the faces before him. “What say you all? Are we agreed on this course of action?”

William asked, his hands thrust under his armpits, a scowl on his face, “How can we trust that this isn’t just a ploy to placate us, Sir Elyan?”

“Only time can tell us that,” Elyan replied with a noncommittal shrug.

Sir James frowned, clearly torn. “I want to believe this, Elyan. A month seems a short time to judge such a significant change. What if we’re being too hasty in our decision?”

“I believe we should give the king a chance,” Lady Estrid countered. “This acknowledgment is more than we’ve had in decades from royalty. It’s a start.”

“Aye,” said Gar stepping forward, brushing his large hands on his apron. “I’ve seen how quickly words can turn to swords, how easily promises of change can lead to bloodshed. I vote for patience.”

“Then it is agreed,” Elyan replied. “But make no mistake, my friends. This isn’t blind trust. We’ll be watching closely, ready to act if these promises prove empty. For now, we wait, we watch, and we prepare.”

Chapter Text

Surrounded by his inner circle in the crowded council chambers, Arthur watched Merlin’s aged form shuffle from behind Gwen’s chair. While most councilors had witnessed Merlin’s introduction to the court yesterday, today promised something different – a sensitive revelation to a broader audience of lords. Arthur had initially opposed this disclosure, and he still dreaded it. As he called Emrys forward, his throat tightened with trepidation.

Leaning onto his staff – so different from his usual vibrancy, Merlin paid each man a discerning glance, studying them with that spark of familiar courage in now old eyes. Arthur knew Merlin’s stooped gait belied his hidden strength, like an ancient oak’s deep roots. And yet, even he couldn’t fathom the true extent of Merlin’s power, a realization that both awed and unnerved him.

“I’ve long awaited this day – to stand before you as my true self,” Merlin’s cracked voice rang out, a flash of gold suddenly highlighting his irises. “A protector of Camelot, servant to king and queen, emissary of the druids.”

Sir John, standing alongside Leon, shifted his stance, intrigue in his expression. “What do you mean, my lord Emrys? Your ‘true self’?”

As Merlin weaved through the crowded room, his staff clicking at a steady pace, the air around him seemed to shimmer. Ethereal whispers, barely audible, danced at the edge of Arthur’s hearing, making him question if they were real or imagined. Flashes of golden light flickered in the corners of his vision, gone when he tried to focus on them. Men backed away from Merlin. Murmurs bubbled up in the chamber, fear clouding some expressions, wonderment on the faces of others.

“Despite King Arthur’s proclamations,” Merlin continued, “his bold assurances, and even the deeds I have made known, some of you still deem me a threat.” He stopped in a space where Arthur could see him clearly, an enigmatic look in his eyes. Caution and curiosity vied inside Arthur, leaving him unsure of what Merlin might do next.

Merlin glanced around, smiling as if he held a great secret. “But I’ve lived among you for many years,” he said, his voice sounding more familiar and gaining strength.

The air grew charged, a dense energy spreading throughout the hall, raising the hair on Arthur’s arms and prickling his skin. Clothing rustled, metals clinked, and candle flames flickered as a breeze touched every corner of the chamber. Arthur’s jaw slackened as mutters rose, amazement and unease rippling through the crowd as Merlin began to change before their eyes.

A jolt of panic shot through Arthur. Good Lord, what on earth…?

His stooped posture straightened to full height, long white hair receding and darkening to raven-black as they watched in awe. Mottled and wrinkled skin smoothed into the visage of youth; black moustache and beard disappearing to reveal the familiar face of the man they’d known for years. Transformed, Merlin stood before them, as if he were some benevolent, crimson god emerged from legend, his rust-red tunic brightening to a splendid, ethereal hue. He cracked his iron staff against the stone floor, silencing the room.

“I am Emrys.”

Breathless, Arthur could not tear his eyes away from the magnificent figure before him. Merlin, his humble friend and servant, was Emrys, a sorcerer of immense supremacy. The sheer power radiating from him was palpable, an invisible force that seemed to push against Arthur’s very being. This was magic beyond anything he had ever encountered, and in that moment, he found himself unable to reconcile Merlin’s conflicting identities. Just who was this doddering old wizard with more power than Arthur had imagined and the vibrant young man who had stood by his side through countless trials?

“I will continue to fight against any force intent to harm my friends, my kingdom, or any of you,” Merlin declared, his voice resonating with authority, the air seeming to settle around him.

“What is this? Impossible! The serving boy?”

Shocked voices punctuated the air in the chamber, but they seemed distant, unreal – the world around Arthur turning muffled. A faint crease formed between his brows as Merlin returned to his position, chin lifted in defiance. Meeting Gwen’s eyes, the full implications of this revelation dawned on Arthur, and he wondered if keeping Merlin’s secret had been the wiser choice after all?

Doubt crept in. The reasons that had seemed so clear before now felt nebulous and uncertain. Suddenly, Arthur felt a rush of blood to his head, his vision narrowing as if he were peering through a long tunnel. His fingers gripped the arms of his chair, knuckles whitening. He blinked hard, struggling to maintain his composure. The world rushed back into focus, and the cacophony of angry voices crashed into him, each protest a striking blow of shock and outrage.

“This cannot be! Merlin, a sorcerer...?”

“Hiding among us all this time!”

“You lied to us! This is an utter betrayal!”

“You’ve made fools of us!”

“We won’t stand for this trickery!”

As the accusations flew, Arthur felt a strange surge of relief. Their anger centered on the deception, not the raw power Merlin had just displayed. Yet, he quickly realized this indignation was just as dangerous, jeopardizing the unity of his court and kingdom.

Amidst the chaos, Leon stepped forward, his demeanor calm in the surrounding uproar. “My lords,” he appealed, though his voice barely audible, “while this revelation is indeed startling, I urge you to remember: it is our king of whom you speak.”

Bishop Joseph’s voice sliced through the din, his nostrils flaring. “That doesn’t negate the fact that they deceived us.” He fixed Arthur with a hard glare, addressing him directly. “You must have known Merlin was this – Emrys, and yet you pretended ignorance.”

Arthur steeled himself, recognizing that while the full impact of Merlin’s power escaped them, their sense of betrayal was an inevitable hurdle. He had always anticipated this moment, yet the shock of Merlin’s duality challenged some preconceptions and still reverberated through him.  

“Yes,” he acknowledged, his voice steady and commanding, silencing the room. “A short time, I assure you. That decision was not made lightly, nor could it be rushed.” He paused, meeting the eyes of his councilors while inwardly questioning if any amount of time could have prepared them for this moment. “As your king, I bear the burden of difficult choices. Choices that may not always be popular, but are necessary for the good of Camelot.”

Arthur rose, moving to stand beside Merlin, though he neither looked at him nor offered a gesture of solidarity. “I chose to keep this secret not out of deceit, but out of caution and respect for the magnitude of this revelation. I needed time to understand, to plan, to ensure that when this truth came to light, it would be in a manner that would benefit our kingdom, not fracture it.” Even as he spoke, a voice in his mind whispered that perhaps the secret should have remained just that – a secret.

His gaze swept the room, his tone firm nonetheless. “I understand your confusion and anger. I too grappled with this truth. But I stand before you now, not just as your king, but as a man who has seen firsthand the loyalty and dedication of Merlin – of Emrys. His power has been used time and again to protect Camelot, often at great personal risk.”

Stepping a few paces away from Merlin, Arthur continued, his voice resolute. “I do not ask for your acceptance. I ask only that you consider the possibilities this revelation brings, and remember the good Merlin has done for our kingdom. The strength his abilities could lend us. The healing it could bring to long-festering wounds.” As the words came forth, a nagging worry persisted that this revelation could also create greater rifts than it healed.

He straightened, every inch the king, masking his own doubts. “I have chosen to share this truth with you because I believe in the wisdom and loyalty of this council,” he said, accepting full responsibility despite his initial opposition. “I trust that you will see, as I have, the potential for a stronger, more united Camelot.”

Returning to his seat, Arthur sat straight and rigid, his gaze sweeping across the faces of his council. “Reflect on what you’ve learned today. Consider it carefully. That is all. Dismissed.”

As the murmuring council members drifted out, with Leon lingering behind, Arthur noted the spectrum of reactions – from tentative acceptance to barely concealed hostility. The ripples of this revelation would spread far beyond these chamber walls, touching every corner of his realm. A chilling realization gripped him: this held the potential to fracture his kingdom’s unity. For the first time, the threat of civil unrest felt tangible. Were his knights prepared to maintain order if the situation escalated?

Fighting to maintain his composure, Arthur became acutely aware of the concerned stares of his friends as they closed in around him. He exhaled slowly and leaned back in his chair, leadership’s burden bearing down on him. His confidence in guiding Camelot through this crisis faltered, threatening to overwhelm him as duty and doubt clashed within his mind.

Merlin moved closer than any of the others and squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. “You did the right thing, Arthur. I know this wasn’t what you wanted.”

Arthur looked up at him, nodded solemnly while carefully masking the confusion within. He thought he’d wrestled down his feelings about Merlin. Now he wasn’t so sure he’d beaten those demons after what he had just witnessed. “It was necessary,” he said simply, before steering the conversation away from himself. “But how are you, Merlin? That was... quite a revelation.”

Merlin smiled, his expression a combination of humility, relief and apprehension. “It’s... strange. After all these years of hiding, to finally be seen for who I truly am, it’s both liberating and terrifying.”

Arthur nodded, grasping the significance of Merlin’s admission while inwardly grappling with his own doubts about the man. Did Merlin even know the extent of his own power? he wondered.

Galahad spoke up, his face alight with hope. “The old ways and the new, finally united in the courts of Camelot. It’s a dream many of us thought we’d never see.”

“Unity is always a noble goal, Galahad, but it’s also fragile,” Merlin reminded them soberly, crossing his arms. “Arthur, given the reactions of some lords, we should probably prepare for consequences, maybe even from those you’ve long considered allies.”

Arthur’s eyes met Merlin’s briefly, a flicker of approval crossing his features before his gaze shifted away. Despite his conflicting emotions concerning his friend right now, he couldn’t deny the astuteness of Merlin’s observation.

Geoffrey stepped forward, his voice somber, measured. “Rumors and speculation will spread like wildfire. We should act quickly; shape the narrative before others do it for us.”

Arthur nodded. “Indeed. We must control how this information spreads, ensuring it comes directly from the crown, not through rumor or hearsay,” he replied. “Merlin’s revelation changes how the crown itself may be perceived. People may question who truly holds power in Camelot. Can the crown be trusted if it’s been harboring a sorcerer all along?”

He leaned forward, his gaze intense. “So how can we assure the people that Merlin’s power won’t overshadow or manipulate me, or Gwen? What safeguards can we put in place to maintain the balance of power? These are some of the real challenges we face.” He paused, meeting the eyes of each of them. “The bold step we’ve taken today is only the beginning. Our task now is to prove that this revelation strengthens Camelot rather than undermines it.”

Arthur turned to Geoffrey, his tone shifting from contemplative to decisive. “Work with the scribes to draft a clear, concise message assuring the people that the crown and the court wizard will coexist under my leadership.”

He then addressed Percival. “You know what to do to prepare the garrisons and outlying fortresses,” he said, recalling their recent use of the network of towers, riders, and dovecotes to distribute his letter throughout the kingdom. Arthur’s mind raced, considering the dual threats of Escetir and potential civil unrest. “Speed is of the essence,” he added, his tone betraying a hint of urgency. “And Percival, ensure they understand the... precarious nature of our current situation.”

As his friends stood in somber reflection, Arthur rose slowly, his posture straight and determined, a striking difference to the exhaustion seeping into his bones. “We’ve set Camelot on a new course today,” he declared. “The path we’ve chosen will reveal the true mettle of our people. Whether it leads to ruin or to unity remains to be seen.”

“We stand with you, Arthur,” Percival boldly stated.

“Whatever comes,” said Ranulf, “we face it together.”

Leon nodded firmly. “You can rely on my support, Arthur—always.”

Merlin and Galahad gave him thankful, wide grins.

Arthur nodded, his voice steady despite his subdued inner conflict. “Thank you, gentlemen. Your loyalty is appreciated. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

He turned away, knowing it abrupt, but signaling the end of his council with them – his mind already racing to his next engagements. The most immediate was with Tristan, likely seeking relief from his duties as exchequer to be with Isolde in Cornwall. Then the war councilors following that, eager to continue strategizing about the potential conflict with Escetir. Arthur sighed inwardly. Now, with Merlin’s revelation, the specter of civil unrest loomed as well, adding another layer of complexity to their plans. Other commitments stretched before him, each meeting a test of his resolve and leadership.

His closest friends departed the council chambers, the sound of boots and the clink of chain mail fading behind him. Merlin hesitated a moment, but Arthur found himself still unable to meet his gaze. His eyes instead fell on Gwen, seated in her chair, studying him. Grateful for the distraction, he crossed to her, gently pulling her to her feet as Merlin quietly left.

“Arthur,” she said softly, her eyes searching his face, “you’ve done well today. Remember that.”

He managed a weak smile, touched by her unwavering support. Lifting her hand to his lips, he placed a tender kiss upon it. “I hope to see you later, my queen, perhaps for dinner if our schedules permit,” he murmured, his voice strained with a semblance of calm, knowing Gwen’s responsibilities consumed much of her day as well. He walked her to the door, no more words between them, their hands lingering together for a moment before she slipped away.

Having a few minutes before his audience with Tristan, Arthur used the time to collect his troubling thoughts. He returned to his seat. As he slowly lowered his head to rest in his hand, his carefully maintained façade at last crumbled, the day’s events crashing down upon him like a relentless tide. The air seemed to thicken, the silence of the empty chamber amplifying his inner turmoil, unnerving him even more. Here, alone, he could finally acknowledge the bone-deep exhaustion that plagued him.

Arthur knew a new chapter in their history had begun, but this wasn’t the tale of triumph he’d once envisioned. Instead, it felt etched in the somber ink of uncertainty, one that bled into every aspect of his life.

Gwen’s puzzling condition, the fate of the magically wounded, and the sorcerers’ petition for autonomy only added to the litany of concerns already swirling in his mind, each issue demanding his attention. From the kingdom’s external threats to its internal strife, Arthur could scarcely find time to address the maelstrom of responsibilities, let alone manage them.

He drew a deep breath, willing his frayed nerves to steady. His father’s words echoed in his mind: “A king must never show weakness.” Yet here he was, feeling more vulnerable than ever. The stubborn determination that had always driven him now felt like a feeble flame against an encroaching darkness.

His fists clenched as he closed his eyes, a quiet desperation clawing at his chest. Was he truly fit to wear this crown if his mind could become so fractured, his thoughts so disjointed? Every decision he made lately seemed to hold Camelot’s fate in the balance, and he found himself second-guessing each one. How could he know if he was doing the right thing when his focus was so discordant? As the fate of lives, of an entire kingdom, bore down upon him, the crown felt more like a noose than a mark of authority, constricting rather than empowering him.

The certainty Arthur once felt now eluded him, sending his thoughts into a downward spiral. His father had ruled with an iron fist and unwavering conviction. But Arthur... Arthur felt doubt eroding his confidence. The weight of the crown, once a symbol of his destiny and pride, was now crushing his spirit, feeding a fear that gnawed at his very core. And as he approached his 28^th birthday the end of next month, a sobering thought struck him: how much longer could he endure this pressure? Would the burden of rule overwhelm him as it had so many kings before? Turning him into a fool or, perhaps worse, a monster?

A gentle touch on his arm startled Arthur from his despairing reflections. Gwen stood beside him, concern etched upon her expression.

“Arthur,” she said softly, “you don’t have to bear this alone.”

Arthur’s cheeks burned, a flush creeping up his neck to the tips of his ears. He could almost feel the heat radiating from his face as he struggled to compose himself. But as he met Gwen’s understanding gaze, the tension in his shoulders began to unravel. A weary sigh escaped his lips, his posture softening in relief.

“I know. It’s just... Merlin…Everything….” He scrubbed the back of his neck. “I’m not always certain I’m making the right decisions. Sometimes, Gwen...” He paused, struggling to voice the fear that underlay all others. How could he confess insecurities that he could barely admit to himself? “I wonder if I’m truly the king Camelot needs me to be.”

Without hesitation, Gwen pulled him into her arms, and Arthur surrendered to her embrace. A fine tremor ran through his body, his muscles quivering beneath her touch as he buried his head in her shoulder, inhaling her calming lavender scent. Gwen held him closer, tighter, her fingers gently combing through his hair in a soothing rhythm as tension gradually ebbed from his frame.

“Arthur,” she said softly, but firmly, “you are exactly the king Camelot needs. Your doubts, your careful considerations – these make you a better ruler than any iron-fisted certainty ever could. Your father’s way isn’t the only way to lead. Don’t let his ghost cloud your judgment or shake your resolve. You’re forging your own path, and it’s a brighter one.”

Her words were balm to his troubled soul. In that moment, Arthur leaned into Gwen’s strength and wisdom. How often had she been his anchor in tumultuous times, her unwavering faith in him a beacon guiding him through the darkest of doubts? And oh, if he could remain in her arms forever, drawing on her comfort, he would. But duty called without relent or compassion, and with a steadying breath, Arthur pulled back, straightening his posture.

“As for Merlin,” she challenged, eyeing him with a slightly reproving gaze, “do you believe everything you said of him today?”

He nodded thoughtfully, her pointed inquiry prompting deeper reflection. Of course he did; his true feelings of loyalty and love for Merlin should never have come into question with him, and he vowed they never would again. Arthur chewed his lip, considering. He knew where Gwen was leading with her probing, and he began to wonder if his doubts were merely a product of his fatigue.

With another heavy sigh, his mind couldn’t resist wandering to their planned escape in a few days’ time. The promise of a short respite from the castle and its responsibilities brought a flicker of relief within him. Arthur savored the prospect of a few precious hours alone with Gwen, as man and woman, not king and queen. He would consult with George and Sefa about the final details, ensuring their private retreat remained discreet.

Arthur mustered a smile as he gazed down at Gwen, a spark of anticipation glimmering through his weariness. “I’ll speak to Merlin soon,” he replied, regaining his focus. “I don’t want him to think my faith in him has wavered. We’ve come too far for that.”

Gwen’s eyes softened with understanding. “You’ve been working tirelessly since the Southron war, Arthur. It’s no wonder you’re weary,” she said gently. “Perhaps you could allow yourself a later start to your days? Even kings need rest, and the kingdom won’t fall if you sleep past dawn.”

Arthur’s expression warmed, a genuine smile touching his eyes. “Your counsel is as wise as it is kind, my love,” he murmured, brushing a stray curl from her cheek. “I’ll try. For you, and for Camelot.”

As they approached the door, Arthur’s hand instinctively moved to Excalibur’s hilt. His fingers curled around the familiar grip, drawing not just strength, but a sense of purpose from the mystical blade. A welcoming reminder, the sword seemed to embody all that he stood for – the weight of tradition, the responsibility of power, and the promise of a united Camelot.

Before Gwen departed, Arthur squeezed her hand, his resolve renewed despite it all, because he would face the crucibles as he always had – with strength, courage, and the wisdom of those who stood beside him.

Chapter Text

Merlin’s eyes strained over the ancient text before him, the musty scent of old parchment filling the millhouse’s cluttered interior. He and Galahad had transported many such dusty tomes and fragile scrolls here, but unlike their previous searches for dragonlord lore, today they sought any scrap of information about the mysterious items stolen from the royal vault.

This task was crucial. Yet Merlin found his mind continually drifting back to yesterday’s revelation. The memory of Arthur’s face – a mix of shock, confusion, and wariness – after unveiling both his magic and his identity as Emrys haunted him. The king’s averted gaze in the minutes and hours that followed had planted a seed of worry in Merlin’s heart. Considering some of the lords’ reactions, he couldn’t help but wonder: Had Arthur been right? Should they have kept his secret, leaving his identity concealed?

“Merlin!”

He startled, blinking rapidly as Galahad’s sharp voice cut through his thoughts. His mentor was staring at him, jaw set in exasperation.

“I said,” Galahad repeated, enunciating each word, “Strange items to risk your life for, don’t you think?”

Merlin pressed two fingers against his temple, turning a page in the tome before him. “Yes—” He forced his wandering thoughts back to the matter at hand. Even if Arthur’s view of him had changed, the stolen artifacts demanded his attention now. “—but Mordred clearly saw value in them.”

His eyes traced the delicate lines of three pieces of jewelry sketched on parchment. “So little to go on – just Geoffrey’s idea of what he thinks represents the opal brooch, a copper coronet, and a jet pendant. He’s not confident of how they were catalogued.”

Galahad leaned in, squinting at the drawings. “Nothing about what makes them special, either.”

“Not unusual,” Merlin replied, frustration coloring his voice. “The crypt houses many such items of unknown origin or purpose.” He ran a hand through his hair, sighing. “But these... what could Mordred possibly want them for?”

“They could be ordinary adornments falsely labeled as magic for all we know.”

“Mordred wouldn’t risk returning to Camelot for mere trinkets.”  

“Are we even sure he took the items for himself? He might be acting as a thief for hire.”

“It makes sense that he’s in league with someone, but it doesn’t mean he hasn’t learned to use these items himself. The question is – to what end?”

They fell silent. Merlin pondered their limited options when a memory stirred. “What if we’re looking in the wrong place? The crystal cave – its visions have guided me before. Perhaps it could shed light on these relics, reveal their true nature!”

“That place?” Galahad scoffed. “It’s more likely to addle our brains than give answers. Remember those tales I shared of sorcerers lost in its depths, forever chasing their own reflections?” He tapped the book in front of him firmly. “No, Merlin. Our answers are here, in ink and parchment. We must dig deeper.”

Merlin nodded thoughtfully. Galahad’s point was valid – legends spoke of the crystal cave’s twisting passages entrapping the unwary. But despite the risks, his instincts pulled him towards the cave’s mysterious potential. The idea of taking action, of pursuing a lead – however dangerous – was far more appealing than continuing to pore over tomes with little to show for it.

“You may be right...” he conceded slowly, then countered, “But my intuition tells me we must seek answers beyond what meets the eye, not just in these dusty pages.”

Galahad stroked his chin, mulling it over. “I’ll admit, intuition has its place... and yours has proven sharp before.” He cast a sideways glance at Merlin. “Do you truly believe these artifacts hold some deeper magic?”

“It’s just a feeling...” Merlin murmured. Mordred – three seemingly innocuous pieces of jewelry – one even made of copper. If Mordred deemed them precious, there must be more to them. He looked at Galahad, nerves prickling. “There’s more at play here. We best uncover it soon, before Mordred sets his plot in motion.”

Galahad hummed in agreement, leaning back in his chair with a creak. His eyes, however, weren’t on the books anymore, but fixed on Merlin with an unreadable expression.

Merlin shifted uncomfortably under the gaze, clearing his throat. “What is it?”

“Speaking of plots in motion, your display yesterday… It was something to behold, Merlin.”

Merlin swallowed, anxiety knotting in his stomach. “Too much?” Arthur’s initial reaction had surprised him – the averted gaze, the lack of discussion since. He found himself holding his breath, suddenly desperate for his mentor’s opinion.

Galahad chuckled. “Not for me. I know what you’re capable of, but Arthur, the others...” He clicked his teeth, seeming to choose his next words. “You’ve shifted the ground beneath all our feet, Merlin. The Crown versus sorcerers? That narrative just became a lot more complicated.”

Merlin exhaled, his approach to revealing his identity settling in his gut like a stone weight. “We’ve only begun to navigate the sorcerers’ petition, and now… what I did yesterday…”

Galahad leaned forward, his voice low and serious. “Merlin, Arthur will come around. What’s done is done. You showed them your power, yes, but also your loyalty. That counts for something.”

Merlin nodded, unconvinced. “But the timing... with everything that’s going on, I fear I’ve made Arthur’s position even more precarious.”

“Perhaps,” Galahad conceded. “You’re still forgetting that you’ve also given him a powerful ally. Openly.”

Merlin’s gaze drifted to the window, where heavy clouds obscured the sun, casting a dull grey light. “I just hope it’s enough.” His newfound openness was more troubling than he’d anticipated. For years, he’d hidden his magic, using it covertly to protect Arthur and Camelot – his power subdued, untapped, but ever-present. Now, with his abilities revealed, he stood as a formidable force – a potential weapon. The thought both exhilarated and terrified him.

He flexed his fingers, feeling the magic pulse beneath his skin. How much should he hold back? The lords’ angry voices flared in his memory, Arthur’s confusion and unease palpable. Perhaps it would be wise to temper his displays of power, to ease their fears and Arthur’s concerns. Yet if danger threatened, could he afford such restraint?

Merlin sighed, his mind turning to the myriad tasks before him. The sorcerers’ petition for autonomy needed careful wording – a delicate balance between asserting their rights and assuaging the concerns of those who still mistrusted magic. Then there were the dragons: Aithusa’s welfare and Kilgharrah’s trust to regain. But always, always, the safety of Arthur and Gwen remained his paramount duty.

And now, these stolen trinkets. Whatever power they held, whatever Mordred planned to do with them, could upset everything he’d worked so hard to achieve. As selfish as it felt to admit, his life was everything he could have ever dreamed of – and he dreaded losing it. Merlin took a deep breath, centering himself. Despite all the responsibilities, this mystery demanded his immediate attention. Arthur was expecting answers tonight at dinner, and right now, he had few to give.

The pressure of the impending deadline spurred a new thought. He turned back to Galahad, hope glimmering in his eyes. “Master Iseldir has an audience with Arthur tomorrow. Do you think we should present this puzzle to him?”

Galahad nodded, humming in agreement. “A wise thought. And what of Master Alator? Perhaps we should seek his counsel as well. As a candidate to assist in writing the sorcerers’ proposal, I believe he could lend his expertise to solving the mystery of these items.”

Merlin’s brow furrowed in consideration. Involving the druid elder and the Catha priest could provide valuable insights on multiple fronts. Iseldir might shed light on Mordred’s recent activities and his reasons for leaving their grove, while Alator’s arcane knowledge could potentially accelerate their understanding of the artifacts. However, it also meant widening the circle of those privy to the theft. He weighed the benefits against the risks, knowing time was of the essence. The faster they unraveled this mystery, the better their chances of thwarting Mordred’s plans, whatever they might be.

Merlin stood next to Arthur and Gwen in the royal chambers, his gaze drawn to the tome spread on the table before them. He gingerly traced the outline of an intricately detailed drawing of an opal brooch, its surface shimmering with iridescent hues even in the faded ink. Delicate filigree work framed the stone on the page, arcane symbols inscribed along its edges. “This was the only piece we’ve been able to identify.”

“This ‘Destiny Stone,’ you say it reveals... destinies?” Arthur prompted, arms crossed as he peered down at the cracked pages of the open book, his expression taut with questions.

Merlin nodded, mirroring Arthur’s stance. “The ‘destiny of a soul’, to use the exact phrasing.” He shrugged when they glanced at him, confusion on their faces. “Its general purpose seems benign, as far as we can deduce, but with ancient magical artifacts, one can never be too sure.”

Gwen moved Geoffrey’s etching of the brooch next to the tome’s faded image, comparing them as embers snapped in the fireplace, filling the silence. She looked up at Merlin. “These symbols, what are they? Some kind of script?”

Merlin frowned, scanning the text. “It’s obscure – a passage about the jewelry’s... transformation, I believe. It mentions ‘the heart of iron blood awakened by Vulcan’s breath.’ There’s also something about ‘Janus guarding its true face.’” He sighed. “Is it metaphorical, or...” He shook his head.

Gwen’s brow furrowed in thought. “Vulcan... the smith god? Could it be referring to forging? Perhaps the brooch needs to be reshaped in flames.”

“Galahad had a similar theory,” Merlin replied, his mind racing.

“And Janus?” Arthur asked. “The two-faced god... does the brooch have another nature hidden from view?”

“That might explain the role of the other two pieces of jewelry,” Merlin proposed. “They could be instrumental in reshaping it, revealing its true nature.”

Arthur nodded, his expression pensive. “It would explain why Mordred took all three. But why?” He turned to Merlin, his gaze intense, his voice low and urgent. “Does the text say anything else about this Destiny Stone’s powers?”

Merlin indicated another corner of the page, where the icons were worn beyond recognition. “All we can decipher is ‘knowledge’ and ‘one whose fate.’ I’m sorry, Arthur. It’s frustratingly vague.”

After a tense moment of exchanged glances, Gwen lifted the parchment with the sketches of the missing items. “The circlet or pendant – no further leads?”

Merlin rubbed his brow, frustration evident in his voice. “None yet. But we’re far from giving up.”

Arthur began pacing, his blue linen shirt whispering gently as he turned. “I don’t know, Merlin. Mordred slithered back into Camelot to snatch up these ‘precious’ trinkets. Our lack of information makes this all the more troubling.”

Merlin tracked Arthur's slow pace across the stone floor, his mind racing for solutions. After a moment's hesitation, he ventured, “Sire, Galahad and I believe we might benefit from outside expertise. We’d like to consult Masters Iseldir and Alator to help piece together meaning.”

Arthur’s expression shifted as he stopped pacing, concern crossing his face. “Iseldir and Alator...? Sorcerers? You trust these men? Involving more people in this...”

“I share your concerns, sire.” Merlin’s lips thinned, his gaze momentarily dropping to the floor before meeting the king’s eyes again. “We’ll be discreet. The sorcerers need not know all the details, just enough to aid our research.”

Gwen stepped forward, placing a calming hand on Arthur’s arm. “Perhaps we should give them the time they need, Arthur. Rushing might lead us to overlook something crucial.”

Arthur studied him for a moment, then gave a short nod. “Very well. But tread carefully, Merlin. The fewer who know about these artifacts, the better. And I want daily reports. Any new information, no matter how small, comes directly to me. Understood?”

“Of course, sire,” Merlin agreed, pushing aside the sting of Arthur's earlier words. Relief colored his voice, but beneath it, a sense of urgency persisted. As he gathered the book and parchment to leave, he couldn’t shake the feeling that they were racing against an unseen clock. Mordred's motivations remained a mystery, but with the masters’ help, Merlin was confident they’d unravel the puzzle soon. He just hoped it would be soon enough.

“Merlin,” Arthur called before he reached the door.

Merlin turned, the ancient tome tucked under his arm. He watched Arthur’s face, noting the shadow of emotions – uncertainty, respect, and a hint of what looked like remorse. Arthur glanced at Gwen, who nodded encouragingly, before he met Merlin’s eyes again.

“About yesterday,” Arthur began, his voice low. Merlin stood silently, heart pounding as he waited for Arthur to continue the conversation he’d both longed for and dreaded.  “I... I was caught off guard. Your power, your identity as Emrys... it’s a lot to process.”

Merlin swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. He wanted to speak, to reassure Arthur, but the words eluded him. The air in the room seemed to thicken, and Merlin felt his chest constrict, unsure whether to brace for reproach or hope for understanding. Instead, he nodded slightly, encouraging Arthur to continue.

“I’ve known you as my servant, my friend, for so long,” Arthur said. “To see you standing there, commanding such magic...” He shook his head, and Merlin could almost see him struggling to reconcile the bumbling servant with the powerful sorcerer he’d witnessed. “Merlin, truly, I thought I was prepared.”

Merlin’s chest tightened at Arthur’s words. He watched his king’s face, noting the furrowed brow and the slight tension in his jaw – telltale signs of Arthur’s internal struggle. The servant and the sorcerer, two sides of the same coin, now laid bare before the world. Arthur’s admission of being overwhelmed, despite his attempts at preparation, sent a pang through Merlin’s heart.

With all his complexities, his magic and the legendary status he’d never asked for, he was still just Merlin at his core. But he realized now how shocking it must have been for Arthur to see the full extent of his abilities, to glimpse the Emrys that some in the magical world revered and others feared. The bumbling servant and the prophesied Emrys were both genuine parts of who he was. Yet what mattered most in this moment was helping Arthur see that beneath it all, he was still the same Merlin who had stood by his side all these years.

And power would not change him, at least not in the ways Arthur might fear. He’d had that power all his life and knew how to restrain himself. Like all men, there was a darkness within him – a capacity for ruthlessness, deeply buried secrets that would never see the light of day. He’d learned to control these aspects of himself, to channel them when necessary, but mostly keeping them in check. His magic and his servitude were both integral parts of who he was, as were those hidden depths.

Merlin took a deep breath, choosing his words carefully. “I’m still me, Arthur,” he said softly, simply, hoping his voice didn’t betray his nervousness. “Emrys… the magic... it’s always been a part of who I am. It doesn’t change who I’ve been to you, or my loyalty to Camelot.”

“I know,” Arthur replied quickly, to Merlin’s relief. “That’s what I’m trying to say. My reaction... it wasn’t fair to you. Your loyalty has never wavered, even when it would have been easier for you to turn away. I should have remembered that.”

Arthur stepped closer, his blue eyes locking onto Merlin's with an intensity that reflected years of shared trials and triumphs. The air between them seemed to still, heavy with the weight of their responsibilities and intertwined destiny.

“I want you to know that my trust in you hasn’t changed,” Arthur continued. “If anything, it’s stronger. In a moment of weakness, I... I forgot who you truly are.”

A smile tugged at Merlin’s lips, his heart lightening despite the burdens still upon his shoulders. For Arthur to admit vulnerability was rare, a testament to the depth of their friendship and the importance of the moment. It was as if a fortress gate had opened, revealing how far they'd come and the path that stretched before them.

“Thank you, Arthur. That means more than you know.”

Arthur nodded, a small smile forming as he clasped Merlin’s shoulder. “We’re in this together, Merlin. The road ahead is... complex, beset with challenges. I’m glad to have you by my side.”

Arthur’s words stirred emotions Merlin had long harbored but rarely expressed. The knot of anxiety that had been twisting in his gut since yesterday’s revelation began to unravel, replaced by a warmth that spread through his chest. He met Arthur’s gaze, feeling a surge of loyalty and resolve that reaffirmed his purpose. His face flushed, and he knew his expression must be betraying the relief and determination coursing through him.

“Always,” Merlin replied, his voice steady but laden with meaning.

As he left the chamber, each step felt lighter than the last. The kingdom teetered on the brink of upheaval on several fronts, but Arthur’s trust – tested yet unbroken – provided a steadfast anchor amidst the sea of uncertainty. He strode forward with renewed purpose, his magic humming beneath his skin like a familiar melody.

The challenges ahead loomed large in his mind: unraveling the mystery of the stolen artifacts, navigating the delicate politics of magic in Camelot, and facing whatever schemes Mordred had set in motion. Yet, for the first time since revealing his true nature, Merlin felt a sense of hope and unity.

He knew the path forward would not be easy. There would be resistance from those who feared magic, mistrust from those who felt betrayed by his secrecy, and the ever-present threat of those who would use magic for nefarious purposes. But now, with Arthur fully aware of his abilities and standing firmly by his side, Merlin felt better equipped to face these challenges head-on.

As he descended the castle stairs, his mind was already racing with plans. Tomorrow, he would meet with Galahad to discuss their next steps in researching the artifacts. They would need to approach Iseldir and Alator carefully, seeking their wisdom without revealing too much. And all the while, he would need to remain vigilant, watching for any sign of Mordred's return or the activation of the stolen items.

But beneath all these swirling thoughts and plans, a simple truth resonated within him: he and Arthur stood united, their bond stronger than ever. Whatever trials the fates might hurl their way, Merlin felt ready to face them, bolstered by the unshakeable trust he shared with his king and friend.

With a determined set to his shoulders and a glimmer of hope in his eyes, Merlin crossed the courtyard. The sun had already set, but to him, it felt like the dawn of a new era—one in which magic and loyalty, power and friendship, could coexist in harmony. And he was ready to help shape that future, standing proudly as both Merlin and Emrys, servant and sorcerer, friend and protector to the Once and Future King.

Chapter Text

Shadows writhed along the stone walls of Graeme Longe, seeping into every nook and fissure. Lot stalked through the dreary corridors, his fur-lined cloak billowing behind him, torchlight glinting off the chainmail beneath. The iron crown bore down on his brow, magnifying the growing rage within. His manservant, Warin, followed two paces behind, silent and vigilant.

His daughter Gisella strode beside him, her height nearly matching his own – a true Rynart in stature. Yet her honey-gold hair, cascading in thick waves down her back, spoke of her mother’s lineage. Swaths of an ermine-trimmed cloak flowed around her jeweled skirts as she clutched her swollen belly. Her dark brown eyes, sharp and inquisitive like Lot’s own, glinted with concern. A petite maidservant scurried after her, ready to assist the expectant princess.

“Father, why such a grim demeanor? Bernewyn has returned after twenty days away. Surely his homecoming warrants some joy?”

Lot grunted, unconvinced by his daughter’s enduring optimism, though her voice held gentle care that slightly soothed his temper. He’d already received ravens from Bernewyn. The messages first spoke of the boy-king’s audacious delay in addressing his grievance, then later tersely stated that talks in Camelot had failed. He’d simmered with impatience ever since, eager for every detail of Pendragon’s response.

“You fret and storm about the castle needlessly,” chided Gisella, smirking at him.

“You are naive as a lamb about affairs of men and state,” Lot snapped. But looking at his defiant daughter, her strength and radiance undiminished by the gloomy corridor, he regretted his sharp tone when her smile waned. Yet, the wretched tidings her husband heralded gnawed his gut over the negotiations. What dire whispers for Escetir’s fate lurked behind Bernewyn’s vague messages?

Noting Gisella’s advanced pregnancy, Lot felt a surge of pride. In two months’ time, she’d birth an heir. His expression darkened as he diverted his gaze – not just toward the path to the throne room, but to the future. Before the babe reached one full summer, it could be thrust into the bloody chaos of war, a realm fractured by the strife between Escetir and Camelot. A fierce protectiveness tempered his rage, the urge to safeguard mother and unborn child vying with his thirst for vengeance upon Pendragon.

But he had to stay resolute – the Rynart legacy would be carved in Camelot’s bones.

Lot shoved open the doors to his throne room and burst in like a gust of fury, Gisella on his heels. Weak light filtered through dusty glass windows shrouded in thick velvet drapes. With a subtle gesture from him, Warin moved to open the drapes, allowing more light to spill into the chamber. The cold hearth in the center gaped empty, ashes scattered. Simmering in his vexation, Lot imagined the hearth ablaze, fueled by the downfall of his enemies.

At the far end, his rigid iron throne crouched on the raised dais like a great beast. He settled into its cold embrace, letting it feed his anger. Poised eagerly beside him, her jewel-toned gown swirling as she steadied her breathing and caressed her belly, Gisella eagerly watched the great wooden doors. Her maidservant skittered behind them, silent as the grave.

The doors soon groaned open again, and Lot observed his child rush into her husband’s arms. Bernewyn staggered under her enthusiastic embrace, fatigue lining his face from the strenuous six-day journey – a grueling push for man and beast through rough terrain and unpredictable weather. Yet love softened his expression as he held her close, the couple stealing a tender moment as they gazed upon their child safely nestled in her womb, whispering words of love and longing.

Lot averted his gaze, allowing them this small intimacy. For all his temper, his daughter was precious to him – her unborn heir even more so. And he respected Bernewyn. He made his daughter happy and that pleased Lot.

But the failed mission stirred Lot’s hunger for answers. “Speak, Captain!” he rumbled after a moment, no longer willing to tolerate further delays.

Bernewyn gently released Gisella to stand tall before the throne, though he swayed with fatigue before widening his feet to steady his stance. Gisella hurried to fetch a goblet of water for her travel-wearied husband. Lot’s eyes narrowed at her display of attentiveness, a flicker of irritation crossing his features. Such menial tasks were beneath a princess, he thought, even as he recognized the strength in her devotion.

“Pendragon refused your terms and countered with 20,000 gold pieces and a vast swath of barren land below the Ridge of Ascetir.” Bernewyn’s voice was steady despite his exhaustion. Gisella pressed the refreshment into his hands, and he smiled gratefully before taking a fortifying drink. She stepped aside, keen to hear the tidings, her eyes darting between her husband and father.

Lot’s scowl deepened, dark eyes blazing as fury simmered inside. “He insults me with these paltry concessions. Am I some beggar lord?” The sting of Uther’s treaty years ago still festered. Now his arrogant son sought to deny him his rightful forests. He pounded a fist hard on the armrest of his throne, causing Gisella, the servants, and the captain to flinch. “I’ll have his head for this!”

Bernewyn nodded, his jaw tightening. “Arthur knows the south land is considerably less valuable, though he claims it is of ‘strategic value.’”

Lot spat on the stone floor, saliva splattering. “Lies! He wishes to keep us far from Camelot’s fat central lands.” His insides churned, blood boiling at the arrogance of Camelot’s younger sovereign, thinking he could match Lot’s cunning or grasp the finer points of ruthless negotiation.

“How dare Pendragon dictate meager terms to me!” Clenching his fist until the rings dug painfully into his fingers, Lot slammed it down on the carved wooden armrest once more. The crash echoed through the hall, a thunderous punctuation to his wrath.

“Father, must you?” Gisella chided after flinching again.

“It is as I warned before,” Bernewyn said carefully, the slight quaver in his voice from fatigue – not fear, “he would not accept your reasonable terms... my lord.”

Bernewyn was no weakling, but his daughter rushed to offer him more water. Lot bore his blazing eyes into him nonetheless, his countenance hardening. His son-in-law held his gaze.

“Arthur claims strong and many allies,” Bernewyn continued, barely fazed by Lot’s intimidating, though familiar behavior. “Yet there was an... urgency to conclude our talks. They seemed eager to see us depart, though for what reason, I couldn’t discern. I still sensed desperation despite his bold words.”

Lot’s glare softened slightly, the lines around his eyes crinkling. “Desperate men make foolish choices...”

“Before we departed, their victory bell sounded,” Bernewyn added, his tone suspicious.

A tense silence fell over the room. Lot’s eyes narrowed, his mind racing through possibilities. After a long moment, he spoke, his voice contemplative. “Could mean anything, and secrets rarely stay buried for long.”

As Bernewyn’s exhaustion became evident, Warin quietly moved a chair closer to the throne and he sank into it gratefully, while Gisella served him water once more. She glanced between her husband and father, curiosity etched on her features. “Father, what of our allies across the sea? Those who also seek Pendragon’s downfall?”

Lot chuckled, both admiring and irritated by his child’s boldness. Her gentle aim to temper his volatile nature with strategic insight impressed him. He’d accused her of naivety mere minutes ago, yet here she was, articulating the harsh realities of war. Her words, though menacing, brought balance to his ruthless strategies, and he caught Bernewyn’s gaze of admiration upon Gisella too.

“We’ll make use of all our allies,” Lot said, his tone softening slightly at her astuteness. “But make no mistake. No offer from Pendragon could have appeased me. His family’s insults cannot be washed away with gold or barren land.”

Lot saw a disappointed shadow dim his Gisella’s eyes. His lips twitched – wondered if she suspected that sending Bernewyn had been mere pretense. An intentional goad to provoke Pendragon and justify the war he desired. Did she doubt his integrity – his honor, thinking the grievances hollow? The realization of how meaningless his envoy had been from the start sparked a glint of disillusion in his child, clouding her features.

“You disagree with my methods, child?”

Gisella stepped forth, her jeweled gown swishing. “Sending Bernewyn, refusing any compromise... Have you truly sought accord, Father, or merely justification for a war in which you hunger?”

Lot met her fiery gaze. “Justice must be won by any means,” he rasped, his voice rough with conviction. “Sometimes, that risk is paid in blood.”

Gisella stood firm. “At the price of our people? Of open war?” Fear flickered across her visage. “Our child…?”

Her words pierced Lot’s own fury, striking the father beneath the wrathful king. His eyes slid to his grandchild cradled in her womb as Bernewyn stood and coiled an arm around Gisella. Meeting the captain’s gaze, Lot wondered now if this babe would inherit only bloodshed and loss – no golden dreams of gentle futures for their infant son. Had his thirst for war blinded him to the cost his own flesh and blood might pay?

No! He shook off doubt’s weakening grip. The kingdom he would leave his heir must be made mighty and the forest reclaimed! What were a few thousand lives if it secured Rynarts’ power and glory? His family ruled by divine right, chosen to unravel the mysteries that lay dormant in those woods and had eluded generations. This child would thank him in time for the legacy unveiled – the secrets of the forest unraveled.

He met Gisella’s fierce eyes. It was too late for sentiments – the die cast long ago in Uther’s wretched treaty. A familiar stubborn set, hardened Lot’s jaw, his choice made.

“This war is not just about vengeance, child. It’s about restoring what was stolen from us, securing our future. The Pendragons must learn they cannot simply take what is ours without consequences. This conflict will cement our power and protect our people for generations to come.”

“What was stolen?” she asked with incredulity, glaring at him in disbelief. “Father...?”

He turned from Gisella’s frustrated glare. She did not appreciate the value he placed upon that land nor how much he needed to bring down Pendragon. Strategies began forming in his mind, pieces slotting into place on what he must do.

“The forest,” Lot confirmed, rising from his throne. “Escetir Forest will return to its rightful kingdom.”

Gisella’s eyes widened in shock. “The forest? Father, is this truly about justice?” she pressed, her voice lowering as she came to stand before him. “Or is it about those old stories?”

Lot’s eyes flashed with anger and something else – perhaps uncertainty – crossed his face. “You mock our heritage, child?”

“Fireside tales!” Gisella interrupted, her frustration evident. “You would risk our kingdom and theirs for legends and myths?”

“They’re more than myths,” Lot hissed. “Your grandfather believed, as did his father before him. We know what lies dormant in that forest, waiting for a true Rynart to claim it. Your uncle was a fool to give it away, but I will rectify that mistake.”

Gisella shook her head, pity in her eyes. “And if you’re wrong? If there’s nothing there but trees and shadows?”

Lot turned away, his voice dangerous. “Then we’ll still have our vengeance, and our land reclaimed. The forest will be ours again, prophecy or no prophecy.” He turned a hard glare to Warin. “Inform Lord Othuel that diplomacy has failed and to prepare a declaration of war – my choice of battlefield: the rock and shale of the Pass.” His boots thudded across the stone floor, plans taking shape. “We’ll convene the council to discuss our next move.”

Warin bowed, his movements fluid and practiced. “It shall be done, sire,” he replied, voice firm and clear, years of service evident in his composed demeanor. He departed the throne room, fading quickly into the background as Gisella stared at them, eyes shining with hurt, disappointment, and fury.

Lot noted how Bernewyn had wisely learned to remain neutral during the heated exchanges between him and his daughter, though such discretion did not always serve the captain well. As Gisella turned her gaze to Lot, her jaw set stubbornly despite the glistening tears, Bernewyn’s carefully maintained neutrality seemed to waver, his eyes flickering with concern between his wife and his king.

“Father, please. This obsession with the forest... it’s not worth the cost.”

Lot hesitated, his back to her. The one thing about her that truly disappointed him struck against his heart: her lost faith in their family’s destiny. “You used to believe, Gisella. What changed?”

“I grew up,” she replied softly. “I learned to see the world as it is, not as legends paint it.”

Her words prickled his nerves, each syllable a thorn in his resolve. Turning his head toward her, he caught her in his periphery. He could almost glimpse himself reflected in her defiant yet hopeless eyes – a mighty, ruthless king... and a heartbroken father unable to comfort his child. The sunlight illuminated Gisella’s hone-gold hair, casting shadows across her pained features. Then she looked to Bernewyn and turned away, skirts swirling violently as she rushed from the hall, her maidservant running behind her.

Silence filled the throne room, and Lot stood rigid, struggling to re-shoulder the cold mantle of command. With flinty effort, he fortified the gnawing regret – he’d set events in motion now, consequences be damned! The forest would be his, no matter the costs.

He looked at Bernewyn staring after Gisella with tense desperation, his throat bobbing. When he met Lot’s eyes, his gaze dropped for the first time in a long while and lips pressed thin. Could Bernewyn’s loyalty ever shift to prioritize his wife over king – a crack in his resolute obedience? Lot thought – not for the first time, but quickly stifled the whisper of doubt. Such musings were dangerous, yet in times like these, they crept unbidden into his mind.

For a moment, Lot considered pressing Bernewyn further – to ask his true thoughts on Arthur, on the hidden secrets of the forest, on the looming specter of war. His son-in-law’s shrewd observations had proved valuable before. But doubt gnawed at him; how much could he trust Bernewyn’s counsel now, with Gisella’s influence weighing on him in this diminished physical state? Lot’s jaw clenched, the decision to remain silent settling heavily upon him.

He spun and walked away, pausing at an arched window overlooking the stark courtyards. He clasped his hands behind his back, brooding over his child’s dismay. Soon she would understand harsh truths – crowns exacted a heavy toll, justice walked a bloody path. The glint of his crown promised victory, but at what cost to the loyalties he’d cultivated?

“Find that magician, Bernewyn – bid him return here at once.”

Bernewyn bowed his obedience, his jaw feathering before he pivoted and left. Lot gazed upon the central courtyards below. Training pits and armories stood silent still, war not yet blooded upon the land.

But declarations took time to ink, dispatch, and receive reply. Troops needed mustering, training, equipping. Supply lines secured and alliances cemented. Ravens would fly, bearing promises and threats in equal measure. Months of preparation before steel met steel. They’d march at first thaw – could Arthur rally his forces and his friends by then?

Which meant through the icy winter, Lot’s furnaces would blaze day and night. Hammers ringing as swords and mail took shape beneath soot-stained hands. Stocks of arrows crafted, war engines built as snows fell heavy. In frozen courtyards, troops drilled relentlessly, their breaths clouding in the bitter air.

By spring’s first melt, his host would stand forged, hardened and hungry. Then they would march – notaries and diplomats replaced by swords and sorcery.

Lot’s smile gleamed, as cold and unforgiving as the iron crown that encircled his brow.

Chapter Text

Iseldir led his people along a winding path through the Darkling Woods, his elder staff a comfortable companion in his grasp. Flanked by a few of the other elders, he glanced over his shoulder, a gentle smile crossing his face as he took in the sight of the many druids following behind. Their brightly colored robes breathed life into the deep greens of the forest, a living tapestry of his people’s enduring spirit. These woodlands, a place where they could commune with nature’s splendor and praise the goddess for her sustenance, were their home. Today, however, was special, compelling them to leave their refuge and travel to Camelot for a greater purpose.

The kingdom’s renewed acceptance of magic kindled hope in Iseldir’s people. They yearned to rebuild their shrines, long destroyed by ignorance or eroded by time. The possibility of establishing permanent settlements, once a distant dream, now seemed within reach. Yet, apprehension still dwelled in their consciousness. Old habits and distrust lingered like frost on spring leaves, slow to thaw even as the warmth of change approached.

“Are you sure this is wise?” Madoc asked, his long robe stirring the dried leaves beneath his feet as they advanced toward the great city.

Iseldir glanced at him and wondered if the elder had intruded upon his thoughts, but quickly dismissed the notion. All druids held privacy sacred and eschewed eavesdropping, especially those naturally gifted with perception of others’ emotions and thoughts.

“The Pendragons have persecuted us for almost thirty years,” lamented Gethin, another elder. “Why stop now?”

Iseldir’s footsteps whispered against the forest floor, each pace careful and unhurried. His blue robes flowed with his movements, a river of calm in the sea of uncertainty around him. Accustomed to the skepticism of both Madoc and Gethin, he’d learned long ago to value his friends’ opinions, whether he acted on them or not. While their caution stemmed from past pains—Madoc’s intuitive wariness and Gethin’s hard-earned distrust—their perspectives sharpened Iseldir’s own convictions. In the delicate balance between hope and hesitation, he always found the wisdom to navigate their uncertain future.

“I bear no ill will toward King Arthur despite his past transgressions,” Iseldir replied, hood drawn over bountiful grey curls, gripping his staff with surety. “The young Pendragon has shown remarkable flashes of his virtue over the years, and though he’s not without moments of fallibility, he is not Uther. Remember the prophecy, brothers, and believe. It’s unfolding right before us, signaling a new era for both our peoples.”

Iseldir stared ahead, his lips thinning. Another prophecy, darker and known to few, pierced his heart. Despite Arthur’s past kindness in protecting and safely returning young Mordred years ago, a grim future loomed. The king’s valor and kindness would not prevail in the relationship yet to unfold between them. Mordred was destined to be King Arthur’s bane. Iseldir, bearing the horror of this knowledge, understood all too well the futility of fighting prophecy. Fate, he knew, would not be denied its inexorable call.

He pushed aside the somber reflections. More recent events kindled hope. With the council meeting of magic practitioners called by Alator of Catha – which was itself unprecedented – discussion on the meaning of Camelot’s repeal of magic stirred great unrest, with dissension burning hot among them.

Then, in a turn of events that left them all in awe, the legendary Emrys appeared. His presence alone was extraordinary, but what followed was truly unfathomable. Emrys counseled unity and called for understanding between those with and without magic. The power emanating from his frail frame left them spellbound as he vowed to speak on their behalf with the king, proposing to formally organize a special council of sorcerers. Sorcerers with autonomy to oversee their own! If it came to pass, the possibilities and expanded freedoms for his people were beyond imagining.

“I’m optimistic King Arthur will grant us even more liberties,” Iseldir affirmed. “There are many benefits for both sides that surely outweigh any obstacles we may encounter. Be certain he’ll proceed with caution, my friends – it will take time for any of this to happen.”

“If it happens at all,” Madoc grumbled.

Iseldir sighed. “May the goddess be with us.”

Cresting a hill, Camelot’s castle emerged on the horizon, its white stones magnificent and gleaming, a beacon of power even from afar. Towers pierced the sky, and pennants fluttered in the breeze, a testament to the kingdom’s might and splendor. While the elders exchanged guarded glances, the children pointed and chattered excitedly. Once a symbol of fear for any sorcerer, the castle now represented a tentative hope.

Iseldir’s thoughts turned to the hours of travel still before them as the group resumed their journey. With each step, anticipation grew, intertwined with a creeping nervous tension. After descending the hill and losing sight of the castle, he raised his hand, signaling the group to halt. Deciding this was as good a place as any to make camp, he waited as his people gathered around him.

“Never before have we journeyed towards Camelot with purpose and in such numbers,” he declared, taking in the sight of his clan. “I see shadows of fear on some faces, while innocent joy lights others. Both have their place this hour as we stand at the threshold of change.”

Iseldir gripped his elder staff, sunlight glinting off its druidic carvings. “For nearly thirty winters we’ve wandered the forests and woodlands, magics suppressed, fear and persecution following our steps like vicious wolves. Yet we kept ancient faiths alive through our hearts’ perseverance. That faith now stands poised to reignite magic’s golden age, fulfilling destinies long foretold.”

Murmurs rose, and Iseldir let hope’s swell build before raising a hand for silence. “The prophecy remains clear, though shadows and light wrestle for dominance. But we druids know true power abides not in weapons’ might, but in courage of conscience. If we meet uncertainty with open hands, seek first to understand, then trust can take root. Have faith, my children – this peace we shall nurture together.”

Iseldir moved among his people, his presence a balm to their anxieties. Together with the other elders, he helped set up the camp, his hands working alongside theirs to pitch tents, prepare fire pits, and erect perimeter wards. Through it all, he offered a reassuring touch here, a nod of solidarity there, his eyes meeting each of theirs with unwavering resolve. As the camp took shape, imbued with both physical comfort and magical protection, he gathered them once more.

“I must leave you for a time to seek audience with King Arthur. I pray you will bless him and that we return with good tidings within a few days. May the goddess be with us.”

At midday, he set out with Madoc and Gethin from their temporary camp, walking in companionable silence, each lost in thought about the momentous task ahead.

As the afternoon sun hung lower in the sky, they emerged from the dense forest into a wide clearing, the sudden openness almost dizzying after hours under the canopy. For some time, they had glimpsed the castle through the trees, but now its full majesty was unveiled, its walls and northern gates imposing before them. Madoc drew in a sharp breath at the sight, perhaps feeling the magnitude of their mission – the same as Iseldir felt. Two armed guards stood at attention below the raised portcullis, and followed their approach with wary curiosity.

Iseldir stepped forward, his voice clear and steady. “We are druids, seeking audience with King Arthur.”

The guards motioned them through right away, seeming indifferent to his introduction – perhaps even annoyed that he’d spoken to them at all. But upon entering the upper town, Iseldir smiled, a wave of elation washing over him as people went about their day, untroubled that druids walked freely among them. A dream blossomed before his eyes. How long had his people yearned for acceptance without fear or disdain marring faces?

Caught in wonder’s grip, he drifted slowly down the main lane at a dreamlike pace, savoring the moment. Each footfall was purposeful, as if treading on sacred ground. His eyes, bright with a youthful wonder he hadn’t felt in decades, drank in every detail—the play of light on cobblestones, the mingled scents of cooked food and summer blossoms, sun-drenched merchant stalls and shops glowing nearly ethereal. Chatter and laughter graced the air, unburdened, unaware of destiny’s pivot at Camelot’s gates this golden hour.

He breathed deeply, storing each precious sensation like a preserved flower between the pages of memory. A profound sense of contentment filled him, even as a part of him recognized the rarity of such perfect moments. If Emrys and the young Pendragon could deliver unity as promised, then every lost soul was now found. Every broken dream given bold new shape. Suspended between past and future, Iseldir moved towards the citadel, cradling this glimpse of bliss.

Then, something fluttering on the breeze caught Iseldir’s attention – a leaflet with fine print landing at his feet. Bending to retrieve it, he read the words upon its surface:

“People of Camelot – do not be fooled by the Crown’s honeyed words!

Our rulers preach abundance and celebration, yet ignores the poison at the root of this ‘benevolent gift of magic.’ Have you forgotten so quickly the atrocities committed by sorcerers? The vicious curses, torture of the innocent, loved ones slain for spite or vengeance! Magic brings only suffering! Its wielders know no truth, no remorse!

The throne dares to mention ‘lingering wounds’ while welcoming the very vipers who inflicted them into the court! Even now, sorcerers walk freely in our halls of power, whispering their lies into royal ears. How many more lurk among us, some brazen in the open, others still concealed, their ‘magic flowing through the earth’ – or through our children?

The Crown claims to see our pain, yet chooses to ‘move forward’ by embracing those who caused it. This is not unity – it is betrayal!

Do not be deceived by talk of ‘tending wounds.’ The only salve for our suffering is justice! Instead, these murderers and deceivers now roam unchecked, their crimes forgiven by royal decree.

Where is the compassion for those of us who lost everything to magic’s perversion? Our leaders speak of brotherhood, yet extend their hands to our tormentors.

Camelot’s greatness indeed lies in her people – those who remember the truth, who refuse to bow to sorcery’s seductive lies. Stand firm against this corruption! Remain vigilant against the wickedness.

For the sake of our children and our future, we must root out this evil before it takes hold once more. No quarter for sorcerers! And be wary any who stand in defense of these monsters!

Camelot for her true people!

-Loyal Citizens Against Magical Tyranny”

Iseldir’s brow furrowed, his lips pressing into a thin line as he fought to maintain composure. His eyes darted around the square, suddenly aware of more loose papers drifting among the seemingly content townsfolk. The euphoric haze that had enveloped him moments ago dissipated like morning mist, revealing the city’s true face – a patchwork of unease beneath a veneer of normalcy.

“What does it say?” inquired Gethin, looking over his shoulder. Madoc scooped up another leaflet and began reading in silence, his expression growing grave.

“It says that harmony here is but a thin veil over deeper troubles,” Iseldir replied, his voice weighted with concern.

Gethin’s face darkened as more of the pamphlets swirled through the streets, each one a seed of discord taking flight on the breeze. Iseldir watched with growing disquiet as people around them began to snatch the leaflets from the air, their eyes scanning the inflammatory words. Some faces contorted with anger, others with fear or confusion. Iseldir tucked the parchment beneath his twined belt as he gathered his thoughts, acutely aware of the shifting atmosphere around them.

“It seems there are those who wish to poison the well of peace before it can even be dug,” Madoc grumbled, his eyes following the trail of loose parchments as they now tumbled through the streets like harbingers of a storm. He folded the leaflet and inserted it into the pouch slung across his shoulder. “Tread carefully, Iseldir. The jaws of the wolf may yet hide behind its friendly gaze.”

Iseldir nodded solemnly. “There will always be dissenting voices, brothers. Change seldom comes without struggle, and sometimes it’s very painful.”

His heart ached as he witnessed how swiftly suspicions could take root. These words had the power to provoke the angry and bitter, to sway the weak-minded or the undecided, but most dangerously, to rekindle the pain of those harmed by magic. He set his jaw and continued forward, his steps quicker and less buoyant than before. If the people of Camelot could not reconcile with magic users, then all their dreams were but ephemeral mists, destined to evaporate in the harsh light of reality.

In the main square, the courtyard hummed with the bustle of castle life, none seeming to take real note of Iseldir and his small party. The leaflets had not reached this peaceful area yet, but given time, it too would be tainted by the venom of hatred slithering not far behind their steps.

As they moved towards the palace entrance, a figure descended the citadel steps, striding purposefully towards them, a Sidhe staff in his hand. Iseldir’s breath caught as he recognized the man – Emrys, appearing as his youthful self. Iseldir’s companions followed his line of sight.

“It is he of the legends,” murmured Madoc with trembling voice, “born of magic itself.”

“Mae’r tywyddwr wedi dyfod,” Gethin gasped, breathless. “The prophet has come.”

“Welcome to Camelot,” Emrys greeted, coming to stand before them, his voice carrying softly on the breeze.

“My lord, Emrys,” said Iseldir, his heart racing as he knelt immediately with Gethin and Madoc, bowing their heads in reverence, open palms raised toward the sky in Emrys’ direction. “We are honored by your presence.”

“Please, rise,” Emrys requested, a note of tension in his voice. As Iseldir and the others stood, Emrys fidgeted uncomfortably, glancing around. “That… really isn’t necessary.”

“But, my lord,” Iseldir said. “We must. Emrys is the cornerstone of our prophecies, the beacon of our hope. Since he is revealed and magic has returned, we must respect our rituals and practices.”

Iseldir watched as Emrys shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his fingers tightening around his staff. The young warlock’s eyes darted nervously to the castle, around the square, then back to the druids, a faint flush creeping up his neck. His voice, when he spoke, carried a hint of strain. “I would prefer that you do not. Please, kindly speak to your people about this.”

Studying Emrys, Iseldir felt his admiration for the young sorcerer grow. Here stood a figure of legend, a man of extraordinary power that seemed to hum in the very air around him. Destiny cloaked him like a second skin, hinting at a future that would reshape the very fabric of their world. Yet, despite all this, he sought no adulation.

“As you wish, Emrys,” Iseldir replied. “We shall refrain from kneeling, but permit us at least to hail my lord as befits your station.”

“If you must.” Emrys’ shoulders relaxed slightly, a small smile then coming to his lips. “It’s good to see you again, Master Iseldir.” He paused, his expression growing serious once more. “There are pressing matters I’d like to discuss later – the sorcerers’ council, and... a concerning incident involving Mordred. But first, let’s focus on your audience with the king. Follow me, please.” He turned, striding boldly before them, his staff clicking against the cobblestones in time with his own.

It did not surprise Iseldir that Emrys desired to speak on the sorcerers’ council – he’d given it a great deal of consideration himself. But Mordred. That was unexpected, a deep concern. What had the young druid done? More importantly, why was he in Camelot at all?

As they ascended the palace steps, Madoc leaned in with a whisper. “The threads of fate are delicate, Iseldir. One pull could unravel all we’re working toward.”

Iseldir straightened his robes, steadying his nerves, again wondering if Madoc had read his mind. Prophecy foretold this bold new world – he must trust in destiny’s course as he had urged his people. And in the men like King Arthur, Emrys, and those brave souls standing beside them to illuminate rather than obscure the path ahead.

…But Mordred…

The guards at the citadel check-point eyed them warily but allowed them entry with their staffs at Emrys’ behest. Iseldir sent a silent prayer as they stepped inside. Castle inhabitants bustled past them in the hallowed halls, paying little heed to their presence. Iseldir’s keen eyes searched the faces they passed, wondering how many among them were kindred spirits of magic. And how many harbored feelings of resentment like the writers of the disturbing pamphlet tucked in his belt?

As they neared imposing wooden doors left ajar and flanked by vigilant guards, Emrys turned to them. “We’re here. Are you ready?”

His mouth suddenly dry, Iseldir nodded before they proceeded inside. He had never before entered a hall as grand the throne room, with light streaming in abundantly, gold glistening from high arches, making it difficult to imagine the darkness that once permeated this space. He stepped onto unfamiliar ground today, approaching a monarchy that had once been hostile and dreadful to all things magical. His knees weakened beneath his robes, but destiny and hope steeled his resolve, refusing to let him falter.

As Emrys led them towards the dais, Iseldir scanned the chamber, taking in every detail. He spotted the druid Ruadan among the audience, his stoic face a mask of neutrality. While Emrys’ and Ruadan’s presence was expected, the sight of his daughter, Sefa, serving quietly behind the queen came as a revelation. This scene before him confirmed one truth from the divisive leaflet: magic users were indeed integrated within the great citadel’s walls.

His mind raced with implications. How far-reaching was this acceptance of magic, and would it bolster the king’s support for their proposed special council? Or would the venomous words spreading through the city streets jeopardize all they hoped to achieve? The significance of these questions pressed upon him as they approached the throne.

Reaching the foot of the dais, Emrys bowed deeply. “Your Majesties, may I present Master Iseldir, chieftain of the Taeron druids, and his companions.”

Iseldir and his brothers followed suit, bowing low before the royal couple. As he straightened and faced the monarchs, Iseldir couldn’t help the feeling of awe that gripped him. King Arthur watched him with guarded curiosity, the weapon at his side thrumming with an unmistakable magical energy. Queen Guinevere’s gaze, filled with genuine interest, swept over them. Iseldir noticed a glow about her, reminiscent of what he’d often seen in some of his clanswomen.

Magic, indeed, all around, Iseldir mused, the realization both comforting and intriguing.

“Noble druids,” King Arthur greeted. “Welcome to Camelot.”

“Your Majesties, we are honored,” Iseldir began, his voice steady despite the magnitude of the moment. Removing an emerald amulet from around his neck, he presented it to the king. “Please accept this emerald as a token of appreciation. It symbolizes growth, life, and renewal, and represents the hope for a new era between Camelot and the druids.”

He extended the gift and a giant knight stepped forward to retrieve it from him, taking it to the king. Arthur glanced at it only a moment before handing it to his queen.

“It’s lovely,” acknowledged Queen Guinevere, examining it in her delicate hands.

“Thank you,” King Arthur expressed with a brisk nod.

“We thank you in your wisdom on lifting the ban on magic, sire,” Iseldir said. “My people and I wish only to live peacefully alongside your other subjects. If it would please you, great king, I humbly petition to settle my people near your city for a time. We require but a modest plot to rebuild our nearby temples and tend our sacred grounds.”

Murmurs and astonished whispers followed this bold request, rippling through the throne room. The king cast a discerning gaze over Iseldir and his companions, contemplation in his expression.

After King Arthur raised his hand for silence, he solemnly declared, “Camelot could only thrive from the rich diversity your culture will bring to us. We welcome you and your people in peace. My engineers will help with any provisions you may need to rebuild your structures.”

The tension in Iseldir’s shoulders eased as he gazed upon Arthur, sensing a bond of mutual trust. “You are merciful and just, my king. We shall embrace the chance to work freely alongside your men and perhaps eventually to live amongst all peoples of Camelot, bound by harmony.”

“That is our desire as well,” King Arthur replied, a subtle smile gracing his lips. “Please take food and respite after your journey. Guest quarters have been prepared for you and your companions.”

“Your Majesty is most gracious,” Iseldir responded, his voice warm with appreciation. “We humbly accept your hospitality.”

King Arthur’s expression softened. He glanced at Emrys, who responded with an almost imperceptible nod, his eyes conveying approval and respect. Turning back to Iseldir, his tone carried a note of sincerity.

“Then it’s settled. Sir Merlin will see to your comfort during your stay. Fair day, Master Iseldir.”

Iseldir shot Emrys – Sir Merlin – a glance, pondering the young warlock’s title and his enduring humility. A sorcerer elevated to nobility in Camelot; more than a personal achievement. It was a tangible step towards the prophecy of Albion’s golden age.

Arthur then stood, and taking the queen’s hand, they descended the dais, followed by their attendants and guards. As the king and queen approached his position, Iseldir pressed a hand against his belt, one burden lifted from his frame while another gnawed at his conscience. He wet his lips, his pulse racing.

Before the royals passed, he stepped forward. “Great king, I must inform you –” Iseldir pulled the pamphlet from his belt, holding it out. “Not all seek this mutual bond we build today.”

His Majesty eyed it curiously, a hint of suspicion creeping into his features before he met Iseldir’s gaze. Taking it with caution, Arthur read it, his face remaining impassive, though a muscle feathered in his taut jawline.

“In the streets of your vibrant city near the northern gates, my lord,” Iseldir replied to the king’s unasked question. “I believe they were just now released in the lanes.”

After reading the flyer, Arthur’s face hardened. He handed the parchment to another man behind him. “Lord Geoffrey,” he ordered, his voice steady, “read this to the court.”

As the stout lord read, a profound tension filled the room. Iseldir observed the varied reactions among the assembled courtiers. Some nodded in approval, while others whispered urgently behind raised hands. Calculating eyes darted between Arthur and Iseldir’s small assembly, while a cluster of older courtiers huddled together, their furrowed brows and tight lips betraying their unease. Even Ruadan and his daughter exchanged glances, the girl’s hands wringing nervously while she looked to her father. The air was charged with as much anticipation as it was fraught with uncertainty. Once the words had been read from the leaflet, King Arthur raised his hand for silence.

“People of Camelot,” he began, his voice carrying to every corner of the hall. “I hear your fears. I acknowledge your pain. The wounds of the past run deep, and healing takes time. But I stand before you today to reaffirm my commitment to all citizens of this realm – those with magic and those without.”

He paused, surveying the room.

“In the coming days, I will address these concerns more fully. We will not hide from difficult truths, nor will we allow fear to divide us. Camelot’s strength lies in our unity, and together, we will forge a path forward that ensures justice and safety for all.”

Arthur then turned to Iseldir. “Thank you for bringing this to our attention. Your courage honors us.”

“Ei fid addfwyn i ti,” Iseldir replied, meeting the king’s gaze. “Blessed be your path, King Arthur.”

Any joy the king had at the fresh prospect of Iseldir and his people settling nearby seemed to have left him. He soberly departed his great hall, his queen beside him, the dangling emerald pendant glistening in her hand. A hushed murmur spread through the cavernous chamber, following in their wake.

As Iseldir and his companions trailed Emrys through the castle’s winding corridors, he struggled to steady his trembling hands, his heart racing, his mind daring to hope. Yet the weight of three decades of persecution lingered, its echoes reinforced by the leaflet. The parchment served as a cold reminder that the past was not so easily forgotten, neither by his kin nor by those who once hunted them. Memories of fleeing Uther’s men, of his people slaughtered, of years spent hiding even from Arthur himself, threatened to overwhelm him. Still here they were, on the cusp of change, walking the edge of a blade between a painful history and a tentative future.

After a journey that seemed both endless and fleeting, they arrived at their assigned quarters. Emrys parted the double doors and led them inside. Iseldir’s eyes widened at the sight of the opulent chamber, with its intricately woven tapestries and plush furnishings. A few servants moved quietly about, arranging a table laden with an array of unfamiliar delicacies.

Emrys turned to him, his expression grave. “Arthur requires my presence now. I believe he means to address the leaflet issue.”

“A concern for us all,” Iseldir agreed, his brow furrowing.

“The hour is late. The High Steward will arrange a meeting between you and the engineers tomorrow.” Emrys paused, then added, “May I speak with you privately, sometime before you depart the city?”

Iseldir nodded solemnly. “Of course. Whatever assistance I can offer, you need only ask. Our fates are intertwined in this new era.”

Emrys gave a grateful nod, then left them to settle in. Iseldir turned to his brothers, unable to keep the excitement from his voice. “This is a sign. Emrys stands at last at Pendragon’s side, a man of nobility. The prophecies are coming to pass, and a new era dawns for all our kin.”

“And Mordred…?” Madoc inquired, scanning the table of food. He seated himself as a male servant approached to serve him.

Iseldir swallowed, his spirits dampened by his friend’s thorny question. “We haven’t seen the boy in several years – not since he chose to leave us.” He paused, his gaze distant. “Mordred’s path, like our own, twists in shadows we’ve yet to pierce. His actions, whatever they may be, are but one thread in future’s tapestry.”

Gethin nodded soberly, curious eyes still exploring the spacious chambers. “And that tapestry grows ever more complex,” he intoned. “Discord simmers.”

“True. Our mettle is being tested from all sides.” Iseldir paused, looking at each of his companions in turn. “But in my heart, I know this will pass. May the goddess bless us all, and guide our hands to nourish the sapling of peace.”

Chapter Text

“It’s a bitter blow,” Sir Leon remarked, his words shattering the leaden silence in the lesser hall.

“A coward’s ploy to undermine unity and peace,” Merlin murmured as he studied the leaflet, anger in his tone. He caught Arthur’s eye when he glanced up. “We must be vigilant.”

Arthur paced at the front of the hall, his arms tightly folded. His gaze, sharp as a falcon’s, swept over the assembled group – Guinevere clutching her druid amulet as if it were a lifeline, Galahad and Geoffrey seated at the table, tension etched into their frames, while Percival and Leon stood watchfully near the walls, silent sentinels in the growing unrest.

His gaze rested on Leon, gratitude tempering his simmering anger. His old friend had chosen to remain in the city with his family after the coronation, postponing his well-earned return to Meadow Manor and the affairs of his estate. The looming threat of war with Lot had kept the experienced commander close, his expertise in logistics proving invaluable. Now, as they faced this unexpected internal threat, Arthur was thankful for Leon’s steady presence.

Galahad, young and impetuous, burst out, “How can anyone spread such hateful lies?”

Arthur ceased his pacing, turning to face Galahad. “We must be cautious in our speech, Galahad,” he said, his voice firm but measured. “Not everything in those leaflets is fabrication. We must confront the truth with wisdom, not just passion.”

Chastened, Galahad’s eyes dropped, his face flushing crimson. “Apologies, my lord.”

Resuming his restless movement, Arthur’s mind was a whirlwind of thoughts. Their progress, hard-won and precious, now teetered on a knife’s edge, threatened by these insidious leaflets. And the timing – mere days after Elyan’s disappearance – gnawed at him, relentless.

He cast a furtive glance at Gwen, recalling her quiet determination to seek out those wronged by magic. It was Elyan who had cruelly opened her eyes to their pains, his bitter outburst the catalyst spurring her into action. Her efforts, though not yet shared, weighed on him. A pang of guilt struck him as he realized how he’d allowed other concerns to overshadow this crucial task.

“We should search homes – shops – find whoever is spreading these papers,” Percival offered up, his voice trailing off as if he regretted the suggestion as soon as it left his lips.

A suffocating silence descended upon the room, unspoken fears palpable in every breath. Arthur’s jaw tightened, memories of his past duties as marshal surfacing unbidden, barely masking his inner turmoil. He observed his advisors, their rigid postures and anxious glances speaking volumes. Percival’s suggestion echoed in the stillness, conjuring specters of past conflicts that seemed to cast long shadows over them all.

For Arthur bristled inwardly at the thought of searching homes and shops. It was a tactic he’d never relished, even when necessity had demanded it. The practice, though familiar, left a bitter taste in his mouth – a reminder of darker times he’d hoped to leave behind. Yet, he couldn’t dismiss it outright, knowing its potential effectiveness.

He inhaled slowly, contemplating the ramifications of such actions in light of the imminent threat. The wrong decision now could unravel everything they’d worked to build, where they were heading, and the king he aspired to be. As he prepared to speak, the fate of Camelot seemingly hanging on his next words, Guinevere’s soft voice cut through the oppressive atmosphere like a cooling breeze on a sweltering day.

“Arthur,” she said, her eyes meeting his. “We must reaffirm our commitment to peace. Set the people’s minds at rest.” Her avowal seemed to dissipate a measure of tension, as if some weight had lifted from everyone’s shoulders.

Arthur paused, considering Guinevere’s counsel against the urgency of action. After a moment, he turned to Percival, his tone tempered. “Let’s not resort to such drastic steps just yet,” he said. “Assemble patrols – collect and destroy the leaflets spreading across the city proper. Detain anyone found distributing the inflammatory material for questioning.”

Percival bowed, a flicker of relief crossing his features. “Aye, my lord.”

“Leon, we’re grateful for your help, old friend,” Arthur continued, his voice softening with appreciation. “If you would continue to assist Percival, your experience is needed now more than ever.”

“You can count on me, Arthur,” Leon replied, his dedication unwavering. He drew himself up, his demeanor reflecting his tenacity. “I’ve seen how whispers can turn to shouts if left unchecked. We’ll root out these leaflets before they can take hold.” He clasped his hand to his chest, a gesture of loyalty and readiness.

Turning to Geoffrey, Arthur added, “Prepare a response. I want it in an hour—less if the elegance of your pen is not lost in your haste.”

Geoffrey’s eyes widened slightly at the timeframe, but he nodded firmly. “It shall be done, your highness.” He rose, gathering his papers, quill, and ink well with practiced efficiency.

“My lord,” Gwen interjected, intercepting the librarian, “I need your scribes to review the court records, find anything you can on magical victims, or incidents including unintentional ones—conduct interviews if you must. Compile a list – starting with my brother.”

All heads turned to Gwen, a hush falling over the room. She gazed at Arthur, her tone steady. “As you know, I’ve given this a great deal of consideration. We need numbers. We need to know who these people are.”

“Of course,” Arthur replied, pride and renewed purpose resonating in his voice. His posture straightened, invigorated by Gwen’s initiative.

“There are few homes left abandoned in the city,” she continued, her hand unconsciously pressing against her stomach—a gesture Arthur had fleetingly noticed his wife making more often lately. “But perhaps one of them could be used as a hospital for the magically wounded. We’ll need a staff—other resources that I’ve identified as crucial to the effort.”

“As you wish, my queen,” Geoffrey replied, his tone conveying respect and readiness for the task.

Leon straightened, his bearing shifting from a seasoned warrior to attentive advisor. “My lady, if I may, I’m certain Sir John and Lady Isabella would be honored to assist with logistics. Their experience in managing Meadow Manor could prove invaluable.”

“I can reach out to Masters Leonard and Ruadan,” Merlin offered. “They might assist in recruiting the medical practitioners Gaius and I worked with.”

Percival set his jaw with determination. “Once the location is chosen, I’ll arrange for its security.”

Gwen’s eyes brightened with gratitude. “Your efforts are deeply appreciated,” she replied, her gaze encompassing them all.

Percival nodded, then began his departure with Leon and Geoffrey, their footsteps echoing like distant thunder, each step weighted with their newfound purpose.

“Men,” Arthur called, halting their retreat. “Merlin’s right. We must be vigilant. We must watch those around us – look for signs of dissent, any hint of treachery—”

“Or unhappiness,” Gwen cut in, her insight sharp as a blade. “The disillusioned are not hidden and are often the most vulnerable or susceptible to this corruption. We must find them and offer aid before others can exploit their pain.”

Arthur paused, feeling struck by the steel in Gwen’s voice. Her directive, though compassionate, carried an undercurrent of authority that stirred something in him—a quiet acknowledgment of her growing command. With a nod, he turned to Percival. “Speak with the commanders. Let them know what to look for. This may go deeper than we can imagine.”

Their ominous declaration lingered, thick and oppressive as storm clouds. A pang of regret hit him as he realized how quickly he’d extinguished the hopeful atmosphere Gwen had cultivated mere moments ago. The warmth of their collective purpose had dissipated, replaced by a chill of suspicion.

As the others filed out, Merlin spoke up, his brow furrowed like weathered stone. “Elyan?”

The name fell like a hammer blow. Arthur’s shoulders stiffened, his fist clenched, inside feeling every bit the disillusioned leader. But weakness was a luxury he couldn’t afford. Exhaling slowly, he relaxed his stance, arms falling to his sides as he faced those left in the room.

His queen’s eyes, previously gentle, now blazed with the intensity of a forge. “What?”

“Gwen…” Arthur began, his voice as gentle as he could muster, acutely aware of how Merlin’s accusation had shattered the atmosphere.

“You cannot believe Elyan is responsible for the leaflets?” she demanded, her tone sharp, tinged with both disbelief and a hint of fear. She rounded on Merlin, her gaze fierce and unyielding. “He would not do this to us. To me.” Her voice faltered for a moment before regaining strength. “It’s someone else. Now that many know about your magic, perhaps it’s one of them.”

Arthur shook his head, choosing each word carefully. “There hasn’t been enough time to organize something on this scale.” She turned to Arthur, confusion and anger warring on her face. He moved to her, grasping her arms gently but firmly, his touch a contrast to the harshness of his words. “Gwen, you must reason as we have. It pains me to say it, but it has to be Elyan.”

“I won’t accept this,” Gwen protested, struggling against his grip. Her eyes brimmed with tears, denial etched in every line of her face, but they did not fall.

Arthur’s expression softened, but his tone held firm. “He’s turning my own rhetoric against me. Remember, one week past, he expressed these very sentiments of hate to you.”

Galahad, who had been silent until now, spoke up hesitantly. “Sire, does Elyan have the means to produce such a thing on his own?”

Gwen’s eyes glimmered with a spark of hope, her breath catching as she awaited the answer. Arthur bit his lip, hesitant.

Merlin answered, his voice grave. “He’s likely found sympathizers with the financial resources to aid him. The scale of this operation suggests as much.”

The hope in Gwen’s expression extinguished, and Arthur felt its loss deep in his chest. Gently releasing her, he turned to face Galahad and Merlin. “Find Elyan. Use whatever means necessary, but do not harm him.” He paused, then added with a hint of apology in his voice, “I’m sorry to burden you further, Merlin. I suppose that’s the price of your new status. Elevation comes with its own challenges, I’m afraid.”

Merlin met Arthur’s gaze, his eyes reflecting resolve and empathy. “I’m ready for whatever lies ahead, Arthur. We’ll find Elyan and get to the bottom of this.” He then glanced toward Gwen, his expression softening with shared pain. Arthur recognized the conflict in his friend’s face—the same terrible dilemma they all grappled with regarding Elyan. Merlin’s voice lowered, heavy with regret. “I’m sorry.”

As Merlin and Galahad prepared to leave, Arthur nodded, his expression conveying gratitude. “Thank you, both of you. Your loyalty means more than you know.”

The men bowed slightly, the burden of their task visible in the set of their shoulders as they departed. Arthur watched them go, then noticed Gwen had drifted away, her entire bearing taut with distress. She clutched her emerald pendant, its green surface catching the dull light as she absently turned it in her fingers.

“Gwen, my love,” he murmured, returning his attention fully to his wife. He approached her slowly, mindful of the turmoil she must be feeling.

And yet, despite the demands of the crown and the crisis at hand, a flicker of relief crossed Arthur’s mind. Tomorrow, he and Gwen would slip away from the castle’s suffocating walls for a few precious hours, the yoke of leadership temporarily set aside. This respite, planned with the secrecy of a covert campaign, would be their chance to breathe freely and rekindle their spirits.

“I know this is difficult...” he began, gently touching her arm to turn her towards him.

Gwen’s mouth worked silently, words failing her as she bit her lip. Arthur saw the weariness lining her face, recognizing the immense effort she made to contain the surge of emotion threatening to overwhelm her. He admired, not for the first time, her strength – the same strength that had made her such an exemplary queen.

“You’ve been remarkable,” he said softly, his admiration clear as he rubbed her arms. “In less than a fortnight as queen, you’ve faced every challenge with the poise of a seasoned ruler. I couldn’t have chosen a more noble, capable woman to lead by my side.”

Yet, as he studied her face, Arthur realized that her strength was also her vulnerability. Gwen seldom admitted defeat, often internalizing her struggles. It pained him to see her suppressing her emotions now.

“I’m sorry, truly,” he continued, his voice thick with emotion. “It grieves me that Elyan has abandoned us like this – that he has wounded you so deeply.” As Gwen’s carefully maintained composure finally crumbled, Arthur drew her closer, enfolding her in his arms. “Truly…”

He stroked her hair gently, her sobs shaking her body like a tempest, wishing he could absorb her anguish. “I know you’re trying to be strong,” he said with tender care, “but you don’t have to face this alone. Let me be your pillar now, as you’ve so often been mine.”

He felt Gwen take a deep, shuddering breath, her body gradually stilling itself in his arms as if drawing strength from his embrace. “What will we do?” He held her tighter, feeling her tears soak into his shoulder. Her voice was barely audible, delicate as a whisper. “He’s my brother…”

Arthur’s head lowered, the sweet scent of her hair momentarily soothing his own battered soul. The specter of sedition loomed large against Elyan, and they both understood the consequences. As king, he knew justice’s demands, but as Gwen’s husband, he ached to spare her this pain.

“I don’t have the answers, my love,” he softly admitted, his words a quiet confession in the storm of uncertainty. “I truly don’t…”

Chapter Text

Morgana gazed above the rugged mountain peaks surrounding her prison, watching the dragons soar as the sun sank below the jagged horizon. Strangely, a sense of serenity enveloped her, the beauty of their graceful dance still something to behold. As twilight began to deepen, she noticed a subtle shift in their flight patterns. Where once they had wheeled chaotically, now their movements seemed more purposeful, almost harmonious. It was as if the very air around them had changed, bringing with it a newfound order.

Her surroundings had improved as well—since Merlin visited more frequently. She glanced behind her, took in the humble changes. On one visit, he brought a small bed with a firm mattress, layered with furs and blankets, and placed it next to the fire. The soft textures of the furs contrasted sharply with the rough stone beneath, a small island of comfort in her austere surroundings.

The modest table and chair he brought on his next visit were positioned nearby—a few books of literature neatly stacked on the tabletop. More surprising was the writing set he presented one day: a quill, a small pot of ink, and several sheets of parchment.

Merlin had suggested that, although she wasn't permitted to correspond with anyone, perhaps she could use them to help sort out her thoughts. Morgana scoffed lightly, recalling the very sound she’d made when Merlin had first proposed the idea. But her eyes slid to a worn leather book next to the stack on the table, its familiar shape drawing her attention. She crossed to the table and picked up her mother’s book, her fingers tracing the brown leather bindings.

In a way, she mused, her mother had done just that for her – guided her through childhood's complexities by leaving her this bittersweet gift, now encased in a weathered cover. As she sat in the chair, she held the book close, relishing the comfort that such a simple object could provide to her. The familiar weight in her hands anchored her, connecting her to a past now distant as a fading dream.

As she held the book, time blurred, the world continued on, oblivious to her absence. It seemed a lifetime since Merlin had revealed his identity as Emrys to her, yet only a month had passed. In that brief span, he had changed in many ways, and in others, remained steadfastly the same.

With each gift, Merlin usually included bits of information about Camelot's ongoing saga – Gwen's coronation, murmurs over Arthur's new law, Escetir's grievance, the potential collaboration between sorcerers and Arthur. When he mentioned the restoration of the harvest she'd scorched to punish her people, guilt had twisted in her gut. But most telling were the recent developments: Merlin’s ascension to Camelot’s court wizard, indicating greater acceptance of magic by Arthur than she could have imagined possible.

Morgana could tell Kilgharrah had been greatly pleased with most of the news, often praising Merlin, Arthur, and the rest of Camelot for the courage in facing these challenges. A maelstrom of emotions whirled through her. The freedom of magic was what she’d long desired, and now that it was reality, she couldn’t help the trace of bitterness that seeped through. They had accomplished in such a short time, and with such good will abounding, what she could not during her two reigns as queen. The thought of her former friends prospering without her, building the very world she had envisioned but failed to create, added another layer to the tumultuous emotions churning within her.

Lost in thoughts and feelings, Morgana started when Aithusa suddenly skittered inside, brimming with energy. She nestled beside Morgana, nuzzling against her hand. Morgana idly stroked the dragon’s soft ivory plates, glancing at the cave opening since she had not heard Kilgharrah’s usual thunderous presence outside.

“How was your adventure?” Morgana asked the youngling, turning back to her. Smiling warmly, she marveled at how much they had bonded in recent weeks as she caressed her still-hardening scales.

Since the Triple Goddess had banished her here, isolated and powerless, only Aithusa had kept her soul from crumbling completely—that was, before Merlin began his frequent visitations. She saw echoes of herself in the young dragon: both feared yet yearning for affection; wounded but resilient.

Now hearing the rhythmic flap of Kilgharrah's leathery wings as he descended, Morgana glanced toward the entrance. After a moment, the great dragon’s ancient, golden eyes fixed on them as he peered into the cave, an eruption of harmless smoke tendrils flaring from nostrils. Though tensions between them had thawed considerably, Morgana sensed his lingering envy at their closeness, for she’d usurped a portion of authority over the baby dragon.

“You should not wander far from me, young one,” Kilgharrah rumbled, his jealousy tinging his words as he addressed Aithusa. “The aether harbors many dangers for inexperienced travelers.”

Morgana rolled her eyes in exasperation as she stood and approached the cave mouth. Aithusa merely blinked her luminous eyes, staying firmly at Morgana’s side and unfazed by Kilgharrah’s stern warning. As she faced the great dragon, his immense form filling her vision, Morgana felt a fleeting sense of her own smallness. Yet, even as she craned her neck to meet his gaze, her resolve remained unshaken.

“She wants independence, Kilgharrah,” Morgana admonished with measured care. “Release your tethers and perhaps you’ll gain better results.”

Another puff of smoke emitted from Kilgharrah’s giant nostrils. “Do not presume to know anything about dragon ways, Morgana.” He used his harmonics too, rippling chilled vibrations that penetrated through her. His lips pulled back. Her chin lifted, defiance coursing despite feeling diminished by Kilgharrah.  

“I’m female as is she, something that I do presume to know,” she rebuffed in the face of the dragon's retaliation. “Allow her to explore, and expand her psychic senses, discovering new realms and creatures unknown.”

Kilgharrah growled, releasing a billow of smoke hot and acrid on her skin, momentarily obscuring his features. He backed away, a blast of cold from his great wings touching them inside as he ascended into the sky, relieving their discomfort.

Exhaling deeply, Morgana retreated into the cave, her shoulders relaxing slightly as she sat on the bed bathed in the fire’s glow. Aithusa followed, chirping and flittering. Caressing the top of the dragon’s head, she released a soft sigh. One day, Morgana hoped, she and the great dragon would find a common ground. Perhaps they could even stand together peaceably.

She settled comfortably on the bed while the baby dragon peered at her with those large, luminescent eyes, as green as a pond of cool water. “You are learning quickly though, aren’t you?” she whispered with pride. “You don’t need that controlling creature keeping you tethered so closely, do you? What you and I can do is quite different, isn't it?”

In recent weeks, Morgana had pushed beyond mere words and encouragement, forging a profound telepathic link with Aithusa, rivaling even the ancient druidic mind-speaking. Through sheer will and the strength of their bond, she'd shattered the barriers that had kept most human minds separate from dragons. She knew dragonlords like Merlin shared a profound bond with their dragon, but Morgana's innate abilities had forged her own unique connection with Aithusa. Their minds intertwined freely, delving deeper and dissolving defenses between them both.

Morgana's lips curved into a small smile. "Shall we continue honing our mental abilities, little one?"

Aithusa pounced onto the bed, folding her delicate wings. She moved close enough for Morgana to cradle her head gently. Cooing softly, Morgana gazed into her large green eyes and called upon her priestess powers, meager though they might be – if any remained at all. During their sessions, the bracelet was dormant, but she had to test its limits – push further each time – for Aithusa’s sake.

Closing her eyes, Morgana reached out with her mind. “Focus on sending feelings or impressions to me instead of words,” she mind-spoke, summoning her own images to transmit. “Like last time. Remember, I don’t understand your language.”

A flash of blue splashed in Morgana’s mind, stark, yet warm. Then another. Morgana grasped at the next one, holding firmly onto it with thought.

“Can you see what I’m doing?” she asked, tenderly embracing the dragon’s head while mentally painting Aithusa’s azure flash into a bright, blue flower. “You can do it.”

Aithusa purred softly, her gaze mesmerizing. A patch of blue formed against a canvas of black when suddenly, a field of blue bells burst into Morgana’s mind, more vivid and vast than she’d ever seen. She fought the urge to blink, her head swimming with the intensity of the vision.

“That’s it!” she breathed, her mental voice rising with excitement, her eyes still locked with the baby dragon’s. “It’s beautiful…Now release the image, allow it to soar through the aether. Find Kilgharrah. I’ll help you.”

Hades’ Grip clinked, one lever sliding down as Morgana concentrated deeper. She caught her breath as spikes pressed into her wrists, no blood drawn on the first offense, just a warning. Aithusa chirped softly, still sensing her discomfort. Ignoring the dull pressure, Morgana projected her consciousness into Aithusa's mind. A whisper of the dragon’s strange speech interlaced with her own words, growing in intensity into a cacophony that vibrated through Morgana's being.

Aithusa’s trills grew louder, her excitement palpable in their deep connection. Then, like a feather on the wind, they brushed against Kilgharrah’s thoughts.

“Reach out to him,” Morgana urged, tears streaming from her eyes. “Let your power entwine with his.” Guided by instinct, she aimed to blend Aithusa's adaptable nature with Kilgharrah's vast reserves. She imagined their energies as threads of light: Aithusa's a bright, flickering silver, Kilgharrah's a steady, burning gold.

As their combined consciousness touched Kilgharrah’s mind, his presence wavered at the intrusion. He recoiled mid-flight – hovering in confusion. Unlike the warm, familiar connection with Aithusa, his mind felt vast and ancient, like plunging into the depths of an immense ocean.

In the mere moments that slipped past, the bracelet released another lever, breaking through flesh. Morgana winced, her body beginning to quake from the fresh agony. Kilgharrah tentatively lowered his defenses, resuming his path in the aether. His annoyance radiated forcefully, but curiosity simmered beneath.

“What is this?” Kilgharrah’s comprehensible voice boomed in Morgana’s head.

Hades’ Grip clicked, digging deeper. Morgana inhaled sharply, her concentration wavering. Doubt gnawed at her. With discord lingering between them, would Kilgharrah accept this assistance from her now? Would he allow his ancient ways to be reshaped by the very witch he once called an enemy?

“Let Aithusa help you, Kilgharrah,” Morgana entreated, her voice strained. Beads of sweat formed above her lip, trailed down her temples. “Accept her powers, embrace her strength – let her enhance yours.”

Pushing further still, Morgana pooled Aithusa's fresh, untamed abilities alongside Kilgharrah's ancient power. She sought to mingle the old with the new, the raw with the refined. For weeks, she had known of Kilgharrah's attempts to expand his telepathic voice, his failures rooted in the rigidity of centuries-old patterns and the encumbrance of accumulated knowledge. Where Aithusa's magic flowed like a wild stream, Kilgharrah's was a deep, still lake, powerful but unyielding. With delicate mental touches, she could weave these threads together, creating a new tapestry of draconic power.

After a tense moment, Kilgharrah’s presence flickered at the edge of Morgana’s senses, lapping at Aithusa’s power. A surge of conflicting energies erupted in Morgana's mind – Aithusa's wild, untamed magic clashing against Kilgharrah's ancient, unyielding force. The mental maelstrom threatened to overwhelm her, images and sensations whirling in a dizzying storm.

Then, gradually, like oil and water slowly mixing, the disparate energies began to blend. As the chaos subsided, a new, harmonious power emerged, vibrant and potent. Their thoughts soared as one, reaching further than ever before. Suddenly, strange and primal minds touched their own. Kilgharrah halted in flight, hovering while Aithusa chirped wildly in Morgana's firm grasp. The lost dragons from decades past, hidden since Uther’s Purge, were touched by their thoughts at last!

But Hades’ Grip showed no mercy, piercing ever deeper into flesh. Morgana swayed dangerously, the connection to the dragons also draining her strength. Her vision blurred, but she clung to consciousness, determined to see this through.

“Anouilh,” Kilgharrah finally uttered, his mental voice thick with awed expectation.

“Anouilh,” responded a female’s voice, as shocked as the great dragon’s. “Who are you?!”

Without warning, the new presence vanished, leaving a void in their shared consciousness. The abrupt departure sent a jolt through their mental link, Morgana gasping at the sudden loss. Her concentration faltering, she wrenched herself from Aithusa’s hypnotic hold, gulping for air, eyes stinging hot.

Crimson blood seeped from holes in her bound wrist, a throbbing reminder of the bracelet’s cruel price. She examined the searing wounds through a haze, gazing at the scarlet droplets, their vivid color surreal against the cold, gray stone of her prison walls.

This defiance of the bracelet differed greatly from her previous attempts. Before, it had been out of spite and hate – first trying to curse Arthur's seed, then later, in captivity, attempting to summon an escape spell. But this time, it wasn't for her. It was for Aithusa and Kilgharrah, something she wanted to do out of sincerity, out of a desire to help rather than harm.

Her head felt as heavy as thick autumn fog, her vision swimming from the magical exertion as she struggled to keep her eyes open. Yet amidst the pain, a spark of joy kindled within her – a genuine hope she had not felt in years. This act, this willingness to endure pain for something beyond herself, stirred emotions long-dormant in her soul.

Morgana turned her leaden head to look upon Aithusa. “Well done, little one,” she murmured, a weak smile touching her lips. Summoning her last reserves of strength to move her battered body, she crawled beneath the furs, her limbs trembling with exhaustion. As she settled, she felt Aithusa snuggle against her, the young dragon's scales a contradictory comfort of rough and smooth.

For the first time – and before blackness claimed her – Morgana sensed a warm current of gratitude filtering from Kilgharrah towards her and Aithusa, his fading consciousness emanating awe and deep fulfillment within her. The great dragon’s isolation might soon come to an end…

On the other side of the world, Merlin’s eyes snapped open.

Merlin slowly pulled himself up onto an elbow, the fire crackling in the hearth now reaching his ears. Had he heard right? A distant voice? A female… dragon? Did he… sense Kilgharrah and Aithusa? Had he brushed against Morgana's consciousness? Was it a dream…?

He threw the quilted covering aside, rushing to his feet as he ran his fingers through disheveled hair. The cold stones beneath his bare feet grounded him amidst the unfamiliar luxury surrounding him. Even after a month, the spaciousness of his new chambers – with its plush furnishings, vivid tapestries, and private amenities – still felt ill-fitting, like borrowed finery, compared to his former storage-room quarters.

Shaking off his disorientation, Merlin focused on the lingering echoes of the dream – or vision. “Ondrædan draca gemynd,” he said. “Kilgharrah…”

“Merlin,” came the dragon’s voice, thrumming with excitement, “something wondrous has happened.”

“I know,” Merlin replied, pacing, the stones cold on his bare feet. “I heard her. You’ve found them – your kin.”

“Not I alone,” he responded. “Aithusa… and Morgana.”

He had not imagined sensing Morgana. Merlin stopped pacing, his heart skipping a beat. “What do you mean? Is she all right?” His mind raced to the bracelet. If she had tried to use magic...

“I do not know – she’s resting now. But she has unlocked something far greater than herself. Without her, this would not have been possible.”

The shock in Kilgharrah's words mirrored Merlin's own swirling emotions. Morgana, helping dragons? The very idea upended everything he'd believed about her, and perhaps about the bond between dragons and dragonlords.

“Well,” he expressed finally, trying to process it all. “This is wonderful news. I’m happy for you and Aithusa.”

“It remains to be seen how the future will unfold, but I am optimistic, young warlock.”

Merlin chuckled, surprise and relief in his voice. “That’s something new for you,” he said, a welcomed shift from years of dire warnings. “I’ll visit you all later tomorrow. Arthur and Gwen are planning some much-needed time away from the castle and I must be there to protect them.”

“Very well,” concluded Kilgharrah. “We shall look for you then.”

As their connection faded, Merlin drew a deep breath and returned to his bed. Lacing his fingers behind his head, he stared up at the ceiling of his chambers. Beyond it, he imagined dragons soaring the skies once again, a sight not seen in Camelot for decades.

Morgana was helping make that possible, despite her confinement and diminished magic, risking injury to accomplish a feat for the benefit of the dragons. But how was that possible if her magic was bound? Perhaps this achievement was a testament to the good that had always resided within her, buried beneath years of pain and betrayal. If she could find a way to bridge such an impossible divide with the dragons, what more could unfold that he’d never dared to dream?

The implications whirled in Merlin's mind. Could this be the beginning of a new chapter, not just for the dragons, but for Morgana herself? And if so, what might it mean for the future of Camelot?

Another tiny flutter of hope awakened inside him regarding Morgana – perhaps they didn’t need to remain enemies. Her future could be rewritten – couldn’t it? If she could heal her bitterness enough to unlock forgotten dragons, maybe there was room to mend the rift between her, Arthur, and Gwen… well, with the whole of Camelot for that matter. Merlin grunted as he shifted in his bed, the enormity of such a feat pressing upon his conscience.

But since his efforts to only display kindness to her – bringing her books, furnishings, small comforts – Merlin allowed himself to ponder whether destiny could truly be altered—whether sworn enemies might yet become allies, even friends. When met with empathy instead of fear, perhaps this was the dawn of more than just new dragons soaring Camelot’s skies.

Merlin scrubbed his chin as he lay there, his pondering turning to Arthur’s reaction to these new developments, his throat constricting. The thought of broaching the possible changes with the king sent a chill down his spine, yet he couldn't shake the feeling that these might be pivotal moments for all their futures. Tomorrow, after ensuring Arthur and Gwen's safely returned from their trip, he would visit the dragons as promised for more details and to check on Morgana.

As sleep began to reclaim him, Merlin's last coherent thought was of Arthur. Would his friend see these as opportunities for reconciliation, or as threats to the peace they were working so hard to achieve?

Chapter Text

Gwen and Arthur followed a winding path that led deeper into the royal forest, ancient oaks and beeches towering above them, their branches forming a verdant canopy. An hour’s journey from the castle had brought them to this secluded glade, where a crystal-clear brook murmured its way towards the distant Entwash River. Gwen felt the tension in her shoulders ease, releasing her burdens—at least for today. Despite her anguish over her brother and the kingdom’s plights, she refused to taint this idyllic setting Arthur had planned. Their souls, battered by recent events, craved this private respite.

She delighted watching water dance over the smooth stones and butterflies flit from blossom to blossom, realizing how long it had been since she’d immersed herself in nature’s beauty and serenity. Her world had shifted dramatically just before Arthur became king and begun courting her openly, reshaping her daily routines. Even back then, invisible expectations and responsibilities had mounted, forcing her to leave her simpler life behind.

Gwen was thankful Arthur had insisted on this brief escape, appreciating his foresight during this period of transition—not just her adjustment as the new queen, but their shared journey as husband and wife. Recent weeks had seen exhaustion or duty claim their evenings, leaving little room for intimacy beyond a tender embrace before sleep. And Arthur usually rose before dawn, his side of the bed cold by the time she woke. They might as well have retired to their separate chambers for all the time they had together.

Now, clasping his hand, Gwen gazed up at her beloved. Arthur’s eyes crinkled when he caught her looking, his smile as warm as the dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves. Gwen giggled too, a sigh of contentment escaping, this simple connection filling her heart. When he met her gaze, she blushed, realizing she never tired of admiring his handsome features – his eyes especially, now alight with mischief and affection. His Pendragon-red linen shirt, peeking from beneath his long coat, accentuated his fair complexion. As they walked, she appreciated not just how his broad shoulders cut a striking figure against the woodland backdrop, but the warmth of his presence beside her.

Gwen inhaled the wildflowers’ sweet perfume, a cool breeze caressing her, the last shadows of her royal duties melting away. “It’s perfect,” she sighed, her gaze drifting to the brook.

Arthur’s eyes scanned their surroundings, contentment and mild frustration crossing his features. Tilting his head towards the tree line, he pouted, a hint of amusement in his voice, “It could be better – if Merlin and that soldier weren’t skulking behind those trees.”

As if on cue, Gwen’s eyes met Merlin’s apologetic gaze through a gap in the foliage. They shared fleeting shrugs and knowing looks, acknowledging the necessity of the royal protection. And while their presence was reassuring, they cast a faint shadow over any moments of intimacy she and Arthur might share.

Then Arthur nodded in the opposite direction. Gwen followed his gaze, catching sight of a knight’s red cloak as he patrolled the far bank on horseback. “And if our mounted sentry wasn’t circling like a hawk,” he muttered, his pink lips puckered. “We couldn’t be in a safer place than my forest.”

She knew Arthur understood their need as well, yet still couldn’t help giggling at his light-hearted complaint. But the sound caught in her throat as he suddenly pulled her close, his eyes burning with desire. She swallowed, her pulse quickening like the current of the stream.

“Because, before we leave this glade, my queen, I intend to worship you properly,” Arthur murmured, his voice low and rich with promise. “Guards or no.” He leaned in, his lips seeking hers with fervent devotion.

Desire surged through Gwen’s veins like wildfire, her body responding hungrily to his passionate embrace. His kiss, familiar and thrilling at once, ignited a delicious heat blooming in her core. Propriety be damned, she thought, her fingers digging into his shoulders, relishing the firm muscles beneath her hands. She didn’t want to wait—guards or no.

But Arthur drew back, his gaze now holding that special tenderness, kindling a warmth in her heart that rivaled the sun’s glow. Beneath the love in his eyes, Gwen caught a flicker of something else—a shadow of melancholy that hadn’t been there before. She bit her lip, fighting the urge to pull him back into a searing kiss, while a whisper of concern brushed her mind.

“You’re the light in my world, Guinevere,” he breathed, his words a gentle caress. “Every beat of my heart echoes your name. I love you with every fiber of my being, now and always.”

Gwen’s knees weakened, her breath quickening. Once, Arthur had confessed his struggle to express deep emotions. Now, with her, he seemed to have mastered the art of ardor, his affection flowing as naturally as a spring. Yet, there was an urgency to his words that spoke of more than just passion, hinting at something she couldn’t quite place. She cupped his face in her hands, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath her palms.

“You’re my home, my everything, Arthur,” she whispered, her voice husky with emotion. “I’ve never stopped loving you, and I never will. Whatever comes, I’m here for you. We face it together.”

His lips found hers once more, this time with sweet reverence, her skin tingling from his touch. As he slowly pulled away, his expression, filled with adoration, left Gwen breathless, as if he were etching this moment into his very soul.

He gently released her, and they continued their exploration of King’s Woods, Arthur pointing out landmarks with a nostalgic gleam in his eye. “See that gnarled oak?” he ask, gesturing to an ancient tree with twisted branches. “I used to climb it as a boy, much to my father’s dismay.”

Gwen smiled at the normalcy of a parent’s angst and a child’s adventurous nature, imagining a young Arthur scrambling up the massive trunk. She could almost see Uther’s scowl, torn between pride in his son’s daring and fear for the future king’s safety as Arthur climbed ever higher into the sky.

They walked on, deeper into the woods, Gwen stooping to pick wildflowers every few paces while Arthur’s stories flowed freely, some of royal history or his knightly exploits, most of childhood adventures. “Over there,” he said, nodding towards a small clearing, “is where I killed my first boar during a hunt. I was twelve and terrified, but couldn’t show it, of course.” He chuckled, shaking his head at the memory.

Gwen listened, offering her own insights and gentle teasing about his youthful swagger, select blossoms in her hand. As Arthur spoke, she still sensed there was something deeper he wanted to discuss. A shadow of worry flitted across his expression intermittently, like some dreadful thing hovering on the edge of his tongue, but he held it back, swallowing the words before they could escape.

Was it Elyan, she wondered? Her brother who’d inflicted wounds on them both? She’d noticed how Arthur had avoided mention of him during some of his knights’ tales.

Or perhaps it was something broader in scope, yet just as dire: the looming threat of war with Escetir. The rival kingdom’s recent provocations were concern for Camelot’s future. Could their realm withstand another conflict so soon after the Southron invasion? Gwen wondered if Arthur’s decisions regarding Escetir’s aggression were the source of his unspoken worry.

Weaving the flowers she collected into a small garland, Gwen offered it to her husband. “For you, my love,” she said, tying it around one of his wrists, hoping to lift the pensive mood that settled over him between his recollections.

“Thank you,” he replied, a sweet smile forming as he admired the delicate arrangement, momentarily masking his sober expression.

“What is it, Arthur?” she asked gently, her eyes searching his face as he guided her back to their picnic spot near the brook.

Arthur hesitated, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his features. “It’s just that… well…” he started, helping her settle onto the blankets, offering a reassuring smile. “These past months, so much has been reshaped in our world, the very order of things upended,” he mused, shrugging off his long coat and joining her. “The return of magic... It’s shifting Camelot’s very foundations.” With careful attention, he arranged a small feast of bread, cheese, and grapes on two plates, serving Gwen before attending to his own.

Between bites, Arthur continued voicing his thoughts. “Merlin’s secret revealed to all the world,” he reflected, shaking his head in disbelief. “And that bloody petition with the sorcerers—I don’t know what he was thinking, but I never saw that one coming.” His gaze, filled with solemn admiration, found hers. “But you, I meant what I said yesterday. You’ve been an unshakeable pillar of strength, Guinevere.”

She reached out, her touch gentle on his hand. “I merely follow your lead, Arthur. You carry burdens that would crush lesser men, yet you persist in your quest for a just and mighty Camelot.” She bit into a piece of cheese as she studied him closely, noticing his lowered eyes. “But that’s not what you really need to hear, nor what’s truly on your mind, is it?”

Arthur considered her question, his expression familiar—one she’d seen many times when he wrestled with a problem. He seemed on the verge of denial again, but then he looked her squarely in the eyes. “Gwen, when we lost Camelot to Morgana and the Southrons, I… I lost track of you.” His voice wavered slightly. “I feared the worst.”

Moistening his lips, he resumed his telling, “And then seeing you in Ealdor, I scarcely believed it at first. Not until I held you.” He paused, his eyes questioning hers. “How on earth did you ever end up there?”

She flinched mid-bite, and he hesitated when he saw it. Setting their plates aside, he gently clasped her hands, squeezing them as if reassuring her of his presence. “Guinevere,” he said softly, “I know this is not easy for you. But I cannot deny I’ve often wondered about your ordeal away from Camelot. Please tell me what happened.”

An involuntary shiver careened across her scalp, causing Gwen to tremble, the serenity of their picnic suddenly extinguished by memories of their separation and the ordeals of that time. Of all the subjects she thought might be troubling him—Elyan, his father’s legacy, Morgana even—this was unexpected. Had this worry over her time away lingered with him all along?

Uncertain how to navigate this delicate territory, Gwen glanced away. She thought their reconciliation had been settled, forgiveness granted, the wounds healed. Yet, unspoken history was still a shadow between them, his question reopening a door she’d believed firmly closed.

“It’s a selfish request,” Arthur remarked softly, his tone reflecting guilt and hope. He gently caressed her chin, turning her face back towards him. Clasping her hands, his touch conveyed both apology and support. “But I want to understand, Guinevere. Everything you went through... because of my decision.” The last words were barely audible, laden with regret.

She realized then that while the new life growing inside her had provided a comforting veil, Arthur was still seeking his own resolution. “It’s… difficult,” she admitted, her body quivering. “I… I…”

Arthur’s blue eyes filled with a kind of necessity – a need, his thumbs tracing soothing circles on her knuckles. “Every part of your story matters to me, Gwen. I want to know... if you’re willing to be open about it.”

She held his gaze for a long moment, Arthur’s invitation to be vulnerable piercing her heart, breaking through that barrier erected around this pain. She let out a slow breath, steeling herself.

Drawing courage from his touch and the secret she carried, Gwen understood the importance of this deep emotional moment for both of them. The protective cocoon her pregnancy had woven around her feelings was unraveling, allowing her to truly face her experiences. Sharing her journey with Arthur could offer him the peace he sought and give her the opportunity to process and heal from wounds she’d only masked, not mended. This was their chance to close this chapter completely, together.

Her voice soft but resolute against the backdrop of the gurgling stream, Gwen straightened her shoulders and began her story.

“Fredrick, Erwan, and I journeyed to Longstead,” she recalled. “We encountered trouble several times, Arthur, and I’ve been grateful for their presence and bravery to this day. But it took closer to a fortnight to reach the settlement, with poor Basil, struggling along the difficult terrain.” She paused, wondered what became of her pack mule not for the first time. “When we arrived, John and Mary were kind enough to allow us to occupy two cottages left empty after the Dorocha attacks.”

Gwen’s hands instinctively covered her mouth, a complex amalgam of emotions spiraling through her—pain, guilt, confusion. Arthur’s gaze dropped to the ground, the memory of Lancelot, a tangle of sacrifice, betrayal, and manipulation, a matter neither dared unravel.

She took a shaky breath, willing herself to continue, gently squeezing Arthur’s hand and drawing his troubled eyes back to hers. A silent understanding passed between them—the wounds inflicted by Morgana’s machinations were made raw once again, affecting them in ways they may never comprehend.

“We worked to sustain ourselves,” Gwen imparted, pushing past the momentary darkness, her voice steadier now, “but there just wasn’t enough labor for the three of us in the small village. That’s when Fredrick decided to ride to Clarwick to petition Lord Gregory about starting a forge.” A faint, determined smile touched her lips. “There’s always a need for a blacksmith no matter where you are, and I knew I could manage that with the two men.”

Arthur leaned in slightly, his body angling towards her, silently encouraging her to go on.

“While we waited for Fredrick’s return, Erwan and I continued to work on nearby farms, doing whatever tasks were needed. But then...” Her voice faltered; the sting of tears tingled on her lids, but they didn’t fall, and she continued. “Helios and the Southrons invaded. Mary and Erwan... they didn’t survive the attack. They were good, innocent people, Arthur.”

Arthur’s expression hardened as her heart crushed, his features seeming to carve themselves from stone. The warmth in his eyes cooled to a steely glint, and for a moment, she glimpsed not her husband, but the warrior king, shoulders set as if readying for battle.

“I was captured,” Gwen stressed, her voice hollow, Arthur’s shoulders visibly tensing as she continued with her story. Gwen swallowed hard, the memories of conflict, pain, and trauma fresh and hurting all over again. “Forced into hard labor, beaten, humiliated...”

She reflexively caressed the cheek the whipmaster had sliced open after she had defiantly disarmed him of his weapon, the agony just as searing and hot. Gwen couldn’t stop the tears from falling this time, but she would not disregard them. “Helios... intervened. His sorcerer healed my wounds. He would have—” the words stuck, yet she knew it was true. “…had he the chance,” she finished quietly.

Arthur’s features darkened, a storm of emotions sweeping across his face, mirroring her own inner turmoil. His jaw clenched so tightly she could almost hear his teeth grind. The muscles in his neck corded, and for a heartbeat, she saw raw anguish flash in his eyes before it was swallowed by a wave of fury. When he spoke, his voice was rough, as if the words were being torn from his throat.

“Guinevere, I had no idea...”

She shook her head, reassuring him while allowing the hurt to manifest. “The physical scars are gone, Arthur. Each day, the pain lessened. And one day, I hope, the memory of their cause will fade entirely.” She paused, her burning eyes meeting his. The next part was not any easier. “By the time I escaped, the horde was much closer to Camelot and I tried to reach you...”

She left the thought unfinished, but covered her thigh where Mithian’s bolt had unwittingly struck her. Quickly redirecting the gesture by smoothing her skirt, she added, “That’s when Merlin found me instead.”

The words had barely left her lips when she saw the color drain from Arthur’s face. A sickly pallor overtook his fair skin, as if he’d been stricken by a sudden illness. His eyes, wide with dawning realization, told her he knew exactly how he fit into this part of her tale.

Gwen pressed on, her voice gentle, the tears mercifully subsiding. “It was his idea for me to go to Ealdor. He helped me.”

Surprise flickered across Arthur’s face before he glanced toward the tree line where Merlin kept watch. “Merlin never told me that part either,” he murmured.

When Arthur turned back to her, his lips thinned with remorse as he took in the moisture on her cheeks. “I knew little of your hardships, Guinevere,” he soothed, drying her tears with a gentle brush of his thumb, “though I should have anticipated them. I... I’m so sorry for everything you endured because of me.”

Composing herself, Gwen offered a small smile. “Our past is part of who we are; and as terribly difficult as that time was, in a way, perhaps it was meant to be.” Her voice quavered slightly even as she felt the last echoes of fear, shame, and hurt ebb away, replaced by a sense of peace she hadn’t expected. This sharing, she realized, had mended something within her that, deep down, she knew had still been broken.

“Look at who we’ve become,” she consoled, her voice growing stronger. “We’re fortified in our love to each other and in our duty to our kingdom. That’s what matters.”

Without another word, Arthur drew her into a deep, passionate kiss. Gwen responded with equal fervor, her fingers weaving through his golden hair. Everything blurred around them—the brook’s song, the whispering leaves, even their distant guardians faded away. Only they remained, their bodies pressed together, hearts beating in unison.

Arthur’s hands roamed the contours of her back, tracing the curve of her spine through the fabric of her dress. Gwen arched into his touch, a soft moan escaping her lips, the layers between them doing little to dampen the heat of his caress. Their kisses grew more urgent, days of longing and separation fueling their passion.

Arthur’s gentle touch eased her onto the blanket, his body covering hers. She welcomed the familiar weight of him, their limbs entangling as any thought of decorum fled her mind. Their need for connection overwhelmed everything else. She barely registered Arthur deftly removing their minimal clothing, focused instead on the sensation of him joining with her. The rustle of fabric against fabric was punctuated by their labored breaths.

Whispered words of love and promise reached her ears, each one filled with an intensity that made her heart swell. She responded in kind, her voice blending with his and the sounds of the forest around them. Their rhythm grew more urgent, breaths quickening, until they reached a shared moment of blissful release, their cries of ecstasy muffled against each other’s skin.

As their passion subsided, Gwen lay in Arthur’s arms, breathless and flushed. The warmth of his body, even through their clothes, was a comfort she had sorely missed. She could feel the rapid beat of his heart against her chest, their partially disheveled state a reminder of their hasty union. After a moment, she made to rise, but Arthur’s gentle touch held her close.

“Just lie here,” he murmured tenderly, reaching for a soft cloth they had brought for their picnic. “Let me take care of you.”

With gentle hands, he tended to her, cleaning away the evidence of their lovemaking. Gwen moaned softly, unbidden, savoring the intimacy of the moment. Despite their surroundings, she found herself untroubled by thoughts of Merlin and the guards nearby. Arthur had promised to worship her, and this last intimate act, so profoundly personal, fulfilled that vow in an unexpected way. As he cared for her, Gwen felt their connection deepen even further, transcending the physical into something truly sacred.

Once done, Arthur settled behind Gwen, his body curving around hers protectively. He pulled her close, their garments rumpled but tidied. One arm draped over her waist, his hand resting on the blanket before her. With his other hand, he idly played with her curls, his fingers weaving through the soft tendrils.

Gwen nestled back against him, her head pillowed on his outstretched arm. The soft linen of his shirt, wrinkled from their fervor, cushioned her cheek. Her eyes fluttered closed, drinking in the moment with all her senses—his familiar scent enveloping her, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, the taste of his kiss still on her lips, the warmth of his body seeping into hers. A contented sigh escaped, a whisper of pure bliss.

In this moment, she felt complete. Arthur’s strength, his tenderness, his very presence always filled a space within her. He was her world, her everything—lover, husband, king, and soon-to-be father. With him, she felt as though her heart could want for nothing more.

Their breathing slowed, falling into a harmonious rhythm, a perfect synchronicity that attested to their unbreakable bond. Gwen wished the afternoon would never end, but made a silent promise to herself that before they left this glade, she would share the joyful news of their impending parenthood. For now, she savored the peace of their shared companionship, the whisper of the stream, and the promise of a bright future ahead….

…Waking from a light slumber, Gwen became aware that Arthur had slightly shifted his position, she now pressed against him as he partially lay on his back. The crook of his shoulder a pillow for her, his other hand rested gently on her abdomen. She turned just enough to see him gazing at the sky, lost in thought, idly twirling a lock of her hair. The golden afternoon light bathed his features in warmth, highlighting the contentment etched on his face. Gwen’s heart swelled with love, grateful for this moment of peace amidst their often-tumultuous lives.

Arthur’s hand on her abdomen seemed to radiate warmth, and Gwen’s thoughts drifted to the child nestled there. In eight months, their lives would transform as they became a family of three. The prospect of even more children in their future filled her with quiet excitement. These wouldn’t just be heirs to a mighty throne, but the cherished offspring of their deep love.

A smile played on her lips as she imagined their future—a brood of golden-haired, blue-eyed children with her curls and Arthur’s mischievous grin. They would be raised with love, compassion, and the wisdom to rule justly.

Lulled by Arthur’s gentle caresses and the peacefulness of the moment, Gwen drifted back into a blissful sleep. Her last conscious thought was of the joy that awaited when she finally shared her secret with her husband….

…A sudden change in Arthur’s posture jolted Gwen from her slumber. The warmth of his body, so comforting moments ago, now radiated tension.

“Gwen,” he urged, an edge to his voice. Her eyes fluttered open to see him sitting upright, his relaxed demeanor replaced by alert vigilance. The tenderness in his touch vanished as he roused her with one hand, his other reaching for something beyond her view. “Wake up, my love.”

Before Gwen could fully shake off her drowsiness, she heard the thunder of galloping hooves encroaching upon their tranquil moment, the sound, so at odds with the peaceful afternoon. As her mind raced to comprehend the sudden shift in atmosphere, she became acutely aware of the intrusion into their private world.

In one fluid motion, Arthur sprang to his feet, pulling her up with him. Excalibur was already in his hand, but he held it with the tip pointing down, more a symbol of authority than a raised threat. He partially blocked her with his body, protective but not yet defensive. His posture radiated controlled tension rather than outright aggression, befitting a king whose private moment had been interrupted rather than a warrior anticipating immediate danger. Gwen could sense his irritation at the intrusion into King’s Woods, Arthur’s personal sanctuary, but also his restraint as he assessed the situation.

Gwen’s eyes, still adjusting to the bright afternoon light, caught sight of the mounted knight on the other side of the stream, moving to intercept two approaching riders. The warhorse trotted ahead, the knight’s hand raised in greeting to the newcomers, his urgent words for them to halt carrying on the wind. Gwen felt unease knot in her stomach observing the knight’s cautious approach, and noting how Arthur’s grip had shifted on Excalibur’s hilt. From the tree line, she glimpsed Merlin standing rigid, his hands already aglow with a soft blue magical energy. The other soldier hurried to his horse, and after mounting it, rode fast to join the knight.

The strangers raised their hands slowly, returning the knight’s gesture of greeting. Then, with horrifying speed, multiple blasts of magic erupted from them, spiraling across the landscape. Gwen watched in stunned disbelief as the air itself seemed to warp and twist. Two sickly green projectiles formed, striking almost simultaneously at the knight and the soldier. A third, more potent-looking stream of crimson energy, shot towards the tree line where Merlin stood.

With lightning-fast reflexes, Merlin discharged two powerful streams of energy that had been simmering in his palms, lancing towards the attackers. As they flew, his eyes flashed brilliant gold, and a shimmering, translucent shield materialized before him, barely in time to intercept the incoming crimson attack. The collision of spells created a deafening boom and a blinding flash of light that forced Gwen to shield her eyes for a moment. She gasped, still unaccustomed to such raw displays of Merlin’s power.

The spells that struck the soldiers resounded with a thunderous crack that Gwen felt in her bones. The mounted knight was thrown violently from his saddle, his body suddenly engulfed in an eerie, pulsating light. He arced through the air, trailing wisps of arcane energy, before crashing into the river with a sizzling splash. The attackers’ horses thundered past, trampling him mercilessly.

Gwen didn’t see the second soldier go rigid, but she heard his gargled cry, distorted by the lingering magic. She watched him topple face-first from his horse into the stream. A faint green mist rose from his motionless form, blood blossoming in the water around him like a macabre flower. Her hands flew to her mouth, smothering a scream of horror.

The assailants reined in their mounts sharply, bringing them to a skidding halt. With fluid grace that belied their deadly intent, they dismounted, their boots barely touching the ground before they turned to face the tree line. Both attackers conjured protective shields to deflect a volley of magical energy, their horses whinnying nervously and backing away.

Gwen looked to see Merlin striding purposefully forward from the tree line, the air around him rippling and distorting with crackling energy, closing the distance between him and the strangers. Streams of blue and purple light erupted from his fingertips, colliding midair with the attackers’ own red and orange spells. The clash of magical forces sent shockwaves through the clearing, causing the ground beneath Gwen’s feet to tremble. She watched in awe as Merlin skillfully wove barriers of shimmering silver, repelling the stranger’s relentless onslaught with ease. Between protective spells, he launched his own barrage of lethal magic, forcing the attackers to split their focus between aggression and self-preservation.

Arthur crouched for combat, his jaw working as he watched the magical duel unfold before them. He held Excalibur firmly at the ready, the blade angled slightly forward, poised for both protection and swift action. “Get to your horse, Gwen,” he urged, his voice taut with concern. She saw the conflict in his eyes—the calculating step towards the melee—torn between shielding her and aiding their friend. “Please, you must flee!”

She shook her head vehemently, grasping his arm to halt his attempt to join Merlin. While she knew Arthur was an exceptional warrior, the sight of such powerful magic left her terrified for his safety. “I’ll not leave you!” she replied, instinctively covering her belly, a silent promise to protect both her loves.

Suddenly, a bolt of sickly green energy shot towards them from one of the attackers. With the practiced precision of a seasoned knight, Arthur swiftly raised Excalibur. The magical energy struck the blade, sending sparks flying as it deflected harmlessly away. Gwen’s eyes widened in amazement and relief—perhaps Arthur wasn’t as defenseless against magic as she had feared.

A shimmering barrier suddenly materialized before them—Merlin’s doing, she realized. Even while battling the assailants, his magic stretched to protect them, leaving her in awe of his capabilities and now of Arthur’s skill with Excalibur.

“Gwen… please,” Arthur pleaded again, maintaining his protective stance, Excalibur humming a strange new melody in his grasp. She was about to argue further when a stream of flames erupted from one of the intruders, engulfing Merlin in a swirling inferno.

“Merlin!” she cried, her voice raw with terror. Arthur’s arm shot out, now restraining her from charging to their friend’s aid. To her dismay, the other attacker raised his hands, adding his own torrent of fire to the conflagration. The combined assault created a terrifying spectacle of magical fury, the flames roaring with unnatural intensity.

Arthur’s face was a mask of horror and disbelief, his eyes wide and mouth agape as he watched his closest confidant be consumed in flames. For a heartbeat, they both stood frozen, helpless in the face of such devastating magic.

The fire raged around Merlin, its heat palpable even from where they stood. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the flames extinguished, leaving only ashes fluttering to the ground where Merlin had stood moments before.

“No,” Arthur whispered, the single word laden with shock and grief. His grip on Gwen tightened, whether to steady her or himself, it wasn’t clear.

Gwen’s scream caught in her throat, trapped by shock and disbelief. The acrid scent of magic and ash filled her lungs. She clung to Arthur, part of her praying this was a nightmare from which she’d soon awaken. But the remorseless approach of the bandits, their arms outstretched like weapons, confirmed the grim reality.

Mere seconds after Merlin vanished, so did the protective barrier before them. The clearing itself fell eerily silent, as if nature itself mourned Merlin’s loss. His absence felt like a final, crushing blow, and they exposed and achingly vulnerable.

As the attackers drew nearer, fear gripped Gwen, manifesting in an uncontrollable trembling. The intensity of her reaction startled her, for she had faced danger before. But the loss of Merlin and the threat to her unborn child left her shaken to the core. Arthur’s presence was both comforting and concerning; he was her protector.

“I’m Arthur Pendragon, King of Camelot,” Arthur declared, his voice tight. He held Excalibur aloft, the blade gleaming in the sunlight, poised for immediate action. As his words rang out, Gwen felt her racing heartbeat slow, her breath steadying despite the looming threat. The familiar command in Arthur's tone, a reminder of his strength and leadership, shone like a beacon through her terror. He was her light, even in this darkest moment. “I order you to stand down.”

“You’re not our king,” the shorter assailant replied, his face shadowed by his hood. His voice, young and unsettlingly familiar, sent a jolt of recognition through Gwen. She frowned, trying to place where she had heard it before.

“Who are you?” Arthur demanded, his words sharp with contempt. “What do you want?”

Magical energy crackled on the palm of the taller assailant’s raised a hand, dark eyes intensely raking over Arthur. “I want you to pay for your crimes against my kindred, Arthur Pendragon, King of Camelot.”

Her heart lurched at these words, Arthur’s name seeming a curse on the man’s lips, his ominous tone making Gwen’s blood run cold. She edged closer to Arthur, clasped onto his shirt. Despite her inner turmoil and quaking knees, Gwen found her voice.

“Magic has been freed,” she interjected, surprised by the steadiness in her tone. She clung to this fact like a lifeline as truly as she held onto Arthur, hoping against hope that it might sway their attackers, might save Arthur’s life.

“That is so, Queen Guinevere, but it doesn’t pardon him for his crimes of the past,” the assailant responded, his voice cold and unforgiving. “My people deserve retribution.”

The world seemed to tilt around Gwen, her vision narrowing to a tunnel. The man’s words echoed in her mind, each syllable making her skin prickle. His threat against her husband, her king, the father of her unborn child suddenly made the danger feel more immediate, more personal. Her mind grappled with the sense that these were no mere assailants driven by greed, but twisted executioners fueled by a thirst for vengeance that no amount of reason could sway. The realization churned her stomach, a bitter taste rising in her mouth.

Arthur stiffened beside her, his jaw clenched. His knuckles whitened on Excalibur’s hilt, the sword’s magic thrumming in response to his anger. “You have no right to judge me,” he growled, anger simmering beneath his words.

Gwen noticed a flash of recognition cross Arthur’s face, his eyes narrowing as he studied the tall assailant.

“You’re the ones who attempted to free Morgana during the Southron executions,” he maintained. He glanced at the short aggressor.

She followed his gaze, found herself staring at a hooded figure – slim frame, clothes unkempt. Still, there was something about the voice, a vague memory stirring in her mind...

Then Arthur uttered dangerously, “Mordred.”

Memories flooded back—a young boy they had once helped, now grown into a teenager standing before them as an enemy. Gwen's mind raced, recalling Mordred's failed attempt to free Morgana during the Southron executions, an event she'd narrowly missed witnessing. More recently, Merlin had placed him at her coronation feast, linked him to the theft of magical artifacts from the royal vault. The realization left her reeling, the situation suddenly more complex and unsettling than she could have imagined.

Without warning, the intense green light flared in the tall assailant’s raised hand. A distortion in the air, like heat rising from sunbaked stones, streaked from his palm towards Arthur, faster than a blink. The spell’s speed defied natural limits, striking Arthur before he could deflect it with Excalibur. His body jerked backwards, surrounded by a faint green glow matching the assailant’s hand. Excalibur was torn from his grasp; Arthur was hurled through the air, crashing against a tree trunk with such force that bark splintered around him. An agonized cry escaped his lips upon impact, quickly altering to pained grunts.

“Arthur!” Gwen’s scream tore from her throat.

Pinned there by what appeared to be glowing, ethereal chains that pulsed with a sickly light, Arthur gasped for air. His face twisted as the invisible force constricted around his throat, his body. Gwen could almost see the magical energy crushing his chest, leaving ripples in the air with each labored breath he took.

She lunged for the fallen Excalibur, but a wave of energy struck her mid-motion, hurling her backward. She hit the ground hard, vision dimming as she struggled for air.

“Subdue her!” the tall assailant snarled, his command guttural and menacing.

“No!” Arthur choked out, helplessly bound to the tree, his face contorted in anguish.

A shadow fell across Gwen’s face as she fought to remain conscious. To her horror, she also found herself paralyzed, unable to move. Through blurred vision, she saw Mordred’s figure looming above her, a short sword glinting ominously in his hand. His face was still obscured by his hood, yet Gwen could feel his cold gaze upon her.

“Mordred, don’t—!” Arthur’s desperate plea was cut short by a vicious blow across his cheek administered by the other assailant, now standing beside him. Arthur wheezed, fighting for each breath. “Don’t—touch—!”

“Mordred,” Gwen whispered, her voice weak but imploring. “I beg you, do not do this… I’m with child…”

For a heartbeat, Mordred’s silhouette seemed to waver, his body shifting almost imperceptibly. The sword in his hand trembled ever so slightly, a fleeting moment of hesitation.

Then, as if steeling himself against her plea, Mordred plunged the weapon into her. A searing, white-hot pain—like liquid fire—erupted in Gwen’s side, coursed through her veins. Tendrils of icy coldness seemed to spread from the point of impact, numbing her limbs and clouding her mind. She gasped in shock, her body shuddering as darkness encroached on her vision.

“Guinevere!” Arthur’s agonized cry tore through the air, raw with desperation and helplessness.

Mordred’s shadow retreated as Gwen fought to cling to consciousness. Crimson blossomed across her bodice, trickling over her skin in rivulets. The fabric grew heavy and wet as life ebbed away. Her thoughts, fragmented and fading, turned to the child within her—a life barely begun, now surely lost. A desperate, waning hope flickered through her mind: that Arthur might somehow survive this brutal attack, even as she felt herself slipping away.

As the world dimmed around her, Gwen’s mind flashed in rapid succession: Merlin consumed by magical flames, Arthur’s face contorted with anguish, the unborn child he would never know, the future they had dreamed of now unraveling like gossamer threads…

“Arthur…”

Tears leaked; senses dimmed, and Gwen succumbed to the inexorable pull of oblivion’s cold embrace.

Chapter Text

Voices whispered at the edges. Surface – frigid, chill permeating. Acrid incense – greasy tallow, foul assault.

“Gwen….” Arthur heard the distant croak, and then a cough. He groaned, his chest feeling as if gripped by an iron fist.

His eyelids fluttered open, his mind a whirlwind of confusion. As his vision adjusted to the flickering candlelight, a low rock ceiling swam into focus – strange. Instinctively, he tried to sit up, only to find himself bound by rigid restraints at wrists and ankles. A searing pain then blazed across his back, igniting every nerve. A groan slipped from his lips – reality set – he was shackled to a stone slab, helpless as a butterfly pinned to a board, his body full of aches.

Eerie shadows danced across cavern walls, their movements almost lifelike in their fluidity. Arthur squinted, noting what appeared to be sconces carved directly from the rock face. Ignoring the protests of his twinging muscles, he strained to examine his surroundings. An oppressive darkness yielded few clues, but the telltale signs were unmistakable: the rhythmic drip of unseen water, the distant echoes of falling stones, and the damp cold seeping into his very core. These sensations, coupled with the earthy scent of wet stone, confirmed his grim suspicion – he was entombed somewhere deep within the earth.

Nearby, a table stood sentinel, its surface adorned with burning incense and candles. In their glow, unidentifiable objects glinted with ominous promise. As Arthur’s gaze swept the alcove, it snagged on a disturbing sight – two cages loomed against the far wall, their presence a silent threat. Each contained only the barest essentials: a few blankets and a bucket, as if awaiting unwilling occupants.

Alarm flared, galvanizing Arthur into action. He tugged frantically at his bonds, wincing, but they proved as unyielding as the stone from which they seemed to sprout. His efforts left him with nothing but raw, stinging wrists and a growing sense of desperation. Even his feet, stripped of their boots, could find no purchase as he strained against his bonds.

Forced to abandon his fruitless struggle, Arthur focused on steadying his ragged breathing and thundering heart. Slowly, like shards of a shattered mirror reassembling, fragments of memory began to coalesce.

A picnic... Gwen’s radiant smile... chaos erupting. Flames raging… the glint of a dagger – and Gwen....

Arthur’s chest heaved, each exhale forming a spectral mist in the frigid air. A maelstrom of emotions overwhelmed him, tearing him apart from within.

“Guinevere!” The name ripped from his throat, reverberating off the unforgiving stone before fading into a silence that seemed to mock his grief. He fought against the burning in his eyes, but tears spilled forth despite his efforts, trickling down his temples like liquid sorrow.

Was it possible Gwen could truly be... gone? The very thought was a dagger twisting in his gut. Their shared dreams of a golden future – her wisdom guiding Camelot to greatness, the music of her laughter filling the halls – all of it snuffed out in an instant by the exacting hand of fate?

“Gwen...” he whispered, her name a prayer and a lament echoing through the chambers of his shattered heart.

“The dragon wakes,” a voice as cold as the grave hissed from the shadows. Footsteps approached, revealing one of the men from the ambush – the one who’d struck him several times. He loomed over Arthur, malevolent eyes gleaming beneath close-cropped hair, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

Grief crystallized into white-hot fury, momentarily eclipsing the icy truths that gripped Arthur’s heart. He glared at his captor, refusing to be cowed by the man’s menacing presence.

“What have you done?” Arthur snarled, his voice rough with emotion. “Where is Guinevere?”

“Your queen is dead,” the man scoffed, his grin widening into a grotesque parody of joy, igniting a fierce storm within Arthur. “You can thank our friend for that.”

He gestured towards the shadows, and Mordred materialized, his approach as silent as falling snow. The boy’s face was a mask of indifference, unreadable to Arthur. As their eyes met, Arthur’s stare seared into his once-ally, the fragile bond between them now irrevocably broken.

The man’s voice droned on, but Arthur remained transfixed by Mordred’s impassive regard of him. “His mercy spared her the torment awaiting you, though I’d have preferred her alive to face her judgment. You see, she was to witness your agonizing torment, and then to watch you die, Arthur. But her suffering was to linger on in prolonged captivity – to be our gift to our queen upon her return.”

Arthur’s attention snapped back to his captor, the words piercing his heart like an iron spike. His mind reeled, desperately clinging to denial even as his heart screamed the truth. He flinched, the phantom pain of Gwen’s mortal wound biting into his own flesh.

A horrifying thought wormed its way into Arthur’s mind. If what this man said was true, had Mordred’s act been one of twisted mercy? The image of Gwen enduring their captor’s promised torments made Arthur’s stomach churn. For a sickening moment, he found himself grateful she’d been spared such an ordeal. Immediately, he recoiled from the thought, disgust at his own weakness wrestling with his grief.

“Why?” The word burst from him, guttural and fragmented. “She was innocent.”

The man’s chuckle, devoid of mirth, unsettled Arthur. “Don’t be naïve, Arthur. She captured Morgana – hardly the act of an innocent.”

Arthur’s lips twitched with a ghost of defiance. Gwen had indeed fought valiantly during the Southron War, subduing Morgana with Merlin’s aid. It had been a day of triumph, Morgana’s magic bound, her threat neutralized.

The man leaned in, his breath hot against Arthur’s ear. “Your sorcerer has paid the price for his treachery. He betrayed our kind, aligning himself with you, dread king.”

The words struck Arthur hard, draining the last vestiges of color from his face. The memory of Merlin engulfed in flames, reduced to nothing but ash etched itself indelibly into his mind.

“Merlin... my friend… My Guinevere.”

The loss of these twin anchors, these beacons that had guided him through so many storms, plunged Arthur into an abyss darker than he’d ever imagined. His arrogance, his belief in the sanctity of his and Gwen’s private moments over adequate security, had led them to their gruesome end.

Arthur's stomach churned. This was his fault.

Tears flowed freely. In the depths of his despair, his thoughts cried out a bitter lament. Forgive me, my love. Forgive my foolish belief that our happiness was impenetrable. Forgive my blindness. I have failed you utterly.

His captor’s harsh laughter cut a cruel counterpoint to Arthur’s silent grief. Rage and heartache warred within him, his impotence to act only fueling the inferno of his emotions. His gaze, red-rimmed and haunted, found Mordred once more.

“Mordred,” Arthur choked out, a defiant appeal of command and desperate hope, “release me.”

The backhand landed swiftly, snapping Arthur’s head to the side. He grunted, more from surprise than pain.

“You have no allies here, dread king,” his assailant snarled, looming over him.

“What do you want from me?!” Arthur spat, his cheek stinging, fury finally boiling over. “Who are you?!”

The man drew himself up, his posture rigid with purpose. “I am Killian, servant of the Triple Goddess and the High Priestess, Morgana. I stand before you as judge, Arthur Pendragon.”

Arthur's eyes narrowed, defiance flaring in his voice. “Who are you to pass judgment on me?”

Another blow landed, sending a burst of crimson across Arthur’s vision. “One who has endured countless injustices at the hands of you and your father!”

Arthur grunted, absorbed the sting, choked down the taste of iron from a newly split lip. Killian’s voice rose, his eyes ablaze with what seemed to be long-nursed grievances.

“Your crown has shielded you from consequence,” the sorcerer continued. “You’ve hounded my people without mercy, razed our sacred places, and mocked our traditions. You’re a poison in this land, King Arthur – one that must be purged.”

Arthur’s lips thinned to a grim line. “Some sorcerers who wield magic are indeed a threat, deserving of justice. Your actions only reinforce that truth.”

The next strike was savage, unleashing a blinding explosion of pain behind Arthur’s eyes and intensifying the tempest already raging in his skull. Fresh blood oozed from his split lip, steadily seeping like the fleeting moments of his once-charmed existence.

Still, Arthur met Killian’s gaze with unwavering defiance. “I’ve erred, yes – out of ignorance. But never have I struck from a place of vengeance.”

“Even if that were true, some transgressions are beyond forgiveness.”

Their eyes locked, a clash of wills – the steadfast bear facing the slavering wolf. Yet Arthur remained bound, victory impossible.

“This is unnecessary,” he said, wincing as the stone chafed his wrists. “You’ve taken my beloved and my dearest friend. Surely that satisfies your thirst for retribution?”

“No,” came the reply of surety, full of malice. “Your penance has scarcely begun.”

Unease crept along Arthur’s spine as Killian turned to the table, his hands moving among the glinting instruments with ominous purpose.

Mordred remained motionless, his gaze fixed on Arthur. The years had stretched him tall, though his frame remained slight. His crystal blues – fathomless and barren as a winter’s night – were unchanged, concealing untold depths. Had Arthur’s act of mercy, saving the boy from his father’s wrath, led inexorably to this moment of betrayal? Had no spark of gratitude remained to kindle even a flicker of compassion?

But his own voice echoed in the void of his grief-stricken heart, He killed Guinevere.

Arthur’s jaw tightened; Mordred blinked with eerie slowness – a ghostly reminder of the child Arthur had once delivered into Master Iseldir’s care. The boy then glided to Killian’s side, murmuring something in low tones.

Arthur exhaled softly, a shudder wracking his body as he marshaled his waning reserves to still the tremors. Reason held no sway over men trapped in the quagmire of the past, consumed by the inferno of vengeance – a ruthless blaze now focused squarely on him. If they could cut down an innocent, defenseless woman, what hope of survival remained for him – the primary target of their hatred?

He called upon his unwavering courage, faced his captors. “If death is my sentence,” he said, his voice steady despite the turmoil within, “grant me a swift end — that I might join my Guinevere. For life holds no meaning in her absence.”

But what of Camelot, his first love? Who would guide his people in his stead? Could Albion rise without him and Merlin to shepherd its birth, and Gwen to help nurture it? What became of the prophesied future? Hard-bound duty collided with the abyss of his grief – never had he felt so torn, the crushing loss threatening to eclipse all other concerns.

Killian’s laugh was frigid, eliciting an involuntary shudder from Arthur. “A coward’s death?” he said, both he and Mordred turning back to face him. “You disappoint me, Arthur. But I won’t grant you such an easy escape. Listen well, oh mighty king:

“You and your kin have butchered my people in countless brutal ways. For that, you’ll endure every blade’s kiss, every rope’s embrace, every pyre’s caress that claimed the innocent. And should those prove insufficient, you’ll sample torments more ancient and barbaric than your darkest imaginings. Death will become your constant companion, Arthur – your screams for mercy will echo the anguish of your victims. Their faces will haunt you as you suffer beyond measure. You and Death – locked in an endless dance until the bitter end.”

Alarm prickled across his skin, bewilderment clouding Arthur’s features. “I... I don’t understand.”

“We call it the curse of a thousand deaths,” Mordred intoned, his voice devoid of emotion.

“A fitting sentence for your crimes,” added Killian.

Comprehension settled upon Arthur’s face, the weight of their words sinking into him like a creeping poison. A thousand deaths. The terrifying concept alone was enough to make his mind recoil, teeter at the edges of rational thought. He had faced death before, had even made peace with its inevitability, but this... this had the air of something far more insidious.

Arthur’s throat constricted, his next breath coming in a ragged gasp. He saw himself dying, over and over, in ways that defied the natural order. With trembling hands clenched into fists at his sides, Arthur fought to maintain his composure. He lifted his chin, forcing defiance into his voice even as dread gripped every fiber of his being.

“I’ll face your worst, butchers,” he declared, the words tasting like ash in his mouth.

Killian’s sardonic laughter sliced the air. “Brave words, king. We shall see.” He glided back to the table, his fingers dancing over objects shrouded in shadow, murmuring arcane phrases. Mordred turned his inscrutable gaze back to Killian and the items on the table.

The coppery tang of blood coated Arthur’s tongue, a grim harbinger of his mortality. Pain radiated from his back where it pressed against the stark, rock slab, each breath a struggle. His muscles, still taut from the earlier magical assault, protested angrily against his every move, every twitch. The tempest in his skull intensified, thoughts crashing against one another like waves in a storm-tossed sea.

Yet even as a creeping numbness claimed his extremities, Arthur remained acutely aware. Death’s approach was palpable, its icy fingers already caressing his soul. He saw it reflected in Mordred’s pitiless gaze, an inevitability as certain as the setting sun.

And beneath his forced show of defiance, a single, terrifying thought echoed in the recesses of his mind: What if death itself was no longer an escape?

The unmistakable clink of steel brought Arthur from his reflections as Killian pivoted. Arthur’s breath caught, words failing him as he found himself staring at his own visage, adorned in glistening chainmail, Excalibur’s magnificent blade resting flat across “his” palms.

Mesmerized by the apparition, Arthur beheld his own face, proud and unbowed, smiling back at him. It was as though he gazed upon a ghost of his former greatness, a merciless reminder of all that was slipping through his fingers, of all he had lost.

The imposter’s laughter – Arthur’s own voice, yet twisted and hollow – grated nerve as it resounded across the cavern. “I hadn’t anticipated such a fine weapon at my disposal,” Arthur said. “Truly worthy of kings.” Arthur tsked, his stare provocative, hungry. “A pity about Guinevere – we could have made quite the pair. A magnificent sword and a radiant queen.”

Fury and disgust reignited, and Arthur struggled against the bonds. His double’s laughter – his own, yet not – mocked everything he held dear.

The false Arthur unsheathed Excalibur with practiced grace, demonstrating flawless swordsmanship as he carved intricate patterns through the air – maneuvers not unlike Arthur’s own. Yet the blade’s familiar hum now carried an unnatural resonance, echoing off the cavern walls. Arthur flinched as each otherworldly note seemed to slash his flesh, intensifying the throbbing in his skull. His cherished weapon, now cradled in diabolical hands – the steel once bound to him by fate now serving his twisted reflection.

“You see,” Killian drawled with Arthur's voice as charming as ever, “when I’m finished with you here, ‘Arthur’ will mysteriously return to the castle – beaten, broken, claiming to have fought his way to freedom. I’ll mourn for My Guinevere and my dear friend Merlin for a time, but then I'll rise from the ashes of tragedy, stronger and more determined. The people will rally behind their resilient king, never suspecting the wolf that now wears the crown.”

“No,” Arthur rasped, catching Mordred’s sidelong glance at Killian in his peripheral vision.

“With this blade,” Arthur continued, Excalibur held close to his breast, “dark magic will flourish in your kingdom – dissenters will taste steel, just as we once did. Your realm will be reborn in the image of sorcery. And when Morgana is found, ‘Arthur’ will graciously step aside, abdicating the crown to her – with his heartfelt blessing, naturally.”

Despair engulfed Arthur as the nightmarish vision of Camelot’s future unfolded before him. Killian, wearing his face, dispensing harsh judgments while unsuspecting citizens cheered. Dark magic running rampant – cloaked in false promises and iron-fisted rule. And Morgana, restored to unleash her unchecked vengeance... his legacy of justice and mercy twisted beyond recognition. A visceral revulsion gripped him, setting his trembling anew.

Unshed tears burned behind Arthur’s eyes. To suffer was now his lot, the price he’d pay for the kingdom he loved but could not protect. He steadied his voice with effort. “Your cursed reign is doomed to fail,” he said, voice taut with restrained fury, wondering how long Killian’s masquerade could truly endure. “You will not succeed.”

“Again, we shall see.” The imposter’s piercing blue gaze – Arthur’s own eyes, yet not – held him transfixed. “You’ll vanish without a trace, Arthur; no one will ever suspect the truth. Our path is clear. Yours is short.”

“I’ll kill you, Killian!” Arthur’s threat erupted in a primal roar, his throat raw and parched. He thrashed violently against his bonds, oblivious to the blood now slicking his wrists. Numbness had already claimed him – body, soul, and heart.

Guinevere. Their shared life, barely begun, now snuffed out like a candle in a storm. The visions of their radiant future, once glimpsed in Excalibur’s gleam, now lay in ashes. Were the prophecies mere falsehoods, Albion doomed to fade into obscurity with their deaths? Should he cling to the faint hope of rescue by his knights? Or hold fast to the belief that, no matter how dark and treacherous the path ahead, he would endure?

“I’ll kill you,” Arthur snarled, his glare burning with murderous intent, his entire body shaking with rage and impotent fury. Even as the words left his lips, he knew how hollow they must sound.

The fake Arthur only laughed at his empty threats, sheathing Excalibur with a flourish. Setting it into the shadows beside the table, he shifted back into Killian’s form as easily as water flowing into a new vessel, again startling Arthur.

As his anger subsided into a smoldering despair, Arthur’s attention was drawn to Killian's movements around the table. He knew the sorcerer's casual demeanor belied the gravity of whatever horror was about to unfold. He also knew there was nothing he could do to stop him.

“You know,” Killian taunted, his fingers dancing over the objects on the table, “it wasn’t too difficult to disarm your guards to liberate these items. Any sorcerer worth his salt could subdue your men with magic same as I did. Pity it took so long to find these. I would have liberated other items had I the time.” He retrieved a headpiece – a circlet of intertwined gold and copper, adorned with a central tourmaline flanked by opal and jet.

Arthur’s eyes widened in recognition. The stolen artifacts from his vaults – objects that Merlin and Galahad had failed to uncover any significance about. Not matching Geoffrey's drawings exactly, this now singular object instilled a visceral dread within Arthur. What had seemed like harmless trinkets individually now appeared ominous in their new, combined form. The unknown potential of this creation filled him with a deep foreboding.

“Besides, none of those items belongs to you, thief,” Killian sneered. “You and Uther stole them from my people.” Returning to the stone slab, Killian positioned the gleaming band above Arthur’s brow.

“What are you—?” Arthur began, his voice catching in his throat as the delicate metal touched his skin, its unfamiliar and unsettling circlet sending a shiver down his spine.

Killian regarded him with contempt and anticipation. “You have no idea what you hold in that vault, do you? Well, I’m going to reveal a small measure of the power you’ve so ignorantly kept locked away, dread king.” His lips curled into a malevolent smile. “Mordred, remove his foot coverings,” he commanded. “His extremities must be unencumbered for the curse’s energy to flow.”

A grim resolve settled over Arthur, his muscles coiling with tension as his gaze drifted to the cavern ceiling, steeling himself for the horrors sure to come. Show no weakness... show no....

With hardhearted efficiency, Mordred stripped away Arthur’s thin footwear, discarding them carelessly in the shadows. Arthur winced as the stone leached the remaining warmth from his newly exposed feet, the cave’s frigid air stinging his flesh. His fists clenched, knuckles whitening as he fought to suppress the shivers beginning to overtake him in this dank tomb.

Gritting his teeth, Arthur forced his breathing to steady. Show no weakness to these merciless foes! He would not give them the satisfaction of seeing him break.

Killian’s eyes, now darker than the deepest void, locked onto Arthur’s. “And so we begin,” he intoned, his smile a spiteful promise. Stepping back, he began to chant in an arcane tongue, the guttural sounds unnatural in the cavern. The tourmaline above Arthur’s brow flared to life, bathing the cavern in an eerie green glow.

A discordant vibration emanated from the jeweled circlet, its energy setting Arthur’s teeth on edge as fell magic saturated the air, sinking into his very bones. His eyes rolled wildly, pulse quickening as the gem’s touch upon his skin ensnared him in its dark sorcery.

“What- what’s happening?” he mumbled. “What are you doing to me?”

“You’re being drawn into the death of one of your victims, buried within the depths of your own mind.”

His world spun, a maelstrom of fragmented images assaulting his senses. Reality shattered like glass, and Arthur found himself thrust into a nightmarish inferno. Flames erupted around him, voracious tongues of fire licking at his clothes. He gasped, choking on thick, acrid smoke that burned his lungs.

Panic gripped him as he realized he couldn't move. The heat was unbearable, all-consuming. This can't be real, he thought desperately. But the pain... the pain was undeniable.

Bound to a pyre by slow-burning leather, the smoke coalesced into shadows – shadows that became the twisted forms of men, women, and children scarred by fire’s indifference. Tens, perhaps more, surrounded him. Their eyes pleaded for mercy, their charred flesh a patchwork of angry red and lifeless black, arms outstretched in a futile plea for salvation. They bore silent witness as the flames devoured his garments and began to feast upon his skin. He choked on smoke and tears, gasping as searing agony consumed him.

“Behold, Mordred,” Killian’s voice cut through the inferno. “He is not the paragon of virtue he pretends to be.”

Arthur shook his head, desperately trying to convince himself it wasn’t real – merely an illusion. “No,” he growled, his jaw clenched tight, summoning every ounce of his legendary willpower. “This isn't real. I won't let you break me, Killian!”

For a fleeting moment, the flames seemed to flicker and recede. But then the illusion reasserted itself with brutal force. He shuddered as sweat poured from him, fire and flesh merging in a relentless conflagration. A scream caught in his throat, smoke filling his lungs. His hair withered away. His skin cracked, brilliant red fading to charred black.

Did he hear the echo of laughter? A voice urging the flames higher?

His screams finally broke free, a harrowing symphony of unbound agony. Faces and places flashed before him; his life condensed into fleeting moments. Father. Merlin. Excalibur. Camelot.

“Guinevere!” he cried, the single name encompassing his utterly bitter loss.

Then, a sudden stillness. The pain receded, replaced by an eerie calm. Arthur found himself drifting, weightless, in a vast emptiness. Was this death? The end he'd faced countless times on the battlefield, now finally claiming him?

A soft, pulsing light appeared before him, growing brighter, more insistent. As it approached, Arthur felt the last vestiges of pain melt away. The weight of his failures, the burden of his crown, all began to fade.

The light enveloped him, its touch unexpectedly gentle. Layer by layer, his earthly concerns peeled away. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Arthur felt a profound peace, a release from the burdens of destiny.

“Guinevere….” he whispered, his final word. Perhaps waiting… beyond the veil of light…. Merlin… Gwen….

Death.

Arthur's body slumped forward, lifeless, the once-great king now silent and still.

What he failed to perceive was Mordred’s silent retreat into the shadows, abject horror etched upon his face, hands clamped tightly over his mouth to stifle his own cries.

Chapter Text

“Come on, Gwen,” Merlin pleaded, his voice quavering in the eerie stillness of the glade. His magic probed Gwen’s motionless form, an ethereal current seeking out hidden injuries beyond the vicious dagger wound he’d just healed. The heavy metallic scent of her spilled blood mingled with the acrid stench of spent sorcery and smoke in his nostrils turned his stomach.

A trembling hand swiped at tears tracing thin, silvery veins freshly scarred on his cheek, the pain flaring at his touch. Wisps of smoke still clung to his singed clothes, a haunting reminder of his near-demise. Merlin’s frantic gaze darted between Gwen’s alarmingly pale face and the devastation surrounding them, his heart torn between immediate concern, growing terror, and heart-wrenching guilt.

“Arthur!” The name tore from his throat, a desperate plea that seemed to hang in the unnaturally still air of the forest. Each passing moment of silence felt like an eternity, Merlin’s hope crumbling into a pit of gnawing dread. He should have returned sooner, should have prevented this nightmare.

His chest tightened as memories of the attack assaulted him, moisture welling in his eyes: the fierce battle against two assailants, a salvo of magical energy exchanged between them, his magical barrier protecting Arthur and Gwen. Then came the inferno, his own shield too late, death’s fiery embrace quickly closing in. With his consciousness waning, he’d gasped “Dragon Mount,” and found himself atop the distant peak, disoriented and wracked in agony.

Where his clothes had burned away—sleeves, patches of his tunic and linen shirt beneath, parts of his trouser legs—the exposed skin was ablaze with searing pain. His face felt raw, and the pungent scent of singed hair had filled his nostrils. How long had it taken to heal himself? How long had he actually been gone? Seconds? Minutes? Much longer? It felt both fleeting and eternal.

Now, as he channeled his arcane power to help Gwen, remorse ate away at his conscience. He should have found a way back sooner, should have been here to protect them to the end. Perhaps, he would have prevented this, kept Arthur from being abducted. Perhaps, he—

Merlin froze, pulling back from tending Gwen, stunned. There was something else wrong with her – an unfamiliar energy humming softly at the edge of his awareness—a faint ethereal signature he couldn’t quite place. Then, in a rush of understanding, his eyes widened as they traveled over Gwen’s unmoving form, something warm and unexpected gripping his heart, his vision blurred with even more tears.

With a trembling hand, he placed it on Gwen’s forehead, checking once again for the steady thrum of life. Releasing a calming breath when he found it, he gently clasped her hand.

“Gwen,” he called softly, his voice raw from the intense spellcasting and smoke he had inhaled, magical exhaustion creeping up on him like a heavy fog. “Gwen, can you hear me?”

His gaze found the angry slash on her bodice, blood staining a wide swath, before drifting to her belly. He choked back his sob, the halo of wildflowers about Gwen’s prone body and the soft gurgle of the stream seeming to mock the grim scene around him. Lamenting his delayed return to the glade, the question “Why didn’t I come back sooner?” echoed in his mind.

A faint twitch of Gwen’s fingers in his grasp sparked hope in Merlin’s chest, halting his spiraling thoughts. He forced back his tears, injecting optimism into his voice. “Come on, Gwen. That’s it.”

A low moan escaped her lips as her eyelids began to flutter. Her free hand subconsciously covered where the dagger had wounded her, then came to a rest atop her belly. Merlin leaned closer, his heartbeat loud in his ears. “It’s alright, Gwen. I’m here.”

Slowly, her eyes opened, unfocused and pained. Gwen flinched against the harsh glare of the afternoon sun, prompting Merlin to shift his position to shield her from the brightness.

“M-Merlin…?” she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes, it’s me,” he said softly, squeezing her hand gently, relief flooding through him at the sound of her voice. “Your wound was deep, but I’ve healed the worst of it. You’re safe now,” he assured her, his voice catching slightly on the last words, the fragility of that safety all too apparent.

“You’re… you’re alive,” she said softly, disbelief in every word.

Merlin’s brow furrowed when he noticed Gwen’s dilated pupils nearly eclipsing the brown of her irises. When he'd first returned to the glade, he'd found her several paces from the blankets, lying amid the wildflowers. At the time, he'd noted the distance but had been too focused on her immediate injuries to fully process its significance. Now, he realized the surprise of detecting the faint mystical signature had distracted him from completing a full assessment of her condition.

“You might have a concussion,” he said, his voice tender with concern. “I found you—here, quite far from where I last saw you. Do you remember how you got here?”

A weak arm lifted to the back of her skull. “I was… pushed—tossed… across the glade with sorcery. Perhaps then… when I landed,” Gwen said, her voice weak but gaining strength. “I thought… you were dead, Merlin. Arthur – where’s Arthur?”

Merlin was already examining her head, magic tingling at his fingers roaming through her soft curls, probing for the injury. But his heart constricted at the dreaded question about Arthur, one he’d been asking himself. He remained silent, unable to find the words, the magnitude of Arthur’s disappearance and his own shortcomings bearing down on him.

Gwen struggled to sit up, her gaze darting around the clearing before settling back on his face. Merlin saw her expression crumble, mirroring the sorrow he knew must be visible in his own features. “Where is he?” she demanded, her voice carrying a tremor of fear but underlaid with the steel of a monarch. Lucidity was returning to her eyes, bringing with it a flash of regal willpower.

Merlin’s glance was pulled inexorably to the scars of recent battle that had unfolded in the glade: the lifeless guards in the stream stained a dark, murky red; scorched earth and splintered trees standing as mute witnesses to the violence. The magical residue of his arcane energy and their malevolent forces seemed to twist and writhe in the air, a clash between light and shadow that only he could detect. As the air thrummed with these residual vibrations, the words “I don’t know” lodged in his throat – too final, too terrifying to voice.

He watched Gwen’s eyes glisten as she absorbed the scene, her face a canvas of dawning horror. Arthur’s absence gnawed at him like a physical ache, Merlin’s gaze darting about too, searching in vain for a familiar glint of golden hair or flash of scarlet shirt.

Fighting his own rising panic, Merlin saw a glimpse of the queen Gwen had become in her expression that then hardened with sudden resolve. Before he could react, she gritted her teeth against the pain and lurched to her feet, one hand instinctively protecting her belly.

“Gwen!” he exclaimed, clearly alarmed as he supported her to prevent her falling.

“I may be injured,” she said, struggling for balance, “but I am still Camelot’s queen. And I will not rest while Arthur is in danger.”

Merlin felt a surge of admiration for Gwen’s strength, even as concern for her condition troubled him. He knew she shouldn’t be moving so soon, but the fire in her eyes told him arguing would be futile. Gripping her shoulders, he met her determined gaze with all the reassurance he could muster.

“We’ll bring him home, Gwen,” he vowed hoarsely, pushing back the anguish threatening to choke him. The words felt hollow in the face of his failure, but he pressed on. “I swear it. Whatever it takes, we’ll locate Arthur and bring him back to Camelot.”

Even as he spoke, his determination flickered like a candle in a storm, constantly threatened by the overwhelming tide of despair. Gwen’s regal bearing faltered too. Her shoulders sagged, and for the first time since awakening, tears spilled over. The queen’s mask crumbled, revealing the frightened, grieving woman beneath.

“This can’t be…” Gwen cried, her hands cupping her cheek as if to hold herself together.

Merlin’s heart constricted with shared sorrow as he folded Gwen into his arms. He had failed her, failed Arthur, failed Camelot. This was his burden to bear, his fault. Even with their scant security, he should have been able to outmaneuver the attackers.

The enormity of his mistake drew his own silent tears. His ethereal magic, the very power that should have protected them all, had faltered when it mattered most. The irony of his immense abilities and utter helplessness carved a gaping wound in his chest. He tightened his embrace around Gwen, holding his distraught friend as deeply as she held him.

Since returning to the glade, Merlin had reached out with his inner eye searching for any trace of Arthur’s life force, desperate for any sign of hope. But each time, a baleful energy lingering in the area pushed against his magic, obscuring his mystical sight. Was Arthur’s bright flame already extinguished by merciless hands? Did the light and heart of Camelot teeter on the precipice of a hopeless abyss? Was he gone forever, leaving them bereft of his strength?

Gwen’s sobs muffled against his shoulder. “If Arthur is…” She choked on her words, then seemed to force herself to continue. “He's my heart, Merlin. How can one live without a heart?”

Merlin hushed her softly, tightening his embrace. Their bodies trembled in unison, fear and grief intertwining. “We haven’t lost him, Gwen,” he whispered, willing himself to believe it.

Gwen shook her head, gulping in air, shivering uncontrollably. Merlin pulled back and stared into her red-rimmed eyes, his heart aching at the pain he saw there. He knew he needed answers, but he also recognized the depth of Gwen's anguish.

"Gwen," he began gently, his voice filled with compassion, "I know this is difficult, and I'm so sorry to ask this of you now. But I need to understand what happened after I vanished. It might help us find Arthur. Did the attackers speak? Say anything at all?"

A cool breeze swept through the King’s Wood, temporarily soothing his prickling skin. Merlin waited as Gwen composed herself with visible effort, her fingers trembling while smoothing the folds of her skirt. Even in this moment of despair, a queen's instinct for dignity seemed to assert itself.

“It was Mordred,” she breathed, her voice firm despite her earlier shivers.

Merlin felt a chill creep through him at the name. Mordred—the druid boy he’d once saved, now turned enemy. The price of past decisions, both Arthur’s actions against the druids and Merlin’s own choices regarding Mordred, was now paid in blood. His mind raced, recalling prophecies and warnings he’d long tried to ignore concerning the boy, Kilgharrah’s voice resounding clearly in his mind. Those unheeded warnings now loomed over him like a suffocating shroud.

“He stabbed me,” Gwen continued, her hands pressing against her middle. “I… I begged him not to…”

Merlin’s eyes slipped to Gwen’s belly, the faint magical signature he’d sensed earlier suddenly clear as day. More than just Gwen had been on the brink of death when he returned to the glade. The legacy of Arthur had been but a flicker, but it lived. Gwen lived. It was a bittersweet hope in the face of overwhelming loss, but hope nonetheless. They could endure in Arthur’s stead – they must.

Merlin studied Gwen’s face, wondering if she was aware of the precious life she carried. The tender caresses of her abdomen he now recalled her doing these past few weeks told him she did. He pushed the thoughts aside for now, focusing on the immediate crisis as Gwen went on.

“I didn’t recognize the other man,” she recounted, “but he said that Arthur ‘must pay for his crimes’ against their kind. Merlin, if they wanted him dead, wouldn’t he be…here? What do you suppose that sorcerer meant?”

“They wanted him for something else,” Merlin stated with finality, his voice hollow with dread.

Few knew that Mordred was destined to be Arthur’s bane, to slay the Once and Future King. And now, Arthur was in his grasp. Horrible scenarios invaded Merlin’s thoughts, manifesting into a chill that penetrated to his very core. His mind raced to the three pieces of jewelry Mordred had stolen—artifacts whose functions he and Galahad had been unable to discern. Could these mysterious trinkets somehow be connected to Arthur “paying for his crimes”?

As this realization settled over him, deepening his dread, Merlin noticed Gwen’s teary glance piercing him. Before he could react, her knees buckled. Quickly catching her, Merlin pulled her into a comforting embrace. They were not subject and queen in this moment, but friends linked by a source of great strength that had been snatched from them. After a few short moments of her weeping and his gentle rocking, Gwen silenced her shuddering sobs and withdrew.

He watched her wrestle her trembling into submission, the queen emerging once again, her grief momentarily masked by the steel of royal resolve. She fixed him with a fierce glare, then softened with compassion upon seeing the pain in his expression. He ached for Arthur too, his hope splintered like brittle wood.

Merlin floundered in a sea of unforeseen failures, but this one – this failure where shadows fell beyond his reckoning – weighed heaviest of all. The mantle of Court Wizard had never felt more burdensome, his vast ancient power rendered impotent in the face of this crisis. His shoulders sagged under his guilt, his features haunted by what-ifs and could-have-beens. He worried his lower lip, his face a canvas of shame and utter loss.

Unable to contain his anguish any longer, Merlin gazed at Gwen, his eyes brimming with tears. “Forgive me for not protecting you both,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. The flames, his flight, his wounds—all of it had caught him off guard. Now Arthur was gone, and Gwen bore the scars of his miscalculation. “I failed,” he concluded, the words heavy with self-reproach.

Gwen’s hand found his, her grip firm despite her own ordeal. “I hold no fault with you, Merlin – truly. I know if you could have, you would have saved Arthur. I failed him, too,” she confessed.

As they regarded each other, Merlin saw his own anguish mirrored in Gwen’s expression, a wordless understanding passing between them. This shared trauma would forever bind them, a sorrow only they could fully comprehend. And yet, beyond their personal grief, a greater concern loomed. Albion – Arthur's vision of a unified kingdom – had not yet appeared on the horizon, but now appeared to flicker and fade. Merlin trusted in Gwen's ability to lead Camelot, but could Albion rise without Arthur? Could they bear to see Arthur's hopes for a united kingdom vanish, leaving only whispers of what might have been?

No, Merlin thought, resolve crystallizing within him. The world would not halt for them, no matter how crushing the loss of their king. He would scour the earth for Arthur, bending every law of the supernatural if necessary to bring him home. Arthur must be found, not just for their sakes, but for the future of Albion. Only he could turn that fragile spark of unity into a blazing reality.

But Merlin could sense the residual tendrils of dark energy in the air, an oily residue that clung to his magical senses. His magic stirred in response, a restless current beneath his skin. His power was formidable too, as was that of his allies, and for a moment, darker thoughts consumed him. He envisioned channeling that combined might, unleashing a force that would make Mordred rue the day he dared touch Arthur. With jaw clenched and eyes hardening with a cold thirst, his suppressed rage seemed to urge him towards vengeance, to make Mordred pay dearly for this transgression.

A horse's whinny cut through his spiraling notions like a blade, jerking Merlin back from the edge of his darker impulses. He blinked, momentarily disoriented as the woods came back into focus. The bitter taste of vengeance lingered in his mouth, and he swallowed hard, forcing it down. Merlin took several steadying breaths, grateful that Gwen seemed not to have noticed his brief descent into darkness. Slowly, he willed his features to compose themselves, to appear outwardly calm despite the turmoil still roiling within. Only then did he scan the glade, searching for their mounts and those of the fallen guards. As his gaze settled on the horses peacefully grazing nearby, the very opposite of the chaos in his heart, he pointed to them wordlessly, feigning normalcy.

Gwen nodded, her voice taut as a bowstring. “We must alert the knights and begin our search at once.”

She was right. Every moment counted if they hoped to pick up a trail, mystical or otherwise. Gwen gathered her skirts, the fabric whispering against the crushed grass as she strode toward her white mare. Merlin hurried to match her swift gait, his senses still on high alert despite the peaceful scene around them. He kept a watchful eye on Gwen, noting her determination but also the subtle signs of strain in her movements.

As they walked, Gwen pressed her fingers against a temple, her face contorted with confusion and pain. “Merlin, I thought you were dead,” she murmured. Noticing a slight imbalance in her gait, Merlin reached out and clasped her arm. “How ever did you escape from the flames?” she asked, leaning on him for support.

“Ethereal energy – teleported away,” he replied, his voice hollow as a dry well, the words bitter on his tongue. The memory of the spell flashed through his mind – the rush of power, the world blurring around him like watercolors in rain, the sickening lurch as he reappeared on Dragon Mount – the pain. “I didn’t entirely escape them though.”

Merlin felt Gwen’s scrutinizing gaze upon him, her eyes widening as if truly seeing him for the first time since the attack. He was acutely aware of his appearance: his clothes in tatters, bearing scorch marks and gaping holes. Patches of angry red flesh remained visible, particularly on his forearms and along his sides.

As Gwen’s eyes traveled to his face, he resisted the urge to touch the thin silvery scars that he knew snaked up his left cheek, ending just below his eye – a fearful reminder of how close he’d come to losing his sight. His hair was noticeably shorter on one side where the flames had licked at him during the attack.

“Your wounds,” she asked, her voice a soft whisper, “why haven’t you healed them completely?”

“I’ve mended what mattered,” he replied tightly, though warmed by Gwen’s concern. “But I left these... as a reminder. Of my failure, and what’s at stake.” Merlin’s fingers brushed the scars on his cheek, his expression somber. The irony of being one of the most powerful sorcerers alive, yet unable to prevent this tragedy, cut deeper than any flame.

She glanced ahead, her look as distant as his. “I understand. My pain will last forever if Arthur was truly lost.”

Merlin nodded solemnly, her words echoing the ache in his own heart. For a moment, the only sound was the soft rustle of grass beneath their feet as they walked. Then, unable to contain the torrent of guilt any longer, Merlin broke the silence.

“Why wasn’t I faster?” he lamented, eyes cast down to the trampled grass. “Why didn’t I return sooner?” His free hand flexed at his side, his mystical forces churning beneath his skin like a restless sea, yearning to be unleashed, to change what had already come to pass. If only he’d trusted his instincts, pushed his powers further...

Gwen trembled under the steadying grasp of his other hand, compassion and relief etched on her features. She paused, then embraced him, her touch gentle. “It’s a great comfort I have not lost you too, Merlin,” she whispered. For a heartbeat, he allowed himself to be comforted by her embrace, to draw strength from his friend. When she drew back, her expression hardened with fresh purpose. “What’s done is done. We must move forward no matter how treacherous the path.”

Her gaze softened as she looked at him again. “But Merlin, you must heal yourself completely now. And... your clothes. The people of Camelot cannot see us like this. They need hope, not fear.”

The wisdom in her words pierced through Merlin’s self-recrimination, silencing the torrent of guilt that raged within him. He nodded, and with a deep breath, he summoned his magic, feeling it wash over him like a soothing balm. The scars on his face faded, his skin knitting itself back together, and his clothes mended themselves, erasing all signs of the attack and his physical pains.

Then, with Gwen’s permission, he turned his magic to her. The tear in her bodice sealed itself, the blood stains vanished, and her hair smoothed back into its usual regal style. The dirt and grass stains on her face and dress disappeared – even the small bump on the back of her skull finished mending.

“Well done,” Gwen said, smoothing her now-immaculate dress, a sad smile emerging but for a few moments.

As they continued toward the horses, Merlin saw Gwen’s eyes skitter away from the remnants of her ill-fated picnic, settling on the fallen soldiers still splayed in the water. Her gaze then darted to a random tree not too far away, her brow furrowing deeply.

Merlin, outwardly restored but inwardly still raw, noted her unease, sensing her desire to flee this place of sorrow, but both of them remained silent as they neared the closest horse. Despite Gwen’s bolstered resolve, his heightened magical senses could detect her inner turmoil, waves of despair and determination radiating from her in turn. The urge to soothe her pain with his magic rose unbidden, but he reined it in, knowing there was no true balm for her suffering until Arthur was found.

Suddenly, a flicker of magic caught Merlin’s attention – faint but undeniable. His mystical senses focused on Gwen, detecting the unmistakable pulse of new life intertwined with her own essence. The unborn child’s nascent power resonated with his own, a subtle harmony that left him momentarily breathless. Did Gwen have any idea of the gifts her baby might possess?

Merlin wrestled with the revelation, torn between sharing this miraculous discovery and protecting Gwen from additional stress. The knowledge of her child's magical potential could offer hope, but it might also overwhelm her in this moment of crisis. With Arthur missing and Albion in peril, was this the right time to burden her with such weighty information?

“Gwen, wait,” he said, his fingers light on her arm, deciding in fairness to address the immediate concern – his awareness of her secret.

She halted, exasperation coloring her voice. “What is it? We must hurry, Merlin.”

He swallowed, his stare penetrating as he searched for the right words. “I think you should know: when I healed you,” he began gently, treading cautiously, “I sensed something… within you….”

Merlin watched as realization bloomed on her face. She inhaled sharply, a quivering hand moving reflexively to her middle, a gesture that resonated with newfound significance. The faint, flickering essence he’d detected earlier now pulsed with renewed vigor, a tiny beacon of hope amidst the darkness that threatened to engulf its mother.

“Merlin, just tell me,” she pleaded, her voice barely above a whisper.

He gently grasped her shoulders, his touch an anchor in the storm of her emotions. “He’s all right,” Merlin said softly. “Your baby.”

As he spoke the words, Merlin felt a surge of protective power well up within him, a tingling warmth spreading from his core to his fingertips impulsively wanting to reach out to envelop both Gwen and her unborn child in an invisible shield.

She caught her breath as tears carved glistening paths down her smudged cheeks. “He… he…? A son? I knew it.” Gwen sank to her knees, the revelation overwhelming her.

Merlin lowered himself beside her, a bittersweet smile ghosting across his features despite his own anguish. He gently enveloped her trembling hands in his, offering what solace he could in this poignant moment.

“A son for Arthur.” Gwen’s voice trembled when she spoke again. “A son he may never see… a child who may never know his father.”

Merlin’s heart fractured for her, for Arthur, for the kingdom, a sharp ache spreading in his chest. “Does Arthur know?” he asked gently, dreading either answer.

Gwen shook her head, swallowing hard, fresh tears tracing glistening paths down her cheeks. Her focus remained fixed on her lap, her fingers intertwining restlessly. “No. I chose to wait. I wanted to be certain nothing would go awry. You know – Morgana’s curse.”

Merlin’s expression softened, but his words resonated with unwavering conviction. “Morgana has no magic, Gwen. No power. Please trust me – that curse was hollow. You can feel him alive and thriving inside you as surely as I can. And if need be, I’ll weave protections around you and the child so potent that no corrupt magic could ever breach them.”

He clasped her hands, smiling reassuringly. His gaze met hers, fierce and unyielding. “We’ll find him. I swear it. Cling to hope, Gwen. You must.”

She nodded. “I shall,” she affirmed, her spine straightening despite their kneeling position. “For Arthur’s sake. I will not falter, nor will his kingdom. He entrusted me as his queen. I won’t fail him, Merlin. I can’t.”

Merlin felt a wave of admiration watching Gwen compose herself, marveling at her innate nobility shining through even in this darkest hour. A small, proud smile tugged at his lips as he regarded her. Her resilience and unwavering commitment to her people and to Arthur struck him anew, reminding him why she was the perfect choice as queen – not just for Arthur, but for all of Camelot. After another heartbeat’s pause, he gently coaxed her to her feet.

Gwen’s gaze settled on the fallen guards once again. “We can’t leave them here,” she said, her voice laden with emotion but resolute. “They gave their lives protecting us. Can you... can you do something for them, Merlin?”

Merlin nodded solemnly. With a fluid wave of his hand and a whispered incantation, he gently lifted the bodies from the stream. Water cascaded off them as they floated to the shore.

“Wrap them in these, Merlin,” Gwen said softly, moving to separate the furs on the picnic site.

As he carefully covered each guard, Gwen reverently stepped beside him holding their horses’ reins in her grip. “We’ll bring them back to Camelot,” she declared. “They deserve to be returned to their families and buried with honor.”

He finished his task, and with a shared glance of grim determination, Merlin helped Gwen mount her horse before mounting his own. The leather of the saddle creaked beneath him, the familiar scent of horse and sweat grounding him in the moment. He cast one final, haunting look at the scene of their attack. His failures lay bare before him – the fallen guards, the signs of struggle, the lingering tendrils of dark sorcery that seemed to twist the very air. Whatever malevolent forces had ensnared Arthur, he would counter it with the full force of his own primal abilities.

The shadows had fallen, and Merlin’s arcane power burned within him like a living flame, a conflagration that would not merely guide him to Arthur, but scorch a path through any obstacle in his way. As they urged their horses forward, leaving behind the glade of sorrow, Merlin felt his purpose solidify, an unbreakable core forming within him. His magic surged through him, a tidal wave of raw power ready to reshape destiny itself. Yet alongside this force, he sensed his buried darkness stirring, a willingness to cross lines he'd long kept at bay. Hope, no longer a faint flicker but a blazing beacon, fueled this complex amalgam of light and shadow within him. He would find Arthur, protect Gwen and their unborn child, and forge the future they had all dreamed of – no matter the cost, no matter how dark the path.

Chapter Text

Geoffrey of Monmouth had witnessed his fair share of upheavals within Camelot’s walls – from Queen Ygraine’s tragic demise to the brutal years of the Great Purge, from the Afanc curse of ‘93 to the recent Southron invasion. Yet the whispers now racing through the castle corridors hinted at a crisis that struck a uniquely personal chord for many. Guards stood vigilant outside the lesser hall, their presence a buffer against the spreading unease. Within, the air crackled with an energy that reminded Geoffrey of the atmosphere before a violent storm, an urgency that seemed to seep into the very stones.

Queen Guinevere sat at the heart of this gathering, her composure unwavering despite the ordeal King Arthur’s inner circle awaited to hear. He had expected to see her shaken, yet she sat with remarkable poise beside the king’s empty throne chair. Flanking her were the ever-faithful Master George, his complexion ashen, and Mistress Sefa, her eyes rimmed red from silent tears. In the shadows behind them, a young woman with fiery red hair—evidently the queen’s friend—moved with the nervous energy of one thrust suddenly into an unfamiliar and chaotic world.

As Guinevere and Merlin began their harrowing account, Geoffrey’s quill scratched furiously across parchment, capturing every word. The faces around the table hardened as the tale unfolded, disbelief giving way to grim understanding. When the last echoes of their story faded, a charged silence descended.

Geoffrey’s gaze swept the room, taking in the tableau of raw emotion before him. Merlin and Gwaine glared at each other like estranged kin, their usual camaraderie replaced by palpable tension. Percival and Ranulf sat rigidly at the long table, their optimism challenged by the dire situation. Galahad’s restless pacing seemed to match the frantic beating of Geoffrey’s own heart, while Fredrick, trail-worn from his mission with Gwaine to retrieve the copper-haired maiden, leaned heavily against a stone pillar. Leon stood near him, shock evident in his rigid posture.

The quiet broke when Gwaine, his face a mask of fury, rounded on Merlin. Both men, formidable in their own right, seemed poised on a knife’s edge of confrontation.

“You’re supposed to be this great wizard,” Gwaine seethed, his usually smooth voice now jagged with accusation. “Two guards dead, the queen nearly slain, and our king snatched away!” His voice rose like a tide, each word louder than the last. His face reddened as he bellowed, “What happened, Merlin? Did the attackers interrupt your leisurely stroll? Or were you too busy polishing your bloody staff to notice?!”

Geoffrey’s eyebrow arched, a spark of morbid curiosity momentarily overriding his scholarly need to document. The prospect of witnessing this confrontation between friends stirred something primal within him, and he wondered if the others also held Merlin culpable.

The young sorcerer’s fingers twitched at his sides, as if itching to summon a spell of protection or retaliation, unflinching in the face of Gwaine’s blistering assault. Around the room, the other knights shifted uneasily, a low murmur of discomfort rippling through their ranks.

“Hold your tongue, Gwaine,” Leon commanded, stepping forward, his tone a balance between a warning and a plea.

“This is no time for restraint!” Gwaine fumed with the bitterness of betrayal and fatigue.

“The attack was swift and precise!” Merlin countered. “Like lightning!”

“And that’s meant to absolve you?!”

“I don’t need your absolution!”

Gwaine scoffed, undeterred. “If that’s the best you can do, then Camelot is already lost.”

Merlin closed the final space between them, rage radiating from both men. Suddenly, a gust of wind swept through the room despite the closed windows. Parchments flew off the table, quills spun in the air, and a nearby candelabra toppled with a resounding clang. The obvious manifestation of Merlin’s roiling emotions made the men around the table gasp with surprise; those standing staggered slightly, all raising their arms to shield themselves from wind, dust, and flying objects. Tension excited the air as Geoffrey desperately clutched at his papers, and for a moment, he feared Merlin might lose control entirely.

“Merlin!” The queen’s voice cut through the chaos, her tone slightly alarmed. When the wind continued to howl, she called again, more forcefully, “Merlin, stop this at once!”

The sorcerer blinked. His shoulders relaxed, the wind dying down as quickly as it had arisen. Loose objects clattered to the floor, parchments settling like leaves after a storm.

Geoffrey bent to retrieve his scattered papers, his hands trembling slightly as the knights straightened, adjusting their disheveled clothing and hair, casting wary glances toward Merlin. George immediately attended to the wide-eyed woman in the shadows, while Sefa scurried about the chamber, righting fallen candelabras, gathering scattered parchments and other displaced objects. Queen Guinevere glanced at Merlin, too, concern etched on her face as she smoothed her hair and gown.

Sir Percival, his massive frame moving with surprising grace, laid a calming hand on Gwaine’s shoulder. “You’re not helping either,” he admonished gently, compelling Gwaine to meet his gaze. The knight’s tense posture eased under Percival’s touch, though his eyes still smoldered with anger.

Galahad, forced to halt his restless pacing during the disruption, was pushed closer to Merlin. Geoffrey noticed the sorcerer’s stern gaze fixed on his mentee, a wordless admonishment in his expression. Merlin, aware of Galahad’s disapproval, merely rolled sullen eyes in response.

“I’m sorry, Gwen,” Merlin apologized to the queen before retreating a few paces from Gwaine, his fists clenched tight enough to whiten his knuckles. Geoffrey pondered how many allies would now question sorcerer’s abilities. They’d trusted him, yet Merlin failed to safeguard their most valuable asset—their king and their friend. Was Camelot’s future lost along with Arthur? What remained of the destiny so often whispered about behind closed doors?  

Composed and sitting erect, the queen turned her attention to Gwaine. “Merlin nearly lost his life,” she stated, her voice first hinting annoyance at the knight. “I was there. I witnessed his courage firsthand. He gave his all, and more.” Her words left the hall in hushed awe, the quiet power of her statement leaving no room for argument.

The queen’s hand rested gently on her stomach. The gesture, likely unconscious, was a newly acquired habit and subtle sign of her condition not yet shared with the kingdom. Geoffrey wondered if anyone else had noticed, if Arthur had known....

Still, he was impressed at how swiftly she had taken control of the situation. Her intervention had not only steadied Merlin but also reminded all present of their shared ordeal. But as he observed Guinevere more closely now, he caught other fleeting signs of vulnerability – a slight tremor in her hands summarily stilled, a momentary flicker of pain in her eyes quickly masked, the quiver of her lips pressed into a thin line. These brief glimpses of her inner turmoil only served to heighten his admiration for her strength. How, he wondered, could she maintain such calm in the face of such devastating loss?

Fredrick, who had stumbled away from his spot against the stone pillar during Merlin’s magical outburst, now stood with his arms folded, leaning against the cool stone. His weary sigh drew attentions back to the matter at hand. “We must focus our efforts towards locating the king,” he said, fatigue roughening his voice. “Did either of you recognize Arthur’s other abductor?”

The queen shook her head. “I did not, but Arthur identified him as the sorcerer who attempted to liberate Morgana.”

“The shape-shifter?” Galahad’s breath hitched, the hiss quite audible. “A formidable foe indeed – his skills are unparalleled.”

“Even for the illustrious Merlin?” Gwaine’s cold inquiry pierced the tension. “Or should I say ‘Emrys, the Great’?”

Merlin turned, his lips in a deep scowl as he met Gwaine’s hooded eyes. Geoffrey reflected on how keenly Gwaine’s candor was missed these past eleven days. Now, bitterness tainted his typically charming voice, and hostility clouded his usually mirthful eyes as years of brotherhood continued to crumble in the face of Merlin’s catastrophic failure.

“Call me what you will,” Merlin snapped, his words tight with resentment. “I will find Arthur.”

Merlin’s vow resonated in the chamber, both a promise and a challenge. Geoffrey was aware of the profound connection between the sorcerer and the king, a bond rumored forged since before Merlin’s arrival in Camelot. Their destinies were undeniably intertwined, a union deeper than blood or brotherhood could define, perhaps proving that the very fabric of fate had indeed woven their lives together. Insomuch, surely Gwaine understood that Merlin would exhaust every possibility to bring Arthur home.

Gwaine scoffed, a sardonic smile twisting his lips. “Find him? Like when you found your father?”

Merlin’s posture shifted, coiling like a spring ready to snap. His nostrils flared, his gaze a burning inferno. In a flash, both men lunged at each other, fists raised and swinging. Percival’s massive form intercepted Gwaine, while Galahad and Leon swiftly moved to restrain Merlin as the chamber erupted into chaos.

The knights struggled to pull the two apart, their grunts of exertion and shouts to stand down mixing with the sounds of the scuffle. Amidst the tumult, Geoffrey pondered some hidden knowledge in Gwaine’s words. He knew nothing of Merlin’s father, let alone any search for him, and scribbled a note to seek clarification when this crisis passed.

Guinevere rose from her seat, her mouth dropping in shock before swiftly settling for a mask of controlled displeasure. “Stop this madness!” she shouted, her voice biting. “Enough! This behavior is unacceptable!”

The men’s brawling ceased, Merlin wrenching his arms from his friends’ grip and moving away. His gaze, still turbulent, darted between Gwaine and Guinevere.

Gwaine, no longer restrained, met her gaze defiantly, his face contorted with frustration. “Why do you so readily excuse his failure?”

The queen’s glare intensified, her jaw set. “We all failed Arthur.”

A collective gasp arose, the knights exchanging bewildered glances. Even Merlin’s anger seemed to falter, replaced by a look of stunned disbelief.

“Yes, you heard me correctly: we all failed him,” the queen repeated. “I was there when he was taken, yet I couldn’t stop it. You,” she gestured to the knights, “his most trusted guards, were not by his side. And Merlin,” her gaze shifted to the sorcerer, though it softened to ease the blow, “powerful as you are, you couldn’t prevent this.” Merlin’s apple bobbed, his fists relaxing at his sides.

The queen’s hand briefly brushed her stomach as she straightened to her full height. “We all bear this burden, and I refuse to allow any of you to compound our tragedy by dividing us. Our strength lies in our unity, now more than ever.” She looked between Gwaine and Merlin, her voice gentler, yet firm. “Gwaine, you and Merlin share a deep friendship. You’ve stood by each other through countless trials. This anger, this pain you’re feeling – we all feel it. But now, Merlin needs his friend. He needs you, Gwaine. Whether you call him Merlin or Emrys the Great, he remains the same man who has fought alongside you, who has saved your life as you’ve saved his. Don’t let this tragedy tear apart a brotherhood forged in fire.”

Geoffrey was amazed how far Guinevere had come from her humble beginnings as a servant. Her ability to express herself eloquently and command respect had become evident many years ago, but now it shone with the polish of true royalty. Like a master weaver, she deftly interlaced the frayed threads of their emotions, creating a tapestry of unity from the discord that threatened to unravel them.

Gwaine’s demeanor shifted in subtle stages – a loosening of his shoulders, a lowering of his gaze, the fury fading like morning mist. A low growl escaped the knight’s throat, reminiscent of a wolf reluctantly backing down. “Aye....”

The tension in the room began to dissipate, replaced by a weary anticipation as Guinevere surveyed the faces before her. “Gentlemen, please be seated,” she ordered. “We have much to discuss.” Despite her petite stature, her presence seemed to tower above them all. The room collectively exhaled as those standing retreated to vacant chairs. Only Merlin, the last on his feet, hesitated briefly before he too succumbed and took his seat.

The queen glided to Merlin, her gown whispering against the stone floor. As she placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, a wordless exchange passed between them, their shared experience etched in the depths of their eyes. For a moment, Geoffrey glimpsed not a queen and her advisor, but friends bound by a profound, unspoken sorrow.

Yet amidst their broken hearts, a spark of defiance ignited in their gazes, like flint striking steel. Guinevere embodied the iron-willed monarch, while Merlin seemed to draw strength from some hidden reserves. Though their world had been shaken more than any, their expressions gleamed with silent promises—to persevere, to bear their burdens with dignity and grace.

The queen then turned, addressing the gathering at the table. “Fredrick speaks true,” Guinevere agreed, interlacing her fingers across her stomach. “Finding Arthur is our utmost priority. And yet, the next crucial question is how did our attackers know where we were?”

“And how to subdue Merlin,” Gwaine pointed out, a hint of brooding still in his tone.

“This was no chance encounter,” Geoffrey found himself saying, his voice taut with concern. “They came prepared.”

“Hold,” Gwaine interjected, his features creasing with renewed concern. “Are you implying someone...?”

“Only a select few knew the details, Arthur included,” Percival reminded them, his jaw tightening.

“We must consider every option,” Leon advised, “however unpalatable.”

“Jupiter’s Stones!” Gwaine’s chainmail clinked softly as he shifted in his seat.

“It can’t be one of us,” Merlin insisted. “The kitchen staff...”

Percival shook his head, his massive frame tensing. “Cook may have known when, but not where.”

“The escorts?” asked Fredrick.

“They didn’t get details until it was time to move out.”

Ranulf’s leather gloves creaked as his hand clenched the hilt of his sword. “Good Lord,” he breathed, “if there’s a traitor in the castle....”

Galahad rose and began pacing once again, his boots clicking softly. “We should question everyone,” he urged with a look of concentration in his eyes. “The soldiers’ families, the kitchen staff – anyone who might have overheard. Even the guards outside meeting room doors if necessary.”

Guinevere, too, began to pace in small, measured circles, listening intently, her calmer demeanor a counterpoint to Galahad’s restless movement. The knights watched her, their unease growing with each passing moment. Finally, she stopped and crossed her arms loosely, her fingers drumming a thoughtful rhythm against her sleeve.

“Very well,” she said at last with a nod. “Percival, when you speak to the soldiers’ families... convey our deepest sympathies, but impress upon them the urgency of your inquiry regarding any knowledge of our plans.”

“Of course, my lady,” Percival replied.

A shadow of worry darkened Leon’s face. “Still, could you simply have been followed, Gwen? Mordred and his accomplice... just waiting?”

“Given Mordred’s recent incursion into the citadel,” Galahad answered, his march somewhat slowed, “we can’t discount that theory either, Sir Leon.”

“Like predators lying in wait, stalking their prey,” murmured Fredrick quietly. His eyes widened as he caught sight of Guinevere's face, her gaze momentarily distant and haunted. "My apologies for the harsh imagery, my queen," he added hastily, his voice softening with regret.

Guinevere blinked, visibly pulling herself back to the present. She gave a small, tight nod to Fredrick, her composure quickly reasserting itself.

“There’s an even more disturbing possibility,” Merlin put forth. “What if the shape-shifter could mimic any one of us.”

Geoffrey’s quill froze mid-stroke, the sudden absence of its scratching making the silence more profound. A chill ran down his spine, cold seeping into his bones like winter frost. The feather trembled slightly in his grasp as he grappled with the implications. In all his years of chronicling Camelot’s history, he had never encountered a threat so insidious. Traitors were one thing, but a foe who could wear the face of a friend? The very foundations of trust that held the kingdom together suddenly seemed so very fragile.

The tension in the hall thrummed like a bowstring drawn taut, their collective breaths held. Chairs grated against stone, jarring in the quiet chamber as the knights shifted uneasily. Yet, these were men, bonded by years of trust and shared combat, sought reassurance in familiar faces rather than casting suspicion – even if their hands might have reflexively twitched towards their sword hilts.

“Be at ease, Queen Guinevere, knights,” Galahad insisted. “There’s no one here who shouldn’t be.”

A wave of relief eased like a loosened knot amongst the men. The inner circle, aware of Galahad’s gift to detect sorcerers, found comfort in his words. For Geoffrey, it didn’t fully quell his lingering unease about past deceptions.

“And before today?” he probed. “Could the shape-shifter have infiltrated us earlier, gleaning information?”

The knights’ faces betrayed their concern, this pervasive possibility etched in their questioning expressions and tense postures. Leon opened his mouth to speak, then closed it, seemingly at a loss for words. The threat could stretch back weeks, casting doubt on countless interactions. Amidst this collective unease, Sir Fredrick rose, his movement drawing all eyes to him as he took his position behind the throne chairs.

“In light of this,” he remarked, “we must prioritize the queen’s safety above all else.” He crossed his arms, his gaze both weary and determined as he addressed Guinevere directly. “You require constant protection, my lady. I will not allow any harm to come to you again.”

Murmurs and nods of approval accompanied Queen Guinevere’s softened features, a flicker of relief in her hazel eyes. No doubt she was grateful for the twist of fate that had sent Sir Fredrick on a mission eleven days prior, sparing him from the attack at the stream. But Fredrick’s glower and clenched jaw spoke volumes too – for he’d failed, the solemn oath he’d made as her protector had been tested by duty’s call elsewhere.

“Agreed,” Leon said, his tone somber. “We mustn’t ignore the likelihood of treachery within our walls. Our measures must be strengthened.”

“What should we do?” Merlin asked, his question laden with urgency. “What’s our course, Gwen?”

The room’s focus shifted to the queen. Guinevere paused by the king’s throne, her fingers ghosting over the carved armrest. She surveyed the chamber, her gaze lingering on each face in turn. Her hand briefly pressed against her stomach before falling to her side.

“Our path is clear,” she stated, her expression grave as she addressed the men. “We act swiftly and decisively. Sir Galahad, I’ll entrust you with the investigation to uncover the traitor – if indeed there is one. Employ whatever means necessary to bring them to light.”

“It shall be done, my queen,” Galahad affirmed, his tone resolute, straightening his posture as if physically embracing the new responsibility place upon him.

“Merlin,” the queen continued, “begin the search for your king without delay – cross our borders if need be. Excalibur, too, must be recovered. Sir Ranulf, assist him with this important task.”

Merlin responded with a crisp nod, the gleam of determination in his eyes matching the queen’s own resolve as Ranulf’s “Yes, your majesty” rang out.

Leon rose, his chainmail clinking softly as he cleared his throat. “Your strategy is sound, Gwen, but our resources are stretched thin. The Southron conflict exacted a heavy toll on our ranks. We may not have the manpower for such an extensive search.”

“I am well aware of the loss of men and mettle,” Guinevere replied, her posture as unyielding as the stone walls around them. “Prepare the new recruits for the search. Rally all able-bodied individual – noble and commoner, men and women. I want every corner of Camelot scoured for our king. Is that clear?”

A unified chorus of agreement arose from the knights. Geoffrey noted the absence of surprise on their faces at the mention of women joining the search, a testament to how far Camelot had come. As the queen continued to issue uncompromising orders, he paused in his chronicling, recalling the Southron invasion. Guinevere had fought alongside Arthur and the knights to retake the citadel, proving the value of women in combat. The memory of Isolde’s bravery flickered in his mind, too, reinforcing the wisdom of this inclusive approach.

Geoffrey blinked, his mouth drying as he realized the importance of the unfolding events. He leaned back in his chair, a hand covering his chest. In Guinevere’s resolute stance and the knights’ unwavering attention, he recognized the birth of a true leader, forged in the crucible of crisis. How adeptly she shouldered their collective hopes, offering strength against the burden of their shared loss. And how swiftly each man set aside his doubts, rallying to her clarion call of kingdom before self.

This moment was not lost on Geoffrey. He could already envision the chronicles he would craft, recording how a kingdom united in the face of adversity for generations to come. As Gwaine’s charismatic voice vied for Geoffrey’s attention, his quill resumed its dance across the parchment, capturing the pivotal moment when a queen truly rose to meet her destiny.

“And what about me?” Gwaine asked, a questioning smile playing at the corners of his mouth. The flickering torchlight accentuated lines of fatigue in his face that one could not miss. “You’re leaving me out of the action?”

The queen turned to Gwaine. “Surely you’re exhausted after your long mission,” she said, her tone gentler but still firm. “Rest for a few days. You as well, Fredrick.”

Gwaine rose in protest as Fredrick stepped forward, hands on his hips. Both men’s faces tightened with discontent, clearly chafing at the queen’s latest decision.

“Come now, my lady,” Gwaine chuckled with earnest. “You wouldn’t deny two of your best swords? Arthur needs us.” His smile faltered as Guinevere’s expression remained stern, unmoved by his charm and appeal.

“You can’t be serious—” he started again, his voice now both frustrated and desperate.

“I will not argue,” Guinevere said, raising a hand to silence him. Her voice carried a finality that pressed down like a physical force. “Clear minds will serve us better after rest.”

Fredrick hesitated before returning to his chair, his jaw set with displeasure, yet unwilling to directly challenge his queen. His glance settled on Guinevere for a brief moment, conveying an unspoken disagreement in his look. As he settled back, his posture remained rigid. It was clear to those who understood their relationship that this discussion was far from over.

Gwaine, however, remained standing and ran a hand through his disheveled hair. “With respect, Gwen,” he insisted, “I can’t sit idle while Arthur is out there.”

“I understand your desire to act, Gwaine,” Guinevere acknowledged after a moment. “But I need you at your best. Two days of rest, then you may join us. That’s an order, not a request.”

Gwaine’s shoulders slumped slightly, the fight visibly draining from him like water from a broken vessel. He gave the queen a small, reluctant nod. “As you wish, my lady,” he said, the words coming out almost as a sigh. He returned to his seat as a collective sense of relief permeated the room.

“Apologies for adding to our mounting concerns,” Sir Ranulf remarked, leaning forward with fingers laced, the leather of his gloves creaking softly. “Speaking of traitors, we must consider that rival kingdoms likely have spies within our court. If King Lot discovers Arthur’s absence through such channels, he may see it as an opportunity to strike.”

Geoffrey’s chronicling slowed as he considered Ranulf’s words. Spies had indeed infiltrated Camelot before, their presence a constant threat to the kingdom’s security. He made a side note to review the castle’s security protocols, wondering if Arthur had installed informants in rival courts or established any measures to thwart spies in his. The historian in him recognized the cyclical nature of such political maneuverings, a dance of secrets and betrayals as old as kingdoms themselves. He pondered, however, if Arthur was a king of a different caliber, abstaining from such practices even as his father did not?

He glanced at the queen, her face carefully neutral. Would she know of security measures if there were any? Yet Geoffrey’s keen perception caught the twitch of her fingers that rested on the arm of Arthur’s chair, a tell-tale sign of the storm that must be raging within. He couldn’t help but wonder at the strength of this woman who, mere hours ago, had likely exhausted every tear her body could produce in that glade. Now, she stood before them, a monarch tempered by adversity, carrying the weight of a kingdom without its king, possibly on the brink of war.

Geoffrey observed the reactions of those gathered. A collective heaviness seemed to settle upon their shoulders, each man absorbing this new threat in his own way. These were Camelot’s finest – battle-hardened knights and two powerful sorcerers – yet in this moment, they appeared all too human. It wasn’t fear he saw in their expressions, but a weariness born of one crisis too many, a reluctant acceptance of yet another challenge thrust upon them.

“By all the gods,” Gwaine muttered, his earlier frustration given way to a look of grim resolve and sheer exhaustion. “Enemies within and without. We’re truly in a living nightmare.” Yet beneath the weariness stirred indomitable spirits that had seen Camelot through countless trials before.

“Drafting a war declaration could take weeks, if not months,” Leon stated, his voice steady and assured. “We have time to prepare, even with the threat of spies”

“It is indeed a lengthy process for such declarations,” Geoffrey agreed, his historian’s knowledge coming to the fore.

Percival added, “It buys us precious time to fortify our defenses and find Arthur.”

Queen Guinevere nodded. “Our forces must be ready,” she declared, her tone decisive, sharp as a newly forged sword. “Leon, please work with Percival and the commanders to draft a military strategy. I want it promptly. Coordinate with Merlin that, when the soldiers and knights are not searching for Arthur, they’re preparing for battle.”

Geoffrey glanced at Percival and Leon, noting the contrast between them. In Percival, he’d seen a remarkable transformation in leadership and confidence these last few weeks, like a sapling growing into a mighty oak. Leon, on the other hand, displayed an interplay of wary resolve, his seasoned experience evident in his demeanor. Together, they represented a blend of fresh ideas and field knowledge that Camelot sorely needed. And yet, without Arthur’s guiding hand and tactical brilliance, could they and the other commanders run an effective campaign against Escetir’s forces?

As Geoffrey pondered his own question, he found himself reconsidering. These men had been trained by Arthur himself, had fought alongside him in countless battles. He knew they could rise to the challenge. Guinevere would require every able voice, every ounce of wisdom, and every sword in the days ahead – and in these knights, she had some of Camelot’s finest.

“Your majesty,” Galahad asked, “what of the people? News of Arthur’s disappearance will surely incite panic.”

Geoffrey interjected, “The kingdom yearns for unity in these trying times, especially with the circulation of propaganda leaflets against magic and sorcerers. Perhaps it would be prudent to delay an announcement of his abduction.”

Guinevere fixed him with a steely gaze. “Arthur’s absence was surely noticed upon our return from King’s Woods, Lord Geoffrey,” she said, her tone sharp enough to cut glass. “Delaying only increases rumor and speculation.”

“With respect, my lady,” he pressed, “rumors we can control. An official announcement, however, could fan the flames of anti-magic sentiment.”

“He has a point, Gwen,” Merlin added, his voice tight with worry. “We have to think about how this information might be used against innocent sorcerers.”

Leon nodded slowly. “Or how our enemies might use it against you, the kingdom.”

Guinevere turned away from the group, her gaze distant as she laced her fingers across her stomach. Geoffrey noticed a subtle shift in her posture as they awaited her decision, the barely perceptible squaring of her shoulders.

After what seemed an eternity to Geoffrey, she turned back to face them, her expression resolute. “I understand your concerns, and they are valid. However, I believe honesty is our best course. Yes, there are risks, but there is also strength in truth. We will not hide Arthur’s absence, but neither will we show weakness.”

Geoffrey nodded, acknowledging the wisdom in the queen’s words even as his mind catalogued the potential risks. He caught a fleeting glance between Leon and Percival, their expressions that of admiration and concern. The queen’s honesty was bold, but Geoffrey couldn’t deny the power of her conviction. She strode to the head of the table, all attention fixed on her every move.

“Knights of Camelot,” she began, “our king is missing, but our resolve must not waver. We face formidable enemies, ones that threaten not just Arthur, but all we hold dear. But remember this: we are Camelot. We have faced dragons, undead armies, and traitors within our walls. We have prevailed before, and we shall do so again.”

A change permeated the chamber, her words kindling hope in each person she gazed upon. Geoffrey was struck by the conversion he witnessed around him. The men straightened, their faces a blend of respect and renewed purpose. Even Gwaine, who had been so confrontational earlier, nodded his approval, a tired, wry smile reflecting a restored faith as Guinevere continued.

“The people must know the truth, but say nothing of sorcerers. We’ll not incite a witch hunt. We move openly, but cautiously. And remember, our strength lies not just in arms, but in unity. We are stronger together than any force that stands against us.”

“We won’t let fear divide us,” Merlin asserted quietly, his tone weighted with purpose.

The queen nodded solemnly, meeting Merlin’s gaze with silent appreciation. Drawing a deep breath, she squared her shoulders. “Each of you has a crucial role to play. Find our king. Prepare our defenses. Protect our kingdom. My faith in you is unwavering, as must be your faith in each other…. Sir Percival, sound the alarm.” She turned to Geoffrey, her voice firm. “Lord Geoffrey, summon the council. We have work to do, and not a moment to lose.”

The knights responded with a unified affirmation of loyalty. With one long final glance at Arthur’s empty chair, the queen looked beyond it to the skinny redhead still silent in the shadows. “Jacinth, come with me.”

The young woman timidly stepped forward, her movements hesitant. Guinevere extended a hand to her, and as Mistress Jacinth grasped it, the queen pulled her close, a gesture of protection and comfort. With the maiden at her side, the queen headed for the lesser hall doors. Fredrick, George, and Sefa followed, their footsteps a symphony of purpose. Merlin hurried to flank her other side, his features set in lines of grim determination and resolve. Behind them, the knights murmured in hushed tones, their voices a blend of concern and resolve.

As Geoffrey watched them depart, a sense of calm purpose tempered his uneasy heart. Allowing himself a moment of reflection, he set down his quill and threaded his fingers. If any could steady shaken faith, mend pierced hearts, it would be Queen Guinevere, for he appreciated how her words had reinvigorated those battle-hardened men. Arthur’s vision and her leadership, refined by dire circumstance, might lead them to yet glimpse Albion’s dawn despite the encroaching night.

As the door closed behind the departing group with a soft thud, marking the end of one chapter and the beginning of another, Geoffrey turned back to his parchment and skimmed over the written pages. Prophecy’s call was strong for these people, and they courageously reached for its strands in destiny’s tapestry – however entangled, however dangerous. He’d caught the numerous subtle details during the meeting – a creased brow here, a clenched fist there – each speaking to the magnitude of their challenge.

With meticulous care, Geoffrey began to add these observations to his account. As he wrote, he wondered how this tale would be remembered in the annals of history – as the darkest hour before dawn, or the birth of an even greater legend.

Chapter Text

Gwaine bolted through the castle’s stone corridors, his footsteps echoing like a frantic heartbeat, moments after the meeting with Gwen and the inner circle concluded. The news hit like a battering ram: king abducted, queen gravely injured—a grim welcome for someone freshly returned from an eleven-day mission.

And Merlin—some sorcerer he turned out to be! Gwaine’s affection for his friend was the only thing that kept his suspicions at bay, though his harsh accusations might have suggested otherwise. Still, the shame of his own actions burned hot; he’d crossed a line, weaponizing a shared secret about Merlin’s father in a moment of anger. It wasn’t lost on him that prior to his mission, he’d nearly come to blows with Arthur. Now, within an hour of his return, he provoked a brawl with another of his dearest friends.

He knew Gwen’s wisdom rang true; he was bone-weary, his muscles screaming for rest despite the war between duty and desire. He fought to search for Arthur even as it clashed violently with his longing for Yaminah. Now, exhaustion was dwarfed by the burning desire to reconcile with her, to mend the bridges he’d torched.

But time was an enemy, for surely she would have departed by now. Still, he could not give up—had to look for her. Even with the routines of a seasoned wanderer—washing in streams, cleaning his teeth, keeping a change of clothes, habits that had earned Fredrick's gentle mockery—eleven days of hard riding had left him far from presentable for this reunion. But his appearance did not deter him. Hope spurred him on as fatigue sought to bring him to his knees. If he could only se—

“Whoa!” Gwaine exclaimed, colliding with reality as he barreled into a manservant. Steadying both himself and the startled man, his battle-honed reflexes kicked in, a surge of energy coursing through his veins. “Pardon me!” he apologized, his fatigue banished as he continued on, his senses now sharp and alert.

Racing through the castle with renewed vigor, Gwaine recalled the feeling of unease that had greeted him, Fredrick, and Mistress Jacinth as they dismounted in the citadel square. The news of an urgent gathering with the queen in the lesser hall had only confirmed their fears. During the assembly, he’d cloaked himself in the knight’s discipline, forcing his mind to grasp the kingdom’s plight—Arthur’s absence a gaping wound in Camelot's heart—even as his heart tugged him elsewhere.

For at the same time, he ached for Yaminah. Eleven days he had ached for her: would she receive him now? Speak to him after what he’d done? The depth of the pain in her eyes… His inability to comfort her… The letter he’d left – did she read it, cherish his words, or watch it crumble to ash in the hearth, taking his explanations with it?

Gwaine’s frantic pace quickened, urgency fueling each step. Most visiting dignitaries would have departed Camelot over a full week ago. Al-Sayyid Badawi’s trial would have happened in his absence, but that too was days past. Had Yaminah already left for the Northern Plains, her business here in Camelot concluded? The thought sent a jolt of panic through him. He’d wasted precious time on that blasted mission, and now... now he might be too late and might never be able to make things right with her.

Emerging from the turret’s winding stairs onto the third floor, Gwaine’s eyes locked onto her chamber doors, a beacon of hope in the torch-lit corridor. Stepping briskly, he approached, his mind racing. For eleven days, he’d rehearsed this moment, words of explanation and apology tumbling through his thoughts. Yet now, faced with her door, all his carefully crafted phrases seemed to evaporate.

Should he knock? Call out? What if she refused to see him? He had to try. Hand raised, he took a steadying breath, his knuckles hovering for a heartbeat before tapping on the heavy oak.

“Yaminah?” he called softly. “It’s Gwaine. I’ve returned.” He steadied his breathing, calmed the nervous tension spiraling through him. The speech he’d prepared—about duty, about the torment of his choice—felt hollow now. What could he possibly say to mend this rift?

Silence greeted him, thick and tormenting. Gwaine’s lips twitched, doubt gnawing at his confidence. Try again, you fool, he chided himself, his knuckles rapping the door with renewed determination.

“Yaminah?” he called. “Are you there?”

“She is not,” came a deep voice, startling Gwaine as a figure emerged from the shadows of the corridor. A tall, imposing man, his gaze as hard as obsidian, swept over him, assessing and inscrutable.

Gwaine recognized him as one of the guards who had hovered nearby when he escorted Yaminah after his victory in the tourney. A flicker of hope ignited in his chest, the man’s presence suggesting she was still in Camelot.

“Master Farouk,” Gwaine recalled, returning his own measure of scrutiny with a respectful tilt of his head. Noticing the traditional black and white keffiyeh framing his bearded face, its stark pattern a mark of his station, Gwaine also remembered the perpetual scowl etched on the escort’s face, a silent sentinel of disapproval. “The Al-Sayyidah – I must speak with her.”

“Sir Gwaine,” he greeted with a slight incline of his head, the richly embroidered tunic of deep blue and purple sash cinched at his waist in warrior fashion. Gwaine watched the man’s stony demeanor for signs of contempt, any hint of judgment for his actions towards Yaminah and her father. But Farouk remained unreadable, as unyielding as granite and just as impenetrable. “I regret the Al-Sayyidah is not here.”

“Not here...” The words echoed in Gwaine’s mind, a death knell to his hopes. He pivoted away, fingers raking through his tangled hair, self-recrimination burning in his chest. Fool! Farouk’s presence had kindled false hope; this man served Al-Sayyid Badawi, not his daughter. The realization crashed over him like a bucket of icy water: Yaminah had already departed, now leagues away and likely already in the Northern Plains. He’d squandered his chance, gone too long and returned too late to mend what he’d broken.

Gwaine’s jaw tightened, muscles working as he fought to contain the tide of frustration ready to break free. Composing himself, he turned back to Farouk, each movement deliberate. “Forgive me,” he managed, his voice a frayed tapestry of loss and self-pity. “How does she fare then… after...everything? The trial?”

Farouk’s eyes narrowed imperceptibly, a fleeting shadow of disdain crossing his features. “She is the daughter of the mighty Al-Sayyid Badawi Zahir and has displayed remarkable courage for a one who has lost much.” His shoulders then relaxed before he continued, though his tone left no doubt as to whom he blamed for her loss. “She is as well as can be expected, my lord. She grieves for her father and worries after his health.”

Gwaine nodded, a lump of regret lodging in his throat. “I understand. I... I only wish to express my deep remorse to her." Every word uttered hurt, but he pressed on. “Might you relay a message when next you send word to her?”

Farouk seemed to consider his request, dark eyes searching, but then his expression soften. “Perhaps it is best you tell her yourself, Sir Gwaine. She’s in the market securing provisions for the Al-Sayyid.”

Gwaine’s breath escaped in a rush. “The market, you say?” Relief and hope surged through him like a summer storm, charged and stimulating. Yaminah was still here, within reach! He gave Farouk a grateful look. “You have my deepest thanks.”

He pivoted to leave, his body already in motion, when Farouk’s hand clamped onto his arm like an iron vise. The man’s eyes, cold and hard as marble, now blazed with intensity.

“You should know that the Al-Sayyidah has suffered another great loss. Tragic and dreadful.”

The words “tragic and dreadful” echoed in Gwaine’s mind. His body went rigid, Farouk’s ominous words striking him with the force of a projectile. Another tragedy? What fresh pain had Yaminah endured alone? How much more had she lost while he was away?

Self-recrimination burned hotter, through every thought, every pore. He should have been here, should have refused to leave her side after arresting her father. Should have refused the mission… But could he truly have defied Arthur’s orders?

Farouk’s grip tightened, as if to be sure he had Gwaine’s attention. “She travels to the Northern Plains in a few days,” he continued, glaring. “Her father’s legacy falls to her. It is her highest priority now.”

“What?” Anguish lanced through Gwaine anew, bitter as gall, his mind grappling with questions he dared not ask Farouk. Time, having long ago deserted him as an ally when he took up the mantle of knighthood, continued to mock him with its scarcity. The chasm between him and Yaminah yawned wider, a gulf he must bridge in mere days. Yet even as this fleeting chance to mend their bond glimmered like gold amidst the rubble of his hopes, just being here for her now, in whatever way she needed – if she allowed – that had to be enough.

“Go to her, Sir Gwaine. But tread softly, my lord,” Farouk warned. “Do not interfere with her altered destiny.”

Farouk’s gaze bore into him, dissecting every nuance of his expression, every unspoken word. After an eternity compressed into heartbeats, Farouk’s grip loosened, his hand falling away.

With a curt nod of understanding, Gwaine turned away, each step propelled by desperation and optimism in equal measure. His heart thundered against the cruel march of time. Days would turn into mere hours, and he had to right his wrongs, to salvage what had blossomed with what time remained. Yet as he raced towards Al-Sayyidah Yaminah Zahir, a simpler truth emerged: just to see her, to hold her once in his arms – that precious moment might be the balm to soothe the inevitable wound of separation coming all too soon.

Heedless of his disheveled state, Gwaine tore through the castle halls. He bounded down stairs, taking three, four at a time, his body a blur of motion as he wove between startled onlookers. The sound of his ragged breathing and pounding footsteps echoed off the stone walls. His sole focus: reaching the lanes and market beyond these castle walls.

Sweat and a light dusting of road dirt clung to his skin and chainmail, his equally dusty cloak billowing behind him. Though he and Fredrick had managed a proper bath and laundering in Longstead five days ago, and he'd kept to his usual habits at streams and rest stops since, the intense pace of their final day's ride had undone any semblance of cleanliness. His scent was likely akin to the back-end of a mule, but that mattered not. His thoughts, before Yaminah, had been a usual whirlwind of tavern songs, witty retorts, and ill-timed jests. Now his resolve narrowed to a singular purpose: finding her, his… beloved? The word echoed in his mind, both question and answer, driving him forward.

As he burst out of the castle doors and down the steps, the cacophony of the square assaulted his senses – a harsh contrast to the somber stone halls he’d left behind. Then the tower bells tolled – the fast, repeated beat causing his stomach to clench, the rhythm of a kingdom alert. Gwaine skidded to a halt in the heart of the citadel courtyard.

Arthur.

The usually orderly square erupted into chaos, a tempest of motion and sound.

“By the saints!” he swore, swiping at the rivulet of sweat coursing down his temple. Wiping his upper lip and gulping in air, Gwaine rested his hands on his hips, taking in the rapidly changing scene.

Servants scurried like startled mice, their usual quiet efficiency replaced by frantic energy and whispers of the royal announcement they knew would follow. Guards barked orders, their voices sharp against the backdrop of confusion. Nobles gathered in tight clusters, their worried murmurs a building crescendo of fear and speculation about what they think they knew.

The bells clang urgently, their discordant peal echoing the dissonance in Gwaine’s heart. He moved forward, the cacophony seeming to pulse through his very bones. Exhaustion sapped at his strength, the initial surge of energy that spiked during his collision with the servant beginning to wane. His aching muscles, forsaken in his desperate race, started to remind him of their weariness. Leaden legs protested each step towards the inner portcullis, yet the promise of seeing Yaminah compelled him through them.

He glanced up at the empty balcony before he lost sight of it, the specter of betrayal a grave concern for the inner circle, his own rift with Merlin a fresh wound much closer to heart. The kingdom would soon roar in distress over the loss of their king, but Gwaine’s thoughts were divided. Arthur’s harsh words about Yaminah eleven days ago had provoked him to near violence—he would do it again to protect her honor—but the memory was diminished compared to the bitter words he cast at Merlin today.

Those deeds were done, apologies forthcoming from him, but later. With friends estranged and the guilt of choosing a woman over duty a burden for tomorrow, his heart pulled him inexorably towards Yaminah, precious time already lost.

Gwaine rushed down the main lane, the chaos there seeming to have followed him. Market-goers caught unawares by the alarm were milling about in bewilderment. Their chatter, once a pleasant hum of commerce, now rose to a fever pitch of speculation and alarm. The clatter of dropped wares punctuated the din as some merchants hastily packed their goods. The acrid smell of fear mingled with the usual market aromas of foods, spices, and livestock, souring the vibrant lanes he so relished. Right now, his ears rang with the discordance of panicked voices and clanging bells.

Children’s laughter, so common in the lively streets, gave way to frightened cries. He darted through them, uncaring for the indignant shouts and glares he caused in his haste. Dogs barked, adding their voices to the growing noise. The air itself seemed charged, crackling with tension and uncertainty. The relentless tolling of the bells drove home the seriousness of the situation. Each peal a reminder that only he knew at this time: the king was gone, and with him, the kingdom’s sense of security would soon follow, no reflection on Gwen’s strong leadership he’d witnessed firsthand.

Gwaine’s lungs burned, his breath ragged as he scanned the crowds. Lane after lane yielded no sign of her. Doubt crept in – could Master Farouk have been wrong? Had she left already and ventured somewhere else unknown to him. Fatigue clawed at him, pressuring to drag him under. Panic rose in his throat, choking him with the possibility of missing her entirely.

Then, like a beacon in a storm-tossed sea, he spotted her. Resplendent in a rich emerald cloak, Yaminah stood out amidst the chaos. Even as panic swelled around her, she maintained her regal bearing, still engaged in bartering with a nervous-looking cloth merchant. Mistress Ishka, the young Ahmed, and two other escorts roamed nearby, a protective circle around their lady.

Raven braids cascaded down her back, thick plaits catching the light like strings of garnet. Gwaine’s breath hitched, the sight of her striking him anew, as powerful as the first night he’d laid eyes upon her—a thunderbolt to his heart. How many nights had he conjured her wild froth of jet and burgundy from memory behind clenched eyes. Or imagine her full, rose-tinted lips he’d yet to taste, invoked when glimpsing the soft petals of wildflowers along the trail?

Her exotic accent had haunted his dreams, the lilting cadence of his name tantalizing his every sense. He longed to trace the elegant line of her high cheekbones, to feel the whisper of her slender fingers against his skin—tactile sensations he’d only imagined in the lonely hours of his mission. If he could just touch her hair, run his fingers through those wild strands....

“Yaminah,” he breathed, so pleasing a call against the madness surrounding them. Rooted in place, he could scarcely fathom this was real, that she was truly paces away after endless days bereft of her presence, her warmth, her very essence. His heart lurched, its frantic rhythm drowning out the chaos around him.

Terror and longing coursed through him as he forced his leaden limbs into motion. Weaving through the crowd, then past her watchful escorts, he was enveloped by her scent—sweet jasmine mingled with a fragrance uniquely hers. It steadied and intoxicated him simultaneously, each breath a treasure. “Al-Sayyidah…”

Yaminah froze, the clamor of alarm bells fading to a distant hum in Gwaine’s mind. She turned, agonizingly slow. Hazel eyes, lined with just a thin trace of kohl, widen with disbelief as they met his. The world narrowed to this moment, this connection.

“Gwaine,” she exhaled, his name a whisper that carried the pain of their separation.

“I’m sorry,” he said gently, the words woefully inadequate in the face of their shared wounds.

Her hand flew, connecting with his cheek in a sharp crack that silenced the nearby crowd. His gaze dropped, accepting the blow as just penance. The sting was nothing compared to the maelstrom roiling in his heart.

When he looked up, he saw her facade cracking, her regal bearing crumbling under the onslaught of fresh, raw emotion. Tears carved deliberate, glistening paths down her cheeks, her face a canvas of hurt and yearning.

“Al-Sayyidah, let me—” Another strike, harder, his vision blurring. But he’d weather a tempest of blows if it meant gaining back her favor. His heart rent, his throat ached, her condemnation piercing deeper than any physical wound. “Yaminah,” he whispered, his voice rough. “I’m so sorry. Is forgiveness possible?”

“No,” she uttered quickly. Then, “Yes—I don’t know…” Gwaine saw the conflict raging in her eyes, mirroring the storm in his own heart. Her trembling hands clutch the pendant around her neck—the same one he recognized from the night of the feast, which her graceful fingers had toyed with ever since.

For a heartbeat, they stood frozen, forgiveness locked in the icy barrier around her, slipping away from him. Panic rose in his throat, choking him. Was this it? Had he truly lost her, the fracture between them too wide to bridge? Gwaine wasn’t sure if he was still breathing.

“Yaminah, please say something,” he finally spoke, his words a hoarse plea. Irresistibly drawn to her, Gwaine found himself drawing her rigid form to him, searching her eyes for any glimmer of forgiveness. “Talk to me, I beg you.”

Then, as if a dam had broken, her resistance crumbled as she collapsed into his embrace. “Oh, Gwaine, Gwaine,” she cried, his name a prayer and a curse, her body yielding to a need greater than her anger. “You have returned. You—You’re here...”

Relief flooded through him, so intense it was almost painful. His arms tightened around her, afraid that if he loosened his grip, she might disappear like a mirage. The feel of her body against his chest felt like a long-awaited homecoming, a sweet reward after a treacherous journey. It was as if every fiber of his being recognized this as where he truly belonged.

He cradled Yaminah closer, appreciating her perfect fit against him—a reality far more poignant than his most vivid dreams. Yet, bitterness scarred the sweetness of their embrace. Even as he savored this moment, Gwaine knew it was merely the first step on a painfully brief journey. The specter of his betrayal loomed as large as the shadow of some unknown family tragedy. And while the path to redemption stretched before him, arduous and necessary, it was confined to the precious few days they had left before Yaminah’s departure for the distant Northern Plains.

Becoming aware of the curious eyes upon them in the public setting, Gwaine gently steered Yaminah away from the crowd down a narrow alley beside the royal blacksmith’s workshop, her servants trailing at a respectful distance. It was then he noticed another change – the ominous tolling of the bells had shifted to a new pattern, the succession of tones that heralded a royal announcement.

This change in rhythm triggered another transformation of the town. Gwaine knew shops would begin to shutter around them, some merchants flowing into the lanes towards the castle square with the townsfolk, anticipating news of importance. The discordant bustle and the distant clangor of the bells struck him as a glaring backdrop to his and Yaminah’s private drama unfolding in the shadow of a kingdom-wide crisis.

“Yaminah,” he murmured softly, trying to soothe her wave after wave of anguished tears. Through her sobs, a torrent of words spilled forth, mostly incomprehensible to him. But he caught fragments—her father’s term of endearment, her brother’s name, and his own. Each mention punctuated a fresh surge of grief, the three men in her life apparently the cause of her pain.

"I'm here," Gwaine whispered, his chest tightening as he recognized his place among those who had hurt her. He curled his fists into her cloak at first, his own heart splintering at her distress. But he forced his grip to relax, instead caressing her gently as her wracking sobs only seemed to intensify.

“Yaminah, Yaminah,” he repeated softly, her name a gentle comfort on his lips. Gwaine held her close, acutely aware of her ebony tresses brushing against his beard. He resisted the urge to run his fingers through them. Such an intimate gesture felt unearned, a privilege he had yet to gain.

Rocking her, Gwaine tried to offer what solace he could through his presence and his touch, setting aside his own need for forgiveness in the face of her agony. As her sobs began to quiet, her breathing steadied and her weeping ceased. Only then did he allow himself to voice his remorse.

"I'm so sorry," he rasped, each word weighted with regret. "For everything. For the pain I've caused you. I know I have no right to ask, but... can you ever forgive me? Yaminah, I…”

He trailed off, fearful that he’d already irreparably damaged what they had and no kind of apology from him mattered. In the heartbreaking silence that followed, her tearful mentions of Youssef’s name and Farouk's parting words about her "altered destiny" and “father’s legacy” came to mind.

“Has something happened to your brother... Is he--?” He couldn’t finish the question, fear of the answer choking him. Swallowing hard, he continued, “Yaminah, what can I do? How can I make this right?” The words tumbled out, a desperate attempt to bridge the rift between them. Whatever this altered destiny entailed, he wanted to offer comfort even as he sought absolution for himself.

Gwaine felt Yaminah stir at his whispered concerns. She pulled back, just enough for him to see her face. Her eyes, now bare of any kohl, met his. The absence of the dark lining left her looking more vulnerable than he'd ever seen her, even more so than that fateful night of her father's arrest. He watched fresh tears track down her cheeks, each one a silent accusation to the pain he’d caused.

“I’m not certain you can,” she choked out, backing out of his embrace, her hands once again grasping the gold and diamond pendant dangling between her breasts. “I opened my heart to you. As frightful as it was, I trusted you, Gwaine... and you—you trampled it, shattered what we were only beginning to build...”

Her words lanced through him sharper than any blade, twisting in his gut. Yet, even in the face of her anguish, Gwaine found himself inexorably drawn to her. Like a moth to a flame, he gravitated towards her warmth, her light—a force as natural and unstoppable as the tide. He tentatively reached out, unable to resist the pull of her presence.

Gazing down at her, he cradled her face, brushing aside those lingering tears with gentle sweeps of his calloused thumbs. Tears of his own burned—he cared not if they fell. “I know,” he breathed, voice barely audible. “I’ll carry this guilt forever. I clung to duty, even as my heart screamed the cost... What I did... Yaminah, it tore my very soul asunder.”

Yaminah searched his eyes, and Gwaine held his breath, hoping she could see the depth of his remorse. But she turned her face from his cradling touch, her raw pain spearing his heart as she retreated a step.

“You were my champion…” she murmured, the words tinged with bitterness. Her body language shifted, her arms crossing like the bars of a gate, a shield shutting him out. Eyes that once held a special warmth towards him, were now wary and guarded. The feelings Gwaine had longed to inspire became an impenetrable fortress, every line of her body a defense against him. “I thought you—we…” Her hands flew to her mouth, keeping whatever she was about to say from being uttered. Gwaine felt his heart constrict at the pain and confusion in her voice, longing to hear the words she couldn't bring herself to say.

He swallowed hard, letting his hands fall helplessly to his sides. “I know. There are no words for how sorry I am, for the anguish I caused you.” He edged closer, wrestling with the guilt, anger, and shame that churned within him.

“I never meant to break faith with you, Yaminah,” he said, risking another step. “I was bound to serve Camelot, and that duty... it was harsh, but it was mine to bear. Yet in fulfilling it, I failed to see the duty I owed to you, whom I have come to cherish beyond all others. It was a bitter lesson in the cost of honor.”

Tremors careening through him, Gwaine cautiously grazed her arm before moving to take her hand. When she didn’t flinch or recoil, hope flickered. His thumb traced her knuckles, each touch a silent plea. “I know I’ve forfeited any right to your trust,” he said, voice raw with emotion. “But if you’ll allow it, I’ll spend every moment learning to balance my oath as a knight with the devotion you deserve. However long it takes... I beg you, Yaminah, grant me this chance to prove myself worthy of your heart.”

Gwaine tensed, barely breathing as endless moments passed awaiting her decree, keenly noting each minute shift in her body language. She tensed as his thumb stroked her knuckles, conflict in her eyes. Her gaze drifted from their joined hands to his face and back again, brow furrowing.

He glimpsed the tears clinging to her dark lashes before they fell, and as she slipped her hand from his grasp, Gwaine’s heart plummeted. But in a gesture that stole his breath, she gracefully raised her palm, hesitantly cradling his cheek.

“I grant it to you, my champion,” she said tenderly, her accent wrapping each word. “I understand duty. Oh, Gwaine.”

A surge of joy coursed through him, dispelling the shadows of the past eleven days. Gwaine covered her hand with his own, turning his face into her touch as he closed his eyes in profound relief.

“Whatever this crisis is, when the urgency has passed, perhaps we can speak later,” she added, smiling warmly at him. Her decision offered the blessing he scarcely deserved – an opportunity to reforge what his own actions had nearly destroyed between them.

“I would like that,” he replied, a smile breaking across his face like dawn after a long night. It was as if a great weight had been lifted, allowing him to breathe freely for the first time since he’d left.

“I have missed you so,” Yaminah whispered sweetly, the words caressing his very soul.

“And I you,” he promised, his voice thick, heart swelling at her admission. “Not a moment passed without you in my thoughts or my heart.” He gazed into her eyes, savoring this precious reconnection, her irresistibility tugging at him.

Unable to fight the impulses any longer, he pulled Yaminah into a deep embrace. She melted against him, her body fitting perfectly against his as if they were two pieces of a long-separated whole. His arms tightened around her, one hand splayed across her back while the other tentatively, finally, reached to touch her hair.

He marveled at the texture, simultaneously coarse and soft, so unlike anything he’d ever felt before. His fingers tangled in the wild strands, the sensation igniting a fire within him. Yaminah tilted her face up to his, her lips parted in invitation.

Their lips met in a passionate kiss, and Gwaine’s world narrowed to the softness of her mouth, the warmth of her breath, the sweet taste of her. He lost himself in the kiss, in the feel of her body pressed against his, in the exotic texture of her hair between his fingers. Every sense was alive, attuned to her presence, desire coursing through him like wildfire.

This embrace felt right, so different from their first. Where that one had been born of desperation and grief, Yaminah’s tears soaking through his chainmail as she’d clung to him, this one was filled with warmth, hope, and an explosion of passion.

Suddenly aware of his own state – sweaty and travel-worn despite his best efforts – Gwaine reluctantly pulled back. But the sight that greeted him nearly undid his resolve. Yaminah swayed slightly in his arms, her eyes hooded with desire as they fluttered open. Her tongue darted out to lick her lips, teeth catching on her lower lip in a way that made Gwaine’s breath catch.

He smiled, both pleased and a bit sheepish, as he steadied her. “I fear I’ve taken liberties, Al-Sayyidah,” he said, his voice husky. “And I’m certain I’m not fit company after my journey.”

Yaminah’s answering smile was warm and a touch mischievous. “I find no fault with your... company, Sir Gwaine,” she murmured, her accent caressing his name in a way that made his heart race.

Gathering his composure with effort, Gwaine reluctantly let his arms fall away from her. “May I…may I see you in an hour’s time?” he asked, Farouk’s words about their impending departure drifting to mind, adding urgency to his request. How much time did they truly have?

Before Yaminah could answer, Mistress Ishka approached with lowered eyes and a curtsey, though the older servant managed to cast a furtive glance his way before speaking rapidly to her mistress in Arabic.

Yaminah tensed, her gaze flicking between Gwaine and her servant. For a moment, it seemed she might refuse, but then she nodded to him. “Yes,” she agreed softly, her eyes meeting his, an apology and a hint of something unreadable in their depths.

“Until then, Al-Sayyidah,” he managed to get out, his smile broad and wide, anticipation already burning. “Fair day, Yaminah.”

“Fair day, Gwaine,” she replied, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth despite the lingering sadness in her eyes.

As Ishka gently pulled Yaminah away, he watched them go, blending into the flow of people heading towards the castle, unspoken words and hidden truths settling heavily on his shoulders. Gwaine raked his fingers through oil and grime-heavy hair, leaden feet nailed in place as the last glimpse of Yaminah’s ebony hair disappeared from sight.

Their brief interaction left him with more questions than answers, the promise of their later meeting both a comfort and a source of mounting anxiety. Whatever she was grappling with, it was clear that she needed someone to help her navigate through it. Gwaine wanted to be that person, despite the complexities of their situation.

The measured, rhythmic toll for a royal announcement had ceased and fatigue once again warred with his stamina. Gwaine headed towards the knights’ barracks, his body craving the comfort of a hot bath and clean clothes. As he walked, the weight of his chainmail seeming to increase with each step, he noticed the streets were far from empty. Many servants hurried about these semi-populated lanes, likely on errands for masters who had gone to hear the announcement. He could see the denser crowds of the midtown at a juncture, some heading towards the citadel and some going about their business.

Then something Yaminah said suddenly came to mind: "I understand duty." Nearing the castle, the crowd thickened long before the portcullis leading into the square. He could hear the faint echo of a voice – likely Gwen's or Geoffrey’s – addressing the gathering as he wove his way slowly through the throng. Yet his thoughts remained fixed on Yaminah. Whatever she was grappling with – her family's mysteries, her own unspoken burdens – it now seemed clear that she was making one choice for both of them.

By accepting her duty to return home, perhaps she felt she was sparing him from having to choose between her and his knightly obligations. The realization both touched and pained him deeply, causing his steps to falter momentarily as he processed the implications. Gwaine wondered if she had already decided that they could not be together, despite their deep desire for one another. Did she truly need his help with anything, or was she already resigned to facing her challenges without him?

Too many questions plagued him as he squeezed into the courtyard. He paused to listen to Gwen on the balcony, her commanding voice carrying across the square, urging caution and tolerance, and calling all to her aid. The kingdom faced a crisis, yet as his mind drifted to Yaminah as it had ever since meeting her, Gwaine felt torn between his own crisis of duty and heart.

Chapter Text

Elyan stood at the hayloft window of Gar’s old storage barn, watching townspeople gathered below in anxious clusters. Though the bells had ceased their urgent warnings an hour past, worried groups at this intersection between mid and lower town still lingered, their speculations carrying in the waning afternoon. Behind him, the master bowyer leaned over William, reading the parchment his young apprentice scribbled upon at a makeshift table – an old door laid across wooden trestles in the center of the loft. A few tree stumps served as seats, their surfaces still rough from the newness of the cuts.

Above them, pigeons rustled in the rafters, disturbed by their presence in their usual roost, where he and Gar had cleverly strung old tools and equipment throughout the beams to maintain the illusion of storage. The spacious loft, running the length of the barn, provided perfect cover for the meetings with his new friends.

Master Gar left William’s side to join him at the window. The bowyer’s broad shoulders, shaped by years of bowcraft, rested on the sill as he lifted the worn shutter. “What do you think?” he asked, calloused fingers working through his thick grey beard.

Elyan shook his head, finding no words. The earlier bells had stirred memories he’d had rather forget – times when he’d race through the corridors alongside Percival and Gwaine, their synchronized footfalls echoing their shared purpose to answer the call and defend Camelot. Now he stood here, an outsider, while his former brothers-in-arms had likely already charged toward whatever crisis gripped the citadel.

Glancing over his shoulder, he watched William at the table. Crumpled parchment littered the surface and floor – failed attempts at their second leaflet campaign. The apprentice’s lean frame mirrored his master’s height but none of his bulk, his quill moving with more enthusiasm than skill across the parchment. Whatever declaration the young man labored to craft, Elyan was certain it wouldn’t match the raw power of his first missive.

In the six days since uniting these people in common cause, he had thrown himself into undermining the king’s decree on magic. The noble purses funding their mission had seen to their needs – fresh parchment, good ink, everything required to spread their message, allowing the bold appeals against magic’s insidious threat to flow easily from his hand. The first batch, distributed just yesterday, had already caused a stir in the city, and Elyan felt a vindictive thrill at the thought of his former friends scrambling to collect them all.

But today’s bells had tolled of something else entirely, its urgent peals setting his nerves aflame. What crisis faced Arthur and Gwen now? He shook his head trying to dismiss the unbidden concern – Arthur’s brotherly clasp and Gwen’s warm smile pushing to the forefront of his mind – as his gaze drifted to the wooden bows hanging from the rafters. Why should he care what new problems they had? His own sister had chosen her side.

Footsteps scrabbled up the back ladder before the trapdoor flew open. The sound brought Elyan and Gar around fully, William’s head shooting up from his work.

“News from the citadel!” Constans stumbled through, breathless and flushed, tugging his surcoat back into place. Even in their clandestine meetings, he always wore his uniform with obvious pride. His eyes found William first – a detail that pricked at Elyan’s awareness – before addressing the group. The words that followed seemed to drain all air from the room. “The king’s been taken!”

“What? How?” the master bowyer asked, voicing the questions strangling in Elyan’s throat. They moved from the window together, meeting Constans halfway.

“Ambushed in King’s Woods. Two soldiers killed.”

“Gwen—” The name escaped him before he could cage it. “Was the queen with him?” His throat tightened at the thought of her in danger, concern betraying him. His sister’s face flashed in his mind – not the queen he’d denounced, but Gwen who’d once bandaged his training wounds with gentle hands.

The wiry youth slumped onto a hay bale. “She was. Made the announcement herself from the balcony. Seemed unhurt though.”

Elyan’s chest tightened, his mind reeling. This was grave news for the kingdom. Another upheaval for the monarchy. And if what Constans said was true, the burden of responsibility would now fall upon Gwen –inexperienced, untested. For all her strength, all her pride, she’d never faced anything like this…. Sweet Mary, did she need him?

“Merlin and some knights rode out in force—” Constans wiped sweat from his brow, “—to begin the search. All of us are scheduled to join a party. I leave at first light with my team. The queen’s calling for the aid of the townspeople too.”

William abandoned his quill as he rose, his lean face alight with sudden possibility. “The king captured... this is our chance! Without him—”

“No,” Elyan hissed. His mind splintered between his new mission and his old duty. Gwen would stand alone now, bearing a crown she never sought, while he hid in the shadows with his leaflets and spite.

“But why not?” William pressed, taking a step forward. “With the queen by herself, vulnerable—”

Elyan rounded on him, backing the younger man against stacked crates. “We will not use this misfortune for our gain. Not while my sister suffers and must deal with these crises herself.”

“Sister?” William scoffed, youth making him bold. “I thought you no longer cared about the queen.”

“Watch your tongue,” Elyan growled, leaning in, the thought of him abandoning her before to face exile alone – his shame still burned at that memory. As his past and present collided, he wasn’t certain he had the nerve to do it again. “Gwen is still my kin.”

“Peace, both of you,” Gar stepped between them, work-hardened hands spread wide. He turned to Elyan. “The lad speaks rashly. But you must see this is an opportunity.”

“Yes. Why should we not press our advantage?” William demanded, straightening from the crates, his face flushed at his master’s dismissive tone.

Elyan glanced away, divided between the fight he’d chosen and the sister he’d forsaken twice now. She might wear the queen’s crown with grace, but he knew her heart – knew how the weight of the kingdom and the fear for Arthur would be crushing her, even if she’d never show it. “We’ve already pushed into dangerous territory with our first leaflet,” he warned, meeting William’s sullen eyes.

He moved through shafts of sunlight cutting through the barn’s gaps. For all his anger and bitterness towards his family, the thought of wielding Gwen’s pain as a weapon became incomprehensible. No matter how deeply their betrayal cut, some bonds, it seemed, refused to break entirely. “Sedition, treason – those are lines we’ve crossed. But this... using my sister’s suffering...?” He shook his head, stuck between his path and his sister. “Find another way.”

Gar studied him, then nodded slowly. “Very well. The king’s absence may yet aid us, Sir Elyan, even if unintended.”

Elyan released a tight breath. Gwen would never bend, would never show weakness. But he remembered how she’d cry in private when the burden grew too heavy – especially after she became known as Arthur's consort and how Lord Agravaine and other nobles had made their disdain so clear. “As you say. But no talk of his abduction. My aim is to open eyes to the evils of magic and sorcery, not overthrow the kingdom.”

William prowled the floorboards, a protest on his lips, but a sharp glance from Gar silenced him. The master bowyer continued. “On that, we agree,” Gar said. “Camelot’s soul must be saved from the corruption of sorcery. That is the true fight.”

William spun away, kicking at a loose hay bale. After a moment, he faced them again, his eyes narrowed beneath sweat-dampened hair. “I heard what you said, Master Gar – that the attackers are unknown. Constans, can you uncover any details of the assault?”

The young soldier straightened, eager for purpose. His eyes flicked to Elyan out of military habit, but it was William’s nod that sparked his grin. “At once.”

As Constans scrambled down the ladder with youthful energy, William’s jaw feathered, his gaze floating to Elyan. “What if we say sorcerers attacked the king and queen? Show people how quickly they turned on him?”

“We don’t know that,” Elyan replied, but the words rang hollow even to his ears. The possibility coiled around his thoughts like a serpent – if sorcerers were responsible, wouldn’t that vindicate their entire purpose? “I won’t spread lies—”

“But if it turns out to be true—”

“I said no!” Elyan’s sharp rebuke cracked off the rafters, sending roosting pigeons scattering through the gaps.

Gar moved to intercede, his presence a barrier between them once again. “We don’t know if sorcerers are to blame or if our kind is responsible.”

“An inference then.” William’s voice took on a calculating edge. “Say the king’s own folly invited this disaster.”

A scowl darkened Elyan's features. William had grown bolder, standing straighter, speaking louder, less the subservient apprentice and more the shrewd agitator. The young man’s suggestion twisted in his mind however – a seed taking root despite his protests. It was a fine line; one he wasn’t sure he was ready to cross. But if it could further their purpose without directly exploiting Gwen’s pain...

“It’s… something to consider,” Elyan replied, each word a betrayal of everything he once stood for – honor, loyalty, family. He turned away from the group toward the window, pretending to watch the anxious crowds below through the shutters. If William and Gar pressed this hard, what would Brycen and Estrid demand? The thought settled in his gut like cold iron. “Let’s see what proof Constans brings.” He paused, almost adding “and try if you can to match my first declaration,” but the words died in his throat. His sister mattered more than their rhetoric now.

Time stretched like a bowstring pulled taut. Shadows crept across the hayloft floor as more of Elyan’s small band of like-minded followers gathered around the loft, their faces cast in amber by guttering candles against the growing dark. As they waited for Constans, their last to arrive, Lady Estrid and Lord Brycen sat apart from them among the rough-hewn beams and hay. At the makeshift table, William and Gar worked over their task, quills scratching across parchment while Sir James circled the edge, offering opinions but keeping his distance from the actual writing.

“The castle must be in chaos,” William mused, his gaze settling on James. “Surely you could tell us something of use—”

“I cannot.” Sir James straightened, his face hardening. Even in civilian dress, he carried himself with a knight’s bearing.

“Then why are you here?” William challenged, rocking back on his stump. “Playing both sides—”

“You forget yourself,” James said, each word precise and cold. “I stand against magic’s corruption, but my oath to King Arthur remains sacred. There are boundaries even in rebellion.”

“Boundaries? While sorcerers roam free in the castle—” William scoffed, but James stepped forward, already speaking over him.

“I’ll not have my honor questioned by an apprentice who’s never sworn a true oath—”

“Sir James.” Elyan’s quiet intervention drew their attention. “I beg to differ. Has William not sworn an oath to us? William, James walks a harder path – fighting what’s wrong while honoring what’s right. Can we not respect both ways of serving our cause?”

James inclined his head slightly, while William shifted on his stump with a grudging nod. A tense silence settled over the table, broken only by the scratch of Gar’s quill resuming across parchment. Elyan felt a flicker of satisfaction at having managed that conflict, but the murmured debate from the corner drew his attention, made his shoulders tighten.

He edged closer to where Sir Brycen and Lady Estrid had claimed a space near the hay bales. She’d arranged herself on a bale with remarkable poise, as if it were a court chair, her voice carrying unmistakable purpose in the close air.

“...must be firm, unyielding,” Lord Brycen was saying, the candlelight catching the scar on his face. As always, his fingers drifted unconsciously to the mark of the dragon’s fury. “The people need to see the danger clearly.”

“Indeed,” Lady Estrid said, arranging her practical riding skirts with the same care she might give silk gowns. “We cannot soften our stance while these... practitioners infiltrate the court itself.” Her fine dress and gentle movements wrapped her contempt in nobility’s polish. “They’ve already stolen our king’s ear. Now see how quickly order crumbles?”

“I see no evidence of this,” Elyan found himself arguing. “Take care with assumptions, Lady Estrid. We’ll lose the people’s trust if we shroud our words in speculation, not proof.”

“The people’s trust?” Estrid’s laugh held no warmth. “What I trust is that power belongs in proper hands. Look how quickly chaos follows when natural order is disrupted.” She straightened on her hay bale, somehow making the rustic perch seem like a throne. “The old families remember when everyone knew their place. When Camelot was truly civilized. These sorcerers and their dark crafts must be stopped. We return to the wisdom of King Uther.”

He locked gazes with her—a true believer, and far more dangerous than William’s youthful passion. There was something arresting about her, not in beauty but in bearing, in the absolute certainty that privilege was her birthright—that sorcery was an evil to eradicate. He’d seen her kind before in the Uther Pendragons and Badawi Zahirs of the world. This one, he knew, would need close watching.

Before he could respond, the trapdoor creaked open again and Constans pulled himself up. This time his triumphant look went straight to William. “Sorcerers took the king alright. The queen was badly wounded too, but Merlin healed her. Word from inside the castle – Sir Percival confirmed it.”

The loft stilled, Elyan’s chest constricting while Sir James’ jaw dropped before cinching it and Gar’s quill stilled on the parchment. “Arthur...” Elyan whispered, the name heavy with memory. He could picture Gwen on that balcony, her hands steady only through sheer will – she’d always faced her fears that way, hiding her trembling fingers in the folds of her dress.

Then, something cracked, the news shattering the tension as voices rose like startled birds.

“There it is!” William straightened, vindication bright in his eyes, beckoning Constans to join their circle. “Just as we warned in our first leaflet—”

“Indeed,” Lady Estrid’s voice cut across them all, sharp with satisfaction. “How quickly they show their true nature.”

Gar shook his head grimly. “The kingdom will be in chaos.”

“A king who trusted sorcerers too far,” James said quietly, his knight’s composure cracking. “And now taken by them.”

“The very moment King Arthur gives them freedom,” Lord Brycen added, “they strike at the crown itself.”

As they advocated violence as retaliation, doubts gnawed at Elyan like rats in the walls now. Gwen, wounded in an attack – how badly? Arthur, taken. He’d served this man, fought beside him, called him brother. And his sister alone now, shepherding a kingdom that had already lost its way. His hand dragged across his forehead, shielding eyes that burned with unwanted concern. The urge to go to her side clawed at him like an old wound reopened.

But the very thought of facing her... After everything he’d thrown in her face, every vow he’d trampled, every trust he’d shattered. The castle guards would have orders to seize him on sight. The shame of it all rose like poison in his throat.

Yet beneath that shame burned a certainty – magic was a scourge, a danger to everything Camelot held dear. If only he could make Gwen see that truth, especially now that Arthur... He flinched at the thought – wasn’t he considering the same exploitation of her vulnerability that he’d just condemned in William? But wouldn’t a brother use any means to protect his sister from danger?

“Sir Elyan?” Gar’s voice broke into his thoughts. That was when he realized the arguing had stopped, that they were watching him. “What do you think of this?”

Elyan blinked at the parchment thrust before him, its accusations stark against cream-colored vellum. Each word condemned sorcery as a creeping darkness, ready to devour them all if magic users weren’t stopped immediately, if the kingdom didn’t rise against this corruption before it was too late.

“It’s... powerful,” he said carefully, wondering if they believed Gar’s delivery of their leaflet would sway him over any of the others, “but we’re not rabble-rousers. We’re sentinels, warning of real danger. Let’s make them hear truth, not fear.”

Gar frowned as he took back the parchment. Around the loft, shoulders tensed and jaws tightened – even Sir James shifted uneasily on his stump. Elyan could sense their collective disquiet, his retreat from his first leaflet’s fury highly noticeable. Above them, pigeons stirred restlessly as he studied his fellow conspirators, a dull ache throbbing behind his eyes.

Slowly pacing the wooden floor, he could see torches lit in the streets below through gaps in the barn’s walls as clearly as he could see their apprehension. Their arguments had been endless, circling like dogs chasing their tails. Every word, every phrase was dissected, argued over, reworked. It was maddening. Not like the first one that he’d drafted without the approval of any of them – when the words had poured from his quill like venom from a wound.

“We need the voice of legitimacy,” he said, the words feeling strange after his earlier vitriol. “Push too hard, and we lose the people’s trust. Wouldn’t you agree, Sir James?”

“You have the right of it,” the knight replied, unease threading through his words. Even in rebellion, he clung to a knight’s principles, seeming unsure of this softer approach from the man who’d penned such burning condemnation.

Lady Estrid’s quiet scoff carried across the loft. “Legitimacy? While magic users sit at the king’s table, and now they do so in his absence?”

“We’ve seen what ‘legitimacy’ has brought us,” Lord Brycen added, his scar stark in the candlelight. “A king who embraces sorcery, and now lies captured by it.”

“Perhaps,” William muttered to Constans, his words barely a whisper yet sharp with intent, “we should show the druids what happens when they strike against our king.”

Gar’s silence even felt heavy with disappointment.

“Enough.” Elyan’s voice cut through their dissent, quiet but carrying the authority of a king’s knight. “I started this. I wrote those first words. But I say we proceed with care.” He met each gaze in turn – William’s frustration, Estrid’s contempt, Brycen’s barely contained anger. “You followed me because I know both sides of this fight. I’ve seen magic’s corruption firsthand, and I know the path to victory isn’t through blind rage, but through showing the people what we’ve all witnessed – the true face of sorcery. Trust in that truth.”

The hayloft fell silent save for the comforting coos of the birds. William looked away first, then the others as they settled back where they sat. Estrid’s gaze lingered, cutting into him with the cool disdain of old nobility, the kind of look her class reserved for servants who’d forgotten their place.

But the voices still grated. The hayloft suddenly felt too confined with unspoken accusations of weakness. His own words from that first leaflet haunted him now – ‘No quarter for sorcerers! No mercy for their defenders!’ – How easily rage had spilled then, before violence had truly touched his own blood.

“If you’ll excuse me,” he announced suddenly, his voice steady despite his churning thoughts. Once he descended the ladder into the cooler darkness of the stable below, the weight of both his abandonments to Gwen pressed in on him.

The night air kissed his fevered skin as he slipped through the back door, away from the conspiratorial whispers above. His feet led him through the darkened streets, past shuttered windows where families huddled, discussing the day’s dire news.

The narrow streets of lower town welcomed him like an old friend, offering the anonymity he’d grown to cherish while his thoughts strayed down more treacherous paths with each step. He’d called for justice in those poisoned pages, had he not? But what justice could be found in exploiting his sister’s pain? The same sister he’d accused of betrayal for showing mercy…

He pulled Arthur's missive from his pocket along with a copy of his icy rebuttal. His brother-in-law's heartfelt plea for unity, for healing old wounds, perhaps deserved better than the venom he'd spat back. He couldn’t blame Gwen, not truly – her love for Arthur, her trust in Merlin had led her down this path. But beneath his bitter words about betrayal and corruption lay a simpler truth: she was still his sister. Perhaps he could make her understand his fears. Could offer comfort, even now, after everything he’d written, every accusation he’d hurled...

Pain lanced through his neck, sudden and sharp. The nathair’s memory, burning bright as ever. Would this agony ever cease?

He pressed against the rough stone of an alley wall, letting shadows cloak him as he studied the castle spires rising above the lower town’s crooked rooftops. Old habits whispered of hidden paths, of ways to slip past guards who once called him brother. Yes... perhaps...

His mind raced with possibilities – the servants’ entrance near the kitchens, the old passage behind the armory, the forgotten grate in the north wall where the patrols always thinned at watch change. He knew every weakness in their patterns, every guard's habits. Yet beneath it all lay deeper questions: could he face her? Should he? And if he did, with all that’s happened, could he finally make her see the truth about magic’s corruption, or would the need to comfort his sister make him forget why he stood against her in the first place?

Swiping his chin, he glared at those distant towers, their windows gleaming like accusing eyes in the moonlight. The answer crystallized like frost: he must try to reach her. Alone.

Chapter Text

“Why do you encourage them?” Ishka rebuked, her voice carrying the familiar tone she’d used since Yaminah was a child. “You of all people?”

“Why do you not?” Farouk replied, gentler than his wife but no less determined. “We both know she has chosen him.”

“He isn’t of the faith.”

“Neither is she. Not really....” A pause, heavy with meaning. “She deserves happiness, habibti, even if it’s brief.”

Yaminah withdrew from the arch connecting the servants’ antechamber to the private apartments, their words settling like desert sand in her thoughts. Ishka and Farouk had served her family since before she could walk, their love a constant shadow beneath their servitude. But now that vigilant care threatened to expose what she dared not face herself. Had Ishka stood too close during that bitter exchange with Youssef four days ago? Even now, each whispered word between husband and wife threatened to unravel her painstakingly maintained mask. They meant well, these two who had helped raise her, who had dried her tears and celebrated her joys. Yet even their devotion felt suffocating now, when she could barely breathe beneath the weight of Youssef’s revelations.

She returned to the private parlor where she’d spread lengths of wool and linen across the dining table and furniture, adding to the clutter of packed crates along the walls for her return trip home. Another weight pressed upon her—that her last acts in Camelot would be arranging for warm clothing for her father. Such a small thing, these bolts of cloth, yet they represented everything she was meant to be: the dutiful daughter who would keep him warm while concealing truths that could chill him more than any dungeon stone.

Gwaine’s imminent arrival made her fingers tremble with a storm of emotions she’d wrestled with these past eleven days: fury at his role in Baba’s arrest, betrayal at his departure immediately after, and beneath it all, a frightening awareness of how deeply he’d already worked his way into her heart. The servants’ words cast shadows over their tentative reconciliation in the marketplace, for in a few days, she would depart for their northern lands to assume the duties that by right were not hers.

Sitting at the table, her hands moved mechanically through the fabrics, their textures so foreign to her fingers accustomed to the whisper-light silks and satins of home. Sorting, measuring—tasks that, despite Ishka’s earlier protests that such labor was beneath her station—Yaminah craved the distraction of working with her own hands. The thought of Baba shivering now while she deliberated over a man who had helped imprison him burned like a brand against her conscience.

The knock would come soon. Slipping her hand into her pocket, her fingers found the familiar creases of Gwaine’s letter, never apart from her since its delivery beneath her chamber door. She withdrew it, setting aside her work to trace the worn edges softened by her countless readings. Holy Mother, grant me wisdom. The morning’s reconciliation in the marketplace had seemed so clear, so right, when she’d finally allowed herself to collapse against him. But here, in these rooms where Youssef had shattered everything she’d believed about their family....

She returned the letter to her pocket and resumed her task. Her fingers caught on a snag in the wool, drawing her attention to the imperfection. Like that small flaw in the fabric, one weak thread of truth could loosen everything. Just as Youssef’s revelation had torn through the carefully woven fabric of her life, leaving her to gather the fragments of who she thought she was—and who she might truly be. If she spoke to Gwaine of Youssef’s claims, of magic possibly thrumming beneath her skin….

As she worked through the mindless precision of tasks, her thoughts cycled through a maze of questions. What secrets had escaped during Youssef’s outburst? The walls of her chambers, for all their stone and mortar, had ears. Even now, did Ishka and Farouk trade whispers of magic and binding jewels, of a brother turned traitor? Of a master disabling his children?

Youssef’s words echoed in her mind: Baba crippled us with pretty trinkets and lies. The accusation burned worse than any desert sun—that her own brother had known for many years what coursed through her veins, had likely watched her struggle with unexplained occurrences while keeping his silence. His final words still rang in her ears: We’ve both been living a lie. It’s time to see Baba for who he truly is…This family, these secrets... they’re poison. Perhaps someday I’ll mourn what we’ve lost, but not today. The magnitude of those secrets pressed against her chest, crushing what little certainty remained in her world.

The decisive knock that echoed through her apartments sent her heart to her throat. Her hands stilled on the wool, the rough texture suddenly sharper against her sensitized skin. Even through the walls separating them, his presence altered the air in her chambers. She glanced at her reflection in the window glass—heat rising to her cheeks, chest constricting unbidden at his mere presence beyond the door. Fresh kohl lined her eyes, and her loosened braids and plaits left her coarse hair wild about her face and shoulders.

She brushed down her hair with trembling fingers, grateful for the private parlor’s separation from the main chambers. The wool and linen would still lay spread across the dining table and chairs—evidence of her morning’s work, but also a buffer between herself and whatever was to come. The door connecting to the parlor opened and Ishka entered with a curtsey.

“My lady, Sir Malven requests an audience.”

“A moment.” Her voice emerged steadier than she felt. Such a proper announcement from her servant, as if she hadn’t struck him twice before surrendering to his embrace in full view of the market crowd. As if she hadn’t wept in this man’s arms a mere hour ago. As if they hadn’t kissed with the passion of lovers. The memory sent fresh warmth to her cheeks, a flutter to her stomach.

Guide my words, Lord. She stood, smoothing her hands over the flowing fabric of her Egyptian dress, her sandaled feet shifting against the stone floor. On the other side of the doors waited the knight who had arrested her father—the same knight whose letter she’d read countless times these past days, whose absence had torn at her heart even as she nursed her anger at him.

And here she stood, harboring knowledge that could destroy what fragile peace they’d found.

“Send him in,” she said, turning to face the door. With every heartbeat pulsed two burdens: Ishka’s undeniable words—He isn’t of the faith—and beneath that, Youssef’s haunting revelation: We have magic. Remove this curse from your neck.

Then Gwaine stood framed in the entrance, freshly dressed in a leather jerkin over a clean tunic, his dark hair still damp from washing. The sight of him there, real and solid, with his deep brown eyes and pink lips softened by the light coating of his beard, stole her breath and any of her angry words.

“Al-Sayyidah.” He remained at the threshold, his hands clasped behind his back. The formal title in his low drawl struck her as it always did, transforming propriety into something far more dangerous.

“Please, come in,” she said, though the invitation felt oddly formal after their kiss in the marketplace.

He stepped into the parlor, stopping just beyond the door as Farouk entered silently behind him to take his position near the mantle. Ishka followed, closing the parlor door before moving to stand near her husband, both servants maintaining an attentive but discrete presence.

Gwaine’s gaze swept the room, landing on the packed cases stacked against the far wall. Something flickered in his eyes – pain, perhaps, at the evidence of her imminent departure. Then he noticed the lengths of wool and linen draped across the dining table and chairs in front of her.

“I’m having warmer clothes made for Baba,” she found herself explaining, the words emerging like a confession. “The dungeons—they’re so cold.”

His features gentled with compassion, and she had to look away. She couldn't bear his sympathy, not when Youssef’s accusations still rang in her ears. He bound us…. Baba crippled us with pretty trinkets and lies.

“Yaminah…” Gwaine said, drawing her attention back to him. The informality of her name made her heart stutter, as if he were tasting something precious. That blend of boldness and deference that had first drawn her to him, despite her better judgment, colored his voice. He gestured to the space between them. “May I approach?”

She nodded, observing his every movement as he crossed the polished stones. Each step brought him closer to secrets she wasn’t sure she could keep. The jeweled pendant around her neck seemed to pulse against her skin, though she knew—she thought she knew—it was only her imagination.

He stopped a few paces from the fabric-laden table, maintaining a comfortable barrier between them. “I meant what I said in the market,” he assured. “About duty and regret.”

“I know.” She swallowed, staring at him—Gwaine was truly here after so long. Her hand slipped into her pocket where his letter lay, its worn edges familiar beneath her fingers. “But there are things you don’t understand. Things I—” The words caught in her throat. She turned away, unable to face him as Youssef flashed in her memory, his features twisted with bitterness as he cursed his own father. We’ve both been living a lie. It’s time to see Baba for who he truly is.

“Yaminah.” Gwaine’s voice gentled. “Whatever burdens you carry, let me help bear them.”

She almost laughed. How could she tell this man—this knight of Camelot—that she might carry magic in her blood? That her father, already imprisoned for sedition, had possibly be guilty of an even darker crime against his own children? That her brother had turned traitor? She had to—wanted to—tell him, to start somewhere.

“My brother,” she whispered, the words escaping before she could catch them. “Youssef has...”

The truth lodged in her throat. Behind her, Gwaine waited, his silence an invitation she longed to accept. One truth might lead to another, like water breaking through a dam. Youssef’s accusations. Their supposedly bound magic. Her own uncertainty about what was real anymore.

She heard the soft whisper of his clothes as he moved, his patience filling the silence between them, gentle but unyielding. Finally, Gwaine asked softly, “What happened to Youssef, Yaminah?” She closed her eyes, his tenderness piercing deeper than any demand could have.

“He’s gone,” she managed finally, turning to face him. Gwaine had moved from behind the table's barrier, standing near enough now that she caught the scent of sage and cedar and clean leather. “We quarreled, after—” After Baba’s arrest. After you left. After the trial. “He said things I can’t... He destroyed his jewels, called them—” Her fingers found the diamond pendant between her breasts, twisting it. Had it always felt this cold against her skin?

Gwaine’s gaze followed the movement of her hand. “The family heirloom,” he said softly. “You mentioned it once, how your father gave you both precious stones when you were children.”

She jerked her hand away from the necklace as if it burned. “You remember that?”

“I remember everything you’ve told me, Yaminah.”

Her heart softened at his words. He stepped closer, close enough now that she had to tilt her head to meet his eyes. Of course he would remember—this man who seemed to notice everything, who’d seen past her walls from the very beginning.

“Including how you value your faith and your family,” he added, worry creasing his brow.

His words struck like an arrow finding its mark. She hardly knew this man—their brief acquaintance interrupted by days of separation—yet he had understood the very essence of what shaped her. All her life she had built her identity around these twin pillars of faith and family, had worn them like armor before the world. Yet in those few precious hours together, Gwaine had glimpsed not just her devotion, but the depth of what they meant to her. Now here as she faced that lifelong devotion, would the weight of secrets be the ruin of her faith?

Neither is she. Not really. Farouk’s words echoed back to her. Had her servants always known what she was only now beginning to understand – that her struggles with faith went deeper than mere doubt? What would Gwaine see, if he discovered the truth of what possibly stirred beneath her constructed self?

“My lord,” she whispered, “there are things you should know about my family. About me. Things that will make you reconsider—everything.”

Her fingers found his letter in her pocket again, drawing courage from its presence. She must give him the chance to walk away. Before she bound him further to her possibly cursed bloodline, before the disgrace of her family’s secrets became his burden too. She searched his face, memorizing every feature she might lose forever.

His eyes darkened, but he didn’t step back. “After arresting your father? After all these days of fearing I’d lost you?” A gentle smile touched his lips. “I think we’re past the point of reconsidering, Al-Sayyidah.”

The tenderness in his voice undid her. Yaminah pressed her lips together, holding back a gasp as the control she'd maintained through eleven days of heartache, through her father's arrest, through Youssef's betrayal – all of it dissolved beneath the gentle weight of that one word: Al-Sayyidah. How easy it would be to surrender to this moment, to let his steadfast heart carry them both forward. But Youssef’s accusations hung between them like a sword.

“You don’t understand, Gwaine,” she breathed. Her hands strayed again to the pendant, its surface warm now against her fingertips. “My brother—” She swallowed hard. “My brother serves King Lot.” The confession burst from her lips, sharp as broken glass. When Gwaine showed no sign of disgust, she continued.

“I wish that was the worst of it… He told me terrible things. Unbelievable. He said he’s a—” She could not say the word. Sorcerer. The very thing their faith condemned. “He says I am too. That Baba knew, that he—” Her voice cracked. Her eyes stung. “The jewelry. Our heirlooms. Youssef claims they are curses, not gifts. That our father had bound our magic since childhood.”

She wasn’t sure he’d understood her disjointed confession, for Gwaine remained perfectly still. But something shifted in his eyes. Not horror, not repulsion, but something else entirely. She couldn’t bear to examine it closer.

“Now you know.” The words emerged on a shudder as she lowered her gaze. “Everything I believed about my family, about myself—it’s all broken. Youssef a traitor, a liar, but...” She squeezed the pendant.

The silence stretched between them like a thread about to snap. She waited for him to step back, to reach for the sword he didn’t wear to her chambers, to call for the guards. Instead, he lifted her chin, bringing her eyes to meet his.

“All these years, this pendant has brought you peace,” he said quietly, releasing her, his fingers ghosting the jewel. “To learn it might be something else entirely....”

A hysterical laugh bubbled in her throat. “That’s what concerns you? Not my brother. Not that I’ve just confessed to possibly being—” The word still wouldn’t come.

“A person who’s had her entire world upended?” Gwaine reached for her hand, his fingers wrapping gently around her own, but his voice carried steel. “Your father stands accused of sedition, your brother has fled to an enemy king, and you’ve learned secrets that challenge everything you believe. Yet here you are, arranging warmer clothes for your father’s comfort.”

She tried to pull away, but he held fast. Not imprisoning—she could break his grip if she wished—but anchoring. “You don’t understand. If Youssef speaks truth, then I am an abomination in the eyes of—”

“In whose eyes, Yaminah? The same God who gave you this power? Or the men who taught you to fear it?”

His words struck her mute. She stared at their joined hands. All her life, she’d been taught that magic was a corruption of God’s natural order. Yet Gwaine spoke of it like Youssef had, as if it were a gift.

“How can you be so...” She searched for the word. “…calm about this?”

A shadow crossed his face. “I’ve seen magic wielded for both good and ill. Like any power—like a sword, like a crown—it’s the wielder who determines its nature.” His thumb brushed across her knuckles. “But binding a child’s essence? That’s a cruelty I’ve never encountered.”

“So, you do believe my brother.” The words emerged as barely a whisper.

Their hands remained clasped, her pulse fluttering where his thumb rested against her wrist. Gwaine gently guided her toward the darkened window. She followed, helpless to do otherwise, watching how the candlelight played across his features, his dark brown hair falling forward as he moved. Her fingers ached to know if it felt as silk-soft as it looked. When he stopped, he turned her to face the glass as he stepped close behind her, their reflections ghosting in the glass.

“I believe what I see before me.” His voice had dropped lower, intimate, his breath warm near her ear. She could feel his solid body at her back, the slight tremor in her legs when his hands settled feather-light on her shoulders. “A woman who’s spent four days carrying this knowledge alone, tormenting herself with questions of faith and family, yet still thinks first of her father’s comfort, despite what he may have done to her. That speaks of courage and honor and love to me.”

The tears she’d been holding back since the marketplace burned again, her chest tight with a storm of emotions she couldn’t name—grief, betrayal, and something deeper that stirred whenever Gwaine touched her. “And what of Youssef? Working magic for Lot, betraying everything we—”

“Your brother’s choices are his own.” Gwaine turned her to face him, his movements gentle as though she might shatter. His hand rose to her cheek, brushing away the tears that had fallen. The tenderness in his touch made her want to lean into it, to forget everything but this moment. “As are your choices.”

If only time were as generous as his words. In days, she would leave Camelot, these revelations still raw, these choices still unmade. Her heart twisted at the thought of separating from him again, even as she told herself Baba must be her priority.

“My choices?” Her voice wavered. “What choices? If my brother speaks truth, then my father—a man I thought loved us—” The words caught in her throat. She stepped away several paces, wrapping her arms around herself. “He bound us like animals. Like demons needing chains.”

“Or like a father afraid for his children.” Gwaine’s words were kind, but they made her head snap towards him. “I’m not defending his actions, Yaminah. But fear makes people commit desperate acts, even against those they love.”

“Fear?” The word tasted bitter across the distance she'd put between them. “Of what? We were children.”

“Children with power, living in a world that condemned it. Living in a faith that—” He stopped, seeming to catch himself, throwing a cautious glance toward Ishka and Farouk. “Forgive me. I shouldn’t speak of your beliefs.”

“No.” The word surprised her. “Speak. Everyone else has spent my life telling me what to believe about magic. At least you—” She drew a shaking breath. “At least you look at me and still see me.”

His eyes softened. “I see more of you now than I did before. Your strength, your compassion, even your fear—it’s all you, Yaminah. Magic or no magic, bound or unbound.”

She moved back to the worktable, her fingers trailing over the wool. “All these years, I thought the chill I felt in certain moments was God’s presence. When I prayed. When I sang the liturgy.” Her hand trembled. “What if it wasn’t divine at all? What if it was just... me? This magic, pushing against its bonds?”

Gwaine followed, but took only a few paces. “Does it make those moments less sacred? Less true?”

“I don’t know.” The admission cost her. “I don’t know anything anymore. Youssef spoke of our magic like it was... like a river beneath ice, waiting to break free.” The diamond necklace was in her grip again. “Sometimes, since he told me, I swear I can feel it. Especially when I—”

She cut herself off, but Gwaine’s quiet “When?” urged her to continue.

“When I removed it,” she whispered. “It’s stronger then. My...” She closed her eyes, remembering the sensation. “My entire body grows warmer, like it’s working harder to contain something.”

“Look at me, Yaminah.”

When she did, she found herself momentarily distracted by the deep brown of his eyes. “Perhaps,” Gwaine said carefully, “your magic answers to your faith, not fights against it.”

His suggestion sent a tremor through her whole being. “That’s...” Her fingers pressed against the table’s edge. “That’s not possible. Magic and faith cannot—”

“Why not?” The quiet challenge in his voice drew her eyes back to his. “Who decided they must be separate? Men? The same men who wrote laws about what God’s power should look like?”

The candlelight flickered across the chamber, casting dancing shadows on the stone walls. For a moment, they seemed to shimmer with possibility. Or perhaps it was just tears blurring her vision again.

“If...” She swallowed hard. “If what you say could be true, then everything Baba did—binding us, hiding us from ourselves—”

“Was still wrong,” Gwaine finished softly. “Understanding his fear doesn’t excuse his actions.”

A sound escaped her, something between a laugh and a sob. “How is it you can make sense of things that have haunted me for days, in the space of one conversation?”

“Because I’m not bound by the same fears.” He began to circle the table, his movements slow and deliberate, giving her time to withdraw if she wished. “And because I’ve seen what happens when people deny their true nature, whatever that nature might be.”

The pendant seemed to pulse against her skin. Or perhaps that was her pulse, racing with possibility and terror. “What if—” She met his eyes as he came to stand before her, his gaze holding her in place. “What if I wanted to know? To understand what Youssef meant?”

“And you should, but first, you need time to breathe, Yaminah.”

“Time...” The word tasted bitter. “I must leave for the Northern Plains in days. With Baba imprisoned here, I have to assume the family duties that should have been Youssef’s.” The responsibility weighed heavier now, tangled with these new revelations she dared not share with her father. His last letter had been full of detailed instructions, expectations. How could she delay when he sat in a dungeon cell, counting on her?

“There’s no shame in needing time to understand yourself,” Gwaine said softly.

Her gaze fell to the packed cases against the wall. All her life she had focused on maintaining proper appearances, the social graces expected of her station. Now she was expected to manage an entire household, servants, accounts – matters she had barely paid attention to while Baba and Youssef handled them.

"My father needs me," she whispered, more to herself than to Gwaine. "Our people need someone to lead them."

“I need you too, Yaminah,” Gwaine admitted, stealing her breath. “Forgive me, I know it’s selfish…”

“Gwaine…”

“Stay.” He lifted his hand and gently brushed down her hair, sending a fiery sensation through her. “Let me help you unravel these mysteries. I have friends here that we can consult – friends who are accepted for who they are. You don’t have to face this alone.”

The warmth in Gwaine’s voice made her chest ache. A chance at love, at discovery, the possibilities unfurled within her like a flower reaching for sunlight. She could delay, send word to Qasr Al-Zafar and the garrison, craft some excuse for Baba. Farouk and Ishka could return home ahead of her, begin the transitions that even they understood better than she did after their decades of service. The thought of leaving now, with these questions unanswered, with this thing between her and Gwaine still new and fragile....

“Perhaps... perhaps a few weeks more,” she found herself saying, and the smile that lit his face made her heart flutter. “To understand what this means.”

Gwaine pulled her into a hug, and Yaminah found herself clinging to him even as her father’s expectations echoed in her mind. Each moment in his arms made the thought of leaving more impossible, even as duty pulled at her with equal force. “Whatever path you choose,” he murmured, his breath warm against her hair, “let it be yours, not one forced upon you.”

Sinking into the comfort of his embrace, her eyes fell shut. The pendant warmed against her skin—or perhaps it was what lay beneath it, responding to her turmoil. “How can you be so certain, Gwaine? About any of this?”

“I’m not.” The honesty in his voice made her look at him again. “But I am certain about you. Your heart, your strength—those weren’t given to you by magic or taken from you by that pendant. Those are yours alone.”

“And if removing it changes me? If Youssef was right, and I’m not who I thought I was at all?”

“Then you’ll discover who you truly are.” His eyes held hers, steady as a harbor light. “And I’ll still be here, if you wish it.”

The promise in those words, the quiet devotion after so short an acquaintance, should have frightened her. Instead, she felt something inside her settle, like a bird finding its roost after a storm. She leaned up, finally surrendering to him, to everything he offered – acceptance, understanding, freedom – as she pressed her lips to his and threaded her fingers through his hair. His response was immediate, gentle yet certain, like everything else about him. One hand tangled in her hair, the other drawing her closer as he deepened the kiss with a tenderness that melted her doubts like morning mist in sunlight.

They parted slowly, and in the candlelight she saw such tenderness, such deep affection, she knew this look would forever be hers alone. "Yaminah," he breathed, her name carrying all the words they'd yet to speak.

She rested her head against Gwaine’s chest, listening to his rapid heartbeat. “Strange,” she whispered, finding her words at last. “I spent these past days convinced you’d broken my heart. Yet here you stand, helping me piece together a truth far more shattering.” The pendant pressed between them, a reminder of all she had yet to understand. “Perhaps I was angry because, from the moment I first saw you at the feast, I knew you’d change everything.”

She felt his breath catch beneath her cheek, his heart quickening against her ear. When she looked up, she found such naked hope in his expression it made her own heart stumble. “Everything?” he asked softly.

“The way I see the world. The way I see myself.” A small smile touched her lips. “The way I believed love should feel. Proper. Controlled. Not this...” She gestured between them, at the space that had grown so thin. Her fingers found the letter in her pocket, worn soft at the corners from eleven days of worry and wonder. When she drew it out, Gwaine's composure cracked, his eyes bright with unshed tears at this evidence of how she'd treasured his words despite her pain. “Not this wild thing that terrifies and strengthens me at once.”

"Everything about you changes everything about me, Yaminah," he conceded, his voice rough. His hand found hers, fingers sliding over her palm to tangle with her own, the paper a whisper between their joined hands. Where their skin touched, she felt that familiar fever—or power—or perhaps simply the truth of them both. He brought their joined hands up, pressing a kiss to the inside of her wrist. “Your magic, your path forward, this thing between us—all of it—is part of me now.”

In the darkened window, their reflection caught her eye as she leaned against him – his arms wrapped around her, her own curved around his waist, his dark hair falling forward as he bent his head to hers. The wool and linens waited on her table, a daughter’s love for her father unchanged by painful truths. And here, in this moment between revelations and choices, she chose to stay not out of duty, but out of need – the need to understand herself, the need for his support, the need to unravel these mysteries.

Yaminah found herself smiling—truly smiling—for the first time since he’d left. Perhaps necessity and love need not be opposing forces. Perhaps, like magic itself, they could find a way to coexist.

Chapter Text

Arthur's eyes snapped open, his body quaking uncontrollably as a scream died in his throat – phantom flames still searing his flesh, each breath a battle against smoke that no longer filled his lungs. His trembling hands moved frantically over clothes and hair, mind refusing to believe they remained intact. Yet they did remain whole, his skin uncharred – though pain radiated through every nerve, his throat raw as though he'd truly inhaled the fire's breath. Alive, but marked by the inferno's ghost.

Even as he forced his hands steady, willed his breathing to slow, the experience struck deep and hard – fire licking up his legs, engulfing his torso, his clothes melting into his skin. Flames slapped his face, scorched his eyes, seared his throat with each desperate gasp, while faces writhed in the conflagration around him, their agony mingling with his own. Death's embrace more real than any nightmare could conjure – he'd died upon that pyre. What in God's name had they done to him?

Arthur shook his head, trying to clear the lingering fog. Real or illusion, his body remembered every moment – the horror and blood and death conjured into brutal life before his eyes. The truth crystallized with terrible clarity: they had weaponized memory itself, turning the stolen artifacts into instruments of torture. The realization hollowed him from within as the question formed: What death would they force him to endure next?

His ears caught the snap and hiss of a fire, his vision tracking shadows along the cavern walls, warmth seeping through his feet. Arthur raised his hands to his face – unbound now, though his wrists still stung from the bite of rock. The animal hide beneath him offered little comfort as he studied his palms – deep red crescents marked where his nails had dug in during the torment. His fingers ached from clenching, still stiff from their desperate grip on life itself.

His gaze fell to his wrists, where strips of skin hung loose over raw flesh – battle scars from a fight he had no hope of winning. The ghost of unyielding stone cuffs sent fresh shivers through him. Arthur buried the discomfort beneath years of warrior's discipline, though a deeper truth gnawed at him: against such power, even his trained defenses might prove as fragile as his flesh. What use was a warrior's strength against enemies who could turn his mind against itself?

Arthur cupped his aching hands together, working life back into stiff fingers. The gentle massage mocked his efforts, like pressing feathers against a sword wound. His shoulders ached, his back a map of fire where he'd pressed and writhed against the stone slab. His muscles tensed at every movement, his bare feet absorbing the small comfort of warmth from the firepit beyond the bars.

Prison. Captive. The words lodged like poison in his mind. Not just any prisoner – a king in a cage, where they would keep him until death tired of its torment.

The ground's chill seeped through the meager bedding as he tried to find a less painful position, every movement a new torment. His throat hurt from screaming, each swallow rough as sand. He'd never heard such sounds torn from his own lips before – not in battle, not under the blade. Arthur turned his head into the shadows, as if he could hide from the echo of those cries.

A glint of clay caught his eye – a bowl and cup placed just beyond reach, like a taunt. His body howled for water, yet denied him the strength to claim it. The simple act of rolling over and pushing himself onto his elbows sent waves of pain through overtaxed muscles, but he managed to ease himself to his knees – though not with any grace befitting a king.

He paused there, catching his breath, one hand scrubbing across his chin. The rough stubble of a day's growth reminded him of how long he'd been here, how much had changed in so short a time. His hand dropped away, steadying himself against the ground.

The cup and bowl waited, taunting him with their distance. Rising sent tremors through his limbs, but Arthur made his way to the cell door instead—his first duty to perform. He gripped the handle, his fingers finding only solid iron – unforgiving hinges, an impenetrable lock, and bars that disappeared seamlessly into the stone floor, as permanent as the rock walls around him.

The defeat drove his thirst deeper as he turned to the water. His hand was steadier than he expected when he grasped the cup, though the simple act of bending and then bringing it to his lips sent the room spinning. Leaning against the bars, the water was cool on his tongue, refreshing for the brief moment before a tickling cough rose in his throat. Arthur wiped away dribble and dried blood at the corner of his mouth – Killian's only mark upon him.

Killian. His name conjured images of calculated fury, of a man who'd fashioned revenge into an art. Now Arthur stood trapped, awaiting whatever torment his captor deemed fitting for past sins.

Was any man truly deserving of such torment? Arthur wondered, bracing himself against the solid bars, the cup forgotten in his hand. When he was burning on the pyre, through the roar of flames and his own screams, harsh words had pierced his consciousness: …not as pure and noble as he appears.

Neither pure nor noble. The accusation rang true, already carved into his soul by years of following his father's justice. Arthur squeezed his eyes shut but snapped them open as faces materialized in the darkness – faces of those he'd condemned. His victims – though he'd never allowed himself to name them as such.

The memories set him pacing, each turn heightening his awareness of confinement, each step leaching warmth from his body. For years, he'd seen only traitors to the crown, threats to be eliminated with swift justice. Until that first command at fourteen – when children's cries echoed up from a well's depths, and a young prince learned the true cost of unquestioned loyalty. He'd emptied his stomach over his horse's side that day, but it didn't wash away the guilt. Those screams had followed him into dreams ever since, a reminder that still woke him in cold sweats.

The chill crept deeper as he paced, seeping into his bones as much as his conscience. Over time, he'd challenged his father's tactics – questioned the execution orders, the denial of trials, the slaughter of women and children. The response never varied: 'no quarter.' Each protest earned only his father's wrath and a dismissal from the king's presence.

Arthur's free hand clenched around the bars until his knuckles whitened. These torments, these cruel judgments – how could he not rightly accept them? Each moment of agony served as payment for his transgressions, rendered in blood and pain. Yet how many deaths would it take? The chopping block, the gallows, the well – would he experience them all before his debt was paid?

Bitterness rose. Dare he now lay a portion of these sins at his father's feet? His own birth – steeped in magic and marked by his mother's death – had set the king’s hatred ablaze, spawning decades of bloodshed that led inexorably to these moments of final reckoning. The thought tasted of ash in his mouth. Those executions, those battles – he'd wielded the blade himself, led the charge at his king's command. No father's orders, not even grief-driven vengeance, could wash that blood from his hands.

Arthur slammed the cup against the bars, precious water spattering like tears across stone. The cup clattered forgotten to the ground. His studies of magic had stripped away the last of his illusions about the Purge. Merlin and Excalibur had forced him to see what he'd refused to acknowledge: innocents slaughtered by the king’s men and his own hand. His father’s despair may have lit the pyre, but he had fed its flames willingly enough. Now death would claim him once for each soul they'd condemned – Killian had made that much clear.

Would God's mercy extend even to him? The question haunted Arthur as the inevitability of more torture pressed in on him. This wasn't the familiar fear of battle he'd learned to master through years of training – this terror ran deeper, striking at his very soul, testing the limits of his warrior's discipline in ways no physical combat ever had. His gaze drifted across his prison, taking in each cruel detail.

He pushed away from the bars, scrubbed his forehead, felt his feet in the spilt water. The clay bowl of porridge waited, as cold and uninviting as the stone beneath him. He ignored it, his stomach turning at the mere thought of food. His gaze caught something else in the torchlight – scattered around the base of the stone slab where they'd bound him. He edged to the other side of the cage, his chest tightening.

Guinevere's flowers, torn from his wrist during his torture, crushed under foot. Those sweet moments of her weaving the garland now tainted by their cruelty. And with that came another, Killian's words slicing through his thoughts, sharper than any blade: “Your queen is dead.”

"Guinevere..." Her name was a prayer on his lips, bittersweet to his hearing, and when he closed his eyes seeking her face, only the twisted visages of burning victims greeted him. He snapped them open – the dead unwilling to release their hold on him.

Think only of her, he commanded himself. His gaze drifted to the twin cage beside his own, its emptiness both wound and blessing. A bitter gratitude coiled in his chest – her death at Mordred's hand, swift and clean, now seemed a mercy compared to what Killian had planned for her. The thought sickened him even as it brought a horrible relief. Better this way than to hear her screams echo off the cavern walls… or her suffering through his….

A strange numbness crept through him – burning lids betrayed him, tears falling unchecked in the fire light. Every attempt to picture Guinevere's face yielded only fleeting glimpses before visions of the dead stole them away. For brief moments, he could grasp the thickness of her hair, the softness of her skin, the way their bodies fit together, but something dark snatched at these images, twisting them into horror. Her sparkling hazel eyes, her gentle smile appeared and vanished like smoke, as shadows of flame and steel denied him even these simple joys. His fist pressed against his mouth, fighting to contain emotions he couldn't afford to release.

Arthur staggered back to the furs, legs trembling against his will, teeth chattering against the chill. He wrapped his arms around him. The losses mounted like stones upon his chest – his queen, his freedom, his very self. Even now, the reality of his capture seemed more nightmare than truth.

“Merlin…” The name came out as vapor in the freezing air. His closest friend – the only man he'd truly called brother – wrenched from him like everything else. Images flashed like lightning – that glint in his eyes, the familiar grin, the unwavering loyalty even when Arthur had been blind to it, wisdom masked by jest. All reduced to ash and accusation.

His most precious treasures: Guinevere, his heart's light, extinguished by the blade; Merlin, his soul's compass, consumed by flames; and Camelot, his life's purpose, now spiraling into shadow. The first tendrils of despair wound through him as the magnitude of utter loss began to sink in. His heart rebelled against the swiftness of it all – love and loyalty and duty stripped away between one breath and the next. Fresh tears fell, but he no longer had the strength to wipe them away.

Death—his final death—when it came, would be a mercy. At least then he would see them again.

As he settled on the furs, sleep pulled at him with dark fingers, exhaustion finally claiming its due. But one last thought pierced through the devouring shadows: How did they know about a private picnic? So few had been trusted with that secret. Who, then, had betrayed them…?

"Good morning, your majesty."

Sleep's tentative grasp loosened as footsteps echoed through the chamber, the words pulling him from fitful dreams of fire and betrayal. Arthur forced heavy lids open, arms still crossed protectively over his chest, hand tucked under them. He stirred atop the furs, but even that slight movement sent protest through every muscle. A figure approached – not Killian this time, but another man whose gaze raked over him like winter frost.

"Welcome back." The man's voice carried an unsettling note of fascination and a kind of congeniality he had not earned.

Arthur's parched lips cracked as he spoke from where he lay, the water he’d wasted now a bitter regret. “Who are you?”

"Call me Dodd." The man matched Arthur in height and build, but there any similarity ended. Flowing silver hair and mercury-grey eyes marked him as something other – whether by birth or magic, Arthur couldn't tell.

“You should know that I’m rather sore that Killian started without me." Dodd’s satin tunic and polished boots, vibrant against the dungeon's gloom, spoke of high-born, as did his cultured tone. Everything about him stood in stark opposition to Killian's weathered warrior presence and Mordred's humble druidic culture. His manner was that of old friends meeting for wine, not torturer addressing victim.

Three of them now – each bringing their own brand of torment to bear. But this man…a smile played at the corners of Dodd’s mouth, and Arthur turned his face back to the ceiling's rough stone where firelight cast restless shadows.

"I'm the one who discovered your plans for a private picnic. Apologies for ruining." His laugh scraped against Arthur's ears, the mere mention sending a fresh wave of anguish through him – his precious moments with Guinevere tainted by these men.

“You should eat,” he encouraged. The untouched porridge lay neglected beside the furs, Arthur having twice forced himself to try the gray mush only to have his stomach revolt. He glanced at it with deepening loathing. “Regain your strength – your stamina.”

“Why?” Arthur bit out. “So that it takes me longer to die for your pleasure?”

“Yes.” The simple response stilled something in Arthur, though he schooled his features against the brutal honesty. "Killian insisted we wait until morning before continuing. Something about letting each death..." Dodd's lips pursed with pleasure. "...fully burrow in your mind."

Arthur met his gaze, this time refusing to look away as Dodd studied him with predatory satisfaction. The man seemed to savor each detail, cataloguing what he saw – Arthur’s once-fine red linen shirt now a mockery of royal garments, one shoulder torn and sleeves shredded from the rock cuffs. Even without a mirror, Arthur knew his state served their purpose to humiliate him – hair disheveled, face smudged, exposed skin pink beneath the tatters of cloth.

The makeshift bandages peeking from his wrists and ankles drew Dodd's attention next. Arthur fought the urge to hide this small evidence of self-preservation from his captor's scrutiny. He'd worked by firelight to tear the strips from his shirt, fingers clumsy with cold and pain as he wrapped his injuries. These scant bindings were worth the effort, offering little protection, but were all that remained of his dignity – along with his refusal to cower beneath this man's gaze.

"Your courage is legendary across the realms, Arthur." The words slithered from Dodd's mouth like serpents masked in silk. Arthur let his silence speak, his thoughts turning to battlefields where courage had meant something noble, not this perverse game of torment and mind-breaking.

“Hold on to it, your majesty. You’ll need your mettle to withstand the fullness of the apparatus.” The name alone sent phantom flames crawling across Arthur's skin, but he forced himself to meet Dodd's gaze. Whatever horrors awaited in that device, he would not give this man the satisfaction of seeing him break.

“You know, I truly am vexed at Killian," Dodd repeated, still holding Arthur spellbound, his cultured tone slipping just slightly, a nobleman's mask showing its first crack. "I wanted the honor of first blood from Camelot's golden king. Instead, he started without me—like some common brute lacking finesse." Each word emerged more clipped than the last, his refined bearing warring with rising anger. "I had such artful plans for your first night with us.” He prowled outside the cage, a predator ready to pounce, all pretense of nobility falling away and revealing something feral.

"It's not your fault, Arthur, but I guess I'll still have to take it out on you anyway." The casual cruelty in Dodd's voice reminded Arthur of how his father would discuss executions over breakfast. His father, now beyond their reach, leaving him alone to suffer for their shared sins. "Eat up. You'll need it for the gallows."

The word “gallows” dropped in Arthur's gut like lead – a fresh death to experience, another torment to endure. His hands might have trembled where they were tucked, but he forced them still. His only reaction was a blink and cinched jaw, but that was enough for Dodd's lips to curl into a smile. "I'll see you in an hour."

The man turned to leave, but then faced the cage again. “Oh, and try to stay warm. We wouldn’t want you to die from cold before we’ve had our fill.” The false concern drained from Dodd's eyes, leaving only dark purpose. As his footsteps faded into shadow, only the crackling fire and Arthur’s uneven breathing remained.

Unfurling his arms, Arthur’s fingers traced the makeshift bandages – a meager shield against what was to come, yet it was all he had left to him now. That, and the stubborn pride bred into his bones. One hour. Just one hour before the next horror began. Let them have his flesh; Guinevere's memory burned brighter than their flames ever could, and as long as she lived in his heart, they could never truly take her from him.

Chapter Text

Gwen stirred awake, her first conscious breath catching in her throat, in that moment between sleep and waking when loss hadn’t yet remembered itself. She reached across the empty space where Arthur should have been, her hand finding instead Jacinth’s sleeping form, her friend’s copper hair spilling across Arthur’s pillow. The wrongness of it pierced her heart, unleashing a flood of memories, each one a fresh wound: the assailants materializing in their peaceful glade, Arthur’s body thrown against the tree, the attack that had nearly claimed both her life and their child’s.

The agony of yesterday’s ordeal gripped like a vise – the hours that followed blurred into a haze – the inner circle meeting, the royal announcement, the council deliberations, Cinth’s arrival. She had somehow maintained her composure through it all, drawing strength from the secret she carried beneath her heart. Now, in the privacy of their chambers, her hand pressed protectively over her belly, tears leaked down the side of her face.

“A son for Arthur,” she wept in the night air, the words carrying the weight of a thousand hopes – their firstborn, their heir, perhaps their only child if fate proved cruel. Why hadn’t she told him? She’d been so careful, wanting to be certain, wanting the perfect moment. Even yesterday in that peaceful glade, she’d planned to share her joy, to watch his face light up with wonder as it had when she’d first agreed to be his wife. The memory of his tender touches, his whispered declarations of love, his hands unconsciously protective over the very place where their child grew – all of it now tainted by cruel timing and hesitation. No answer satisfactory, the question burned in her throat with fresh tears that wanted—needed—to be shed.

In the darkness, her fingers traced circles on her stomach, where their prince grew unaware of how desperately the kingdom already needed him. Yet other questions plagued her thoughts – the whispers of magic she felt stirring within, how she would reveal this gift to Arthur when they found him, how they would eventually share this news with a kingdom already burdened by uncertainty....

A soft movement beside her drew Gwen from her thoughts as Jacinth stirred, prompting her to swiftly dry her tears. Last night, they’d sought refuge in memories of Longstead – of washing clothes by the stream, of Mary’s herb garden, of simpler days together. But even those memories led back to Arthur, how he’d discerned her fondness of the young maiden and arranged for her travel here under the protection of knights. “You need someone you can trust completely,” he’d said. “Let’s bring her to court.”

Gwen had imagined this so differently – showing Jacinth the wonders of Camelot herself – the grandeur of the citadel, the bustle of the towns, the magnificent sweep of the castle gardens. Perhaps in time, as Arthur had suggested, Jacinth might even become her first lady-in-waiting, a trusted companion to help navigate court life. But these weren’t gentler times. Jacinth’s first day had been marked by chaos and grief – a missing king, a queen being tested, and protocols that must seem as foreign as a distant land to a village girl.

She exhaled softly, finding no comfort in the chamber’s silence save for Jacinth’s steady breathing. Even her friend’s gentle presence couldn’t fill the hollow spaces Arthur had left – spaces that echoed with his footsteps, his laughter, his very being. Each breath seemed to mark the growing distance between her and her husband, each moment stealing happiness from their future together.

Careful not to disturb Jacinth’s rest, Gwen eased out the bed, her feet seeking the familiar comfort of her slippers. The simple habit brought an ache – how many times had Arthur teased her about wearing them, even in summer’s heat? Tears came unbidden as she crossed to the window, each sob muffled against her hands like secrets too painful to voice. She wept not just for herself, but for Camelot bereft of its king, for the innocent life stirring beneath her heart – their child who might grow up knowing their father only through stories and memories.

Behind her, Jacinth shifted in her sleep, murmuring something indistinct, and Gwen forced her tears to subside once more. Opening the window, she let the early summer breeze caress her face, cooling her. The courtyard’s usual morning bustle seemed muted, as if even the very stones mourned their king’s absence.

“Your father will come back to us,” she promised softly, pale light touching her face. Something steelier than hope began to displace Gwen’s grief, and she clung to those words like a lifeline – they were all that stood between her and despair. The crown of Camelot demanded more than tears – it demanded strength. For Arthur, for their kingdom, for the child who would carry their legacy.

Moving away from the window, Gwen crossed to her vanity and settled onto the cushioned stool. Grateful now for Master Leonard’s foresight, she reached for the small vial of rosewater he’d pressed into her hand after examining her. The court physician might lack Gaius’s years of experience, but his remedies proved just as effective. Working quietly so as not to wake Jacinth, she spent the next quarter hour with cloths soaked in his special mixture cooling her swollen eyes. The naysayers who questioned a commoner queen would search her face for any sign of weakness. They would find none.

The morning bells pierced the silence, and Jacinth stirred at their sonorous call. “Gwen?” she asked softly, uncertainty coloring her voice, blinking owlishly at the unfamiliar canopy above her. She then sat up with a start. “Should I... I mean, would you prefer I return to my chambers?”

Gwen was already beside her. “Stay,” she murmured, a fragile smile softening her features as she reached for her friend. “Please.” Jacinth nodded at Gwen’s gentle tug to rise just as the familiar measured knock of servants sounded at her door. “Enter,” she called, returning to her vanity, noting how Jacinth hastily smoothed her new nightgown, her hands fidgeting with the fine fabric.

“Good morning, Queen Guinevere,” George announced from the other side of the privacy screen, customarily entering first with several trays of food, every movement a study in servile perfection. In the month since replacing Merlin, he’d transformed their morning routine into a precisely orchestrated ritual. Without a word, he disappeared behind the screen, the soft clink of dishes the only betrayal of his presence. Arthur had grumbled about missing Merlin’s cheerful chatter, but even he had admitted that George’s efficiency was beyond reproach.

Sefa followed in his wake, her steps no longer carrying that touch of doubt. She came behind the screen with Jacinth’s chosen gown, its deep green fabric catching the morning light as she hung it on the divider. “Good morning, my lady,” she said softly, dipping into a practiced curtsy.

“Just a few braids today, Sefa.”

“Yes, my queen.” As she began gathering Gwen’s curls at the vanity, she offered a warm smile to Jacinth, who wandered to her new gown, gazing at it with as much curiosity as watching Gwen’s morning ritual. “My lady Jacinth, I’ll attend to you after breakfast.”

Jacinth flushed at the title, much as she had during yesterday’s fumbling attempts at protocol. “Oh! I... that’s very kind, but I’m not a lady.”

“You’re a friend of Queen Guinevere. That makes you a lady.”

“Oh dear—"

The rest of her protest faded as Gwen’s attention drifted inward, to yesterday. The sight of fallen guards, their broken bodies, the flowing ribbons of blood – she couldn’t leave them there. Merlin had used magic to tend to them, gently draping their bodies with the same blankets that had witnessed her last peaceful moments with Arthur. Their sobering return had rippled through the castle like frost claiming summer blooms, and Arthur’s absence had turned whispers to shouts before she could even shape the words of formal announcement.

Sefa tucked the last braided strand and Gwen rose to stand before the full mirror, removing her sleeping wear and stepping into her crimson gown. Had it truly been only hours since her bodice was heavy with blood, the phantom pain of Mordred’s blade still burning in her side? She reached under her breast, could almost feel it again – the cold steel. She remembered her desperate plea for her child’s life, the terror that had gripped her heart before darkness claimed her. Why? she wondered. Why had he hesitated? Why didn’t his blade strike true? Her lip trembled. Her fists clinched. Gwen was grateful that he had not.

“My lady?” Sefa’s hands stilled on the laces, concern threading through her voice.

“I’m fine,” Gwen breathed, forcing steadiness into her voice despite her white-knuckled fists. She forced her fingers to relax, smoothing her skirts with deliberate care. In the mirror, she saw Jacinth move closer, bare feet silent as she approached. “Just... remembering.”

Jacinth reached her side, hesitant, then placed a warm hand on her shoulder. The gesture was so like their days in Longstead – comfort freely given, untainted by ceremony – that Gwen had to blink back fresh tears.

“Thank you, Sefa,” she whispered, her gaze fixed on her reflection.

“Your breakfast is served, my ladies,” George announced with meticulous precision, each word carrying the same measured cadence that had first caught Arthur’s attention – though her husband’s amusement at such fastidious service had faded to quiet appreciation over the past month.

Gwen emerged from behind the screen, followed by Jacinth and Sefa. Every corner of their chambers pulsed with memory: the maps scattered across his desk, Excalibur’s empty scabbard draped over his chair, his privacy screen concealing a closet of leather and linen and steel. Their chairs in front of the hearth. Each reminder hollowed the ache of his absence deeper into her heart.

She gaze swept over the long table, where steam rose from covered dishes like morning mist. Usually Arthur would already be there, studying reports while stealing bites between pages. Now his chair stood silent at the table’s head, the floor beneath it undisturbed where his boots should have scuffed the floor in his habitual morning restlessness. Their morning meals together had been precious – a quiet refuge before the day’s duties claimed them.

Taking Jacinth’s hand, she guided her friend to the table, gestured to the chair opposite hers. “Please,” she said softly to Jacinth, who settled awkwardly into the chair. Gwen smiled as she took her customary seat beside Arthur's. At least in her new nightgown, hair still tousled from sleep, her friend might find some peace in these quiet morning moments, even if she didn’t understand protocol.

Food appeared before them as George moved with practiced grace – fresh bread warm enough to release wisps of steam, autumn pears whose sweetness caught in the air, meats arranged just so. Gwen merely stirred her bowl of porridge with a hint of honey and cinnamon, but her appetite was as distant as her missing husband.

“You know,” she said softly, staring into her bowl, “Arthur hates porridge.” Present tense, because she couldn’t bear to use past. “When we were in Ealdor many years ago, Merlin’s mother Hunith served it every morning – it was all they could offer with their limited means. Arthur would try to hide his distaste, pushing it around his bowl, pretending to eat it.” She paused, the memory warming her despite everything. “I had to finish his portions to avoid offending our hostess. Later, I gave him quite the scolding about being grateful for what humble folk could share.”

Jacinth leaned forward, her eyes as bright as her smile, her spoon hovering over her own bowl. “What did he say?”

“Nothing at first. He just looked at me, really looked at me. I was so frightened. It was the first time I’d ever truly scolded him.” Gwen’s fingers traced the rim of her bowl. “But he said that I was right and he was wrong. I realized then I was falling in love with him – not because he was a prince who could take criticism from a servant, but because I saw him trying to be better, to understand a world so different from his own.”

In the growing silence with only the gentle clink of their spoons and whisper of servants around them, the memory slipped away like water through her fingers, leaving only the cooling porridge before her and thoughts splintering in all directions: Merlin and the knights soon to be combing King’s Woods, Galahad’s search for traitors, council members arguing like crows over carrion. Her brother Elyan’s betrayal cut deep too, while new threats gathered like storm clouds on the horizon. So many tasks loomed before her, yet one question eclipsed all others: Arthur, my love... where are you?

A knock interrupted George’s quiet clearing of the table. When he opened the door to reveal Fredrick, Jacinth’s face lit up.

“Fredrick!” she exclaimed, half-rising before remembering herself. She sank back into her chair, flushing, but her smile remained bright beneath her hesitation. Gwen caught the slight stiffening of Fredrick’s shoulders at Jacinth’s enthusiasm – she’d seen that same tension in his bearing yesterday, each time her young friend’s admiration became too apparent.

“Good morning, Gwen,” he said warmly, though his gaze took in both women, and a weak smile touched his weathered features at Jacinth’s greeting. He nodded to her. “Mistress Jacinth.”

Gwen rose, setting aside one worry for a more immediate concern, her brow furrowing. “Fredrick, I distinctly remember ordering you to take two days’ rest after your long journey.” She crossed to him, concern threading through her voice. “You should be home, recovering your strength.”

“With respect, my lady.” He shifted his weight, that familiar stubborn set returning to his jaw. “A few hours’ sleep is rest enough.”

“Is that so?” Gwen’s voice carried equal measures of affection and exasperation. “What are the standing orders for extended missions?” She was quite familiar with those orders since having a prince for consort and a knighted brother.

“Well,” Fredrick hedged, running a hand over his chin, contemplating his response as Sefa subtly maneuvered Jacinth behind the changing screen. “Standing orders grant rest, but I’ve seen Arthur—”

“Arthur's a poor example, and you know it,” she admonished, guiding him toward the hearth where flames danced in their morning ritual. “I could never get him to rest enough after missions, but you’re not him and you’ve been gone nearly two weeks.” Behind them, she heard Jacinth’s muffled protest about being perfectly capable of combing her own hair, followed by Sefa’s patient murmur about adding a few braids. “Take respite. I insist.”

As they settled near the fire, Gwen caught Fredrick’s furtive glance toward the screen, where whispered conversation and muffled giggles drifted across the space. His discomfort brought a fleeting smile to her lips, but she knew it was time to address what they’d both been avoiding.

“She admires you,” she whispered, finding brief refuge in this moment of normalcy.

Fredrick’s shoulders stiffened. “Gwen,” he muttered, clearly mortified, “she’s barely more than a child.”

“Who spent five days regaling Gwaine with tales of your heroic rescue, I’m sure,” Gwen replied softly.

“She won’t listen to reason,” Fredrick hissed under his breath, color creeping up his neck – a sight that made Gwen forget her troubles for a moment. The usually composed soldier looked positively flustered. “I’ve tried telling her a dozen times during our journey that Sir Galahad was the true hero that day. He’s the one who used his magic to defeat Helios’ men, cleared the path for our escape. I merely—”

“Merely opened her cage and carried her to freedom?” Gwen finished softly, Fredrick burying his face in a palm with a muffled groan of exasperation.

“That’s exactly what I mean!” His whisper turned almost desperate. Behind them, Jacinth’s voice rose about not being able to breath. “She’s built this... this fantasy around that one moment. Won’t hear a word about Galahad’s part in it all. Every time I tried to explain during our journey, she’d just smile and say ‘but you were the one who came for me.’” He ran a hand through his graying hair, looking more discomposed than Gwen had ever seen him. “For heaven’s sake, Gwen, the girl compares me to knights in the bards’ tales!”

A giggle escaped Gwen despite herself, her amusement matching that of watching Jacinth’s attempts yesterday to recall proper protocol. “And that’s so terrible?” she couldn’t help asking, though she knew she shouldn’t tease him.

“I’m old enough to be her father! More than!” The words came out in a strangled whisper. “Please, you must say something to her. Help her understand that I’m not the one for her. She’ll listen to you.”

Gwen studied his pleading expression, touched by his obvious distress. This man who’d faced countless battles, stood watch through the long hours, protected her in the dark days and rescued hundreds of captives, was completely undone by a young girl’s innocent adoration. But what could she say to Jacinth that wouldn’t wound her friend’s tender heart?

“I’ll see what I can do,” Gwen said, leaning closer with a smile she couldn’t quite hide, her voice gentle with understanding, “But Fred, sometimes the heart sees what it wishes to see. You were her knight that day – gallant, brave, her deliverer from darkness. Though...” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “Perhaps time and Camelot will reveal other possibilities. Other heroes within these very halls.”

Fredrick sagged with relief, but before he could respond, a small commotion arose from behind the screen. “There!” Sefa announced triumphantly. “Now you look every bit a lady of the court.”

Jacinth emerged resplendent from behind the screen, her copper hair swept up in a few delicate braids that softened her features. The deep green of her gown brought out flecks of gold in her eyes as she hesitantly smoothed the silk skirts. Her timid smile bloomed as her gaze found Fredrick, who immediately straightened, his face carefully composed once more. The change was so abrupt that Gwen had to press her fingers to her lips to keep from laughing.

“These shoes,” Jacinth murmured, wobbling slightly. Gwen rose from her seat, and Fredrick followed suit with quiet grace as she crossed to her friend. Taking Jacinth’s hands in hers, she guided her with careful steps around the room. “The heels… must I—wear them?” Jacinth made it halfway across the chamber before stopping to adjust the unfamiliar bodice, tugging at the laces. “This gown… tight…”

“You’ll grow accustomed to them,” Gwen assured her with a sympathetic smile as Sefa moved to help adjust the gown’s laces. She remembered her own early days when her wardrobe truly changed, the strange weight of fine fabrics and stiff corsets.

A knock sounded at the door. Gwen continued helping Jacinth find her balance while George crossed the chamber. When he returned, his approach drew her attention. “My lady,” he said, bowing. “A letter for you.”

The parchment was of fine quality, smooth beneath her fingers, yet bound with only a simple tie and no seal – an odd combination that stood out among the usual formal missives. She pulled the tie free.

Sister—

The single word knocked the air from her lungs. The parchment crumpled in her grip as the world tilted, only Sefa’s steady hand at her elbow keeping her upright. Sister – how could one word carry such weight? Such threat? Such hope?

“What is it, Gwen?” Fredrick’s voice cut through her shock, all previous discomfort seeming forgotten as he shifted seamlessly back into his role as protector. “News of Arthur?”

She met his concerned gaze, aware of Jacinth standing next to her, the girl’s earlier happiness fading as the atmosphere changed. Sefa had stilled as well, her hand dropping to her side.

“No,” Gwen managed finally, her pulse drumming in her ears. “No, but I—” She drew a steadying breath. “I need a moment alone. Please, all of you, wait outside.”

Only when the door sealed her from their worried faces did she unfold the message. The elegant strokes of her brother’s hand seemed at odds with their fractured relationship, each careful letter a reminder of choices made and trust broken.

Sister, I know things between us are strained, but I need to see you. There are matters we must discuss, away from prying eyes. Meet me at the place where we used to play as children, two days hence. At dusk. Please, sister, come alone.

The abandoned watchtower. Memory stirred like autumn leaves – she and Elyan, still new to Camelot, scrambling through crumbling corridors with other craftsmen’s children and she trying to keep her younger brother in sight. Despite the warnings of their parents, they’d perch on the parapet to watch merchants and travelers pass below, listening to the other children, wistful of the lives they’d left behind at Meadow Manor, and dreaming of new adventures to come in the great city. From its highest point, the world had seemed endless, full of promise. Now that same tower beckoned with darker purpose.

She read the message once more, each word taking on new shadows. Elyan’s urgency, his insistence on secrecy – they twisted in her mind like serpents. Her fingers traced the graceful lines of the letters as memories of his recent coldness, his anger, mingled with whispers of unrest in the city’s depths.

Elyan wanted to meet alone, yet her trust in him wavered. Through the heavy door, she could hear the low murmur of Fredrick’s voice, probably reassuring Jacinth and Sefa. Her faithful protector was mere steps away – she knew she would need to share this with him and the knights soon. And yet, did she want to break her brother’s trust before they could even begin to repair it?

Gwen pressed her palm against the cool stone wall, seeking anchor as the morning’s burdens multiplied. Arthur torn from her side, Camelot’s foundation trembling beneath her feet, and now her own brother emerging from silence with words that promised both hope and danger. She just needed time....

Yet queens could not afford the luxury of doubt. Each crisis demanded grace, each challenge required wisdom – and now more than ever, Camelot needed its queen steady and sure. She folded the letter with precise movements, each crease as sharp as the choices before her. The parchment disappeared beneath her bodice, close to her heart where its secrets could stay hidden until she decided their worth. Drawing herself up, she let the mantle of sovereignty settle over her like armor, piece by piece, until Queen Guinevere emerged ready to face whatever the day might bring.

Opening the door, she found exactly what she’d expected: Fredrick standing alert, one hand resting on his sword hilt; Jacinth pressed close to Sefa, worry creasing both their brows; George hovering discretely in the background, ready to attend any need.

“Sefa,” Gwen said, pleased at how steady her voice sounded, “why don’t you show Jacinth to the southeastern garden. She’ll find the herbs there familiar, I think.” She managed a small smile for her friend. “Perhaps you can help the gardeners with their organization – they never quite get it right.”

The transparent attempt to make Jacinth feel useful worked – her friend’s face brightened slightly. As Sefa led her away, Gwen turned to George. “Bring Arthur’s schedule to my office. I’ll need to see which matters require immediate attention.”

George bowed. “Right away.”

“And George, summon my seamstress,” she added, her fingers brushing the hidden letter. “I’ll need riding attire ready within two days.” Just in case.

Alone with Fredrick, he closed the door to the royal chambers as she paused. “Gwen, what is it?” he asked, a tender touch on her arm.

Gwen met his concerned gaze, drawing strength from his steady presence. “In time,” she smiled. She started down the stairwell, her steps measured and sure despite the weight of decisions pressing upon her. A queen’s choices were never simple, especially when they involved matters of the heart. But she had learned to wear both crown and conscience with equal grace. She would find a way to bridge the gap between sister and sovereign, between trust and protection. Arthur would expect nothing less of her.

Chapter Text

Merlin stared at his reflection in the mirror, barely recognizing the man who gazed back. The high-collared obsidian cloak fell to his knees like liquid shadow, its edges trimmed with subtle arcane symbols that seemed to shift in the candlelight. Three silver clasps, each bearing the mark of the Old Religion, secured the fitted tunic beneath. At his throat hung Arthur’s gift from his appointment as Court Magician—a dragon pendant wrought in ancient silver and onyx, its wings spread in eternal flight, ruby eyes gleaming against the dark metal. He’d kept it stored away, uncomfortable with such a fine token of his friend’s esteem. Now it felt right to wear it.

His sullen eyes traced the lines of the wardrobe he’d spent hours in the night transforming, his magic responding to his grief and determination by threading darkness through every fiber. Gone were the fine crimson tunic and silk scarf of his court attire. In their place, supple black leather bracers protected his forearms, etched with protective runes. A single belt of darkened leather crossed his waist, bearing only essential items: a dagger in an obsidian sheath, gloves, and a small pouch containing crystals he’d enchanted for tracking Arthur. The ensemble was a deliberate choice, dark fabric that matched his current state of mind and newfound embrace of his true nature. Where once he’d practiced restraint at every turn, now his magic surged freely through every gesture, every breath, every appearance.

The dragon pendant caught his gaze, its ruby eyes seeming to hold secrets older than time. Yesterday’s secrets pressed upon his chest like a lodestone—such a monumental yet sorrowful revelation that had not been his to know. He’d sensed it in the glade – Arthur and Gwen’s unborn heir, whose very existence would reshape Camelot’s future. The child’s nascent magic resonated with his own, a harmony that still left him breathless to contemplate. Like Arthur, whose magic manifested through Excalibur, this child possessed power in his blood—whether inherited or somehow imbued during conception, Merlin wasn’t certain. But unlike his father’s channeled abilities, the prince’s magic seemed raw and unfettered. Would the king and queen understand what this meant for their child? For the kingdom?

Merlin’s thoughts turned to Galahad, wondering if his mentor’s gift for seeing magical auras had already revealed this secret to him. That delicate knowledge would have to be broached with him and Gwen—the responsibility of potentially mentoring a magical prince settled like another shadow across Merlin’s shoulders.

Turning from his reflection, he adjusted the dagger at his hip and crossed to the dining table, each step across the polished stone floor echoing strangely in his ears. As was now customary, a servant had already left water and a small breakfast—fresh bread, cheese, and spiced apples on a silver tray. Such consideration still surprised him.

He ate standing up, starting with the cheese and bread, missing the simple things of his old life, these chambers still feeling foreign despite the lavish furnishings he’d helped transform. As his eyes swept the space befitting his station, Merlin realized there was nothing simple about these quarters. Three tall windows dominated the outer wall, overlooking the familiar rooftops of the upper town, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves he’d filled with ancient tomes and scrolls in the spaces between them. Their carefully arranged volumes now shared space with crystals and artifacts he used for his research.

His workbench stretched beneath the center window, its surface cluttered with mortars, vials, and ingredients for spellcraft. A massive hearth occupied one side wall, where a copper kettle hung ready above the flames. Before it sat a pair of high-backed chairs, a small table between them bearing goblets on another silver platter.

The servants’ arch lay in the inner wall, and to its left stood his four-post bed and an armoire of darkened oak. Ornate tapestries lined the remaining wall spaces, their faded scenes of dragons and ancient battles now holding new meaning for him. Still, Merlin wasn’t sure he could ever get used to his new setting.

His gaze landed on his crimson tunic draped across his bed, Gwen’s gift now a reminder of his failure. The color of loyalty, of Camelot’s heart, of Arthur... No. He wouldn’t wear the kingdom’s colors again, not until he brought their king home.

Merlin selected the spiced apples next, their sharp warmth exciting his tongue as his magic stirred restlessly beneath his skin, responding to his darkening thoughts. Yesterday’s council meeting still burned in his mind—Gwaine, the preparations with Ranulf afterwards, the strategic sessions with Percival and the commanders, mapping out search parties and patrol routes. As he'd crafted his wardrobe through the night, responsibilities had tumbled through his mind like sparks from a restless flame.

His chewing slowed, a hand scrubbing his forehead. Soon they would begin their search for Arthur in earnest, and other duties would have to wait: an overdue visit with the dragons, the research with Galahad into those three stolen artifacts that now seemed ominously connected to Arthur’s disappearance, the preparations for the sorcerers’ council that could reshape magic’s place in Camelot. He reached for the goblet of water, determined to balance it all as a knock echoed through the room.

“Enter,” he called, expecting Ranulf’s cheerful greeting.

The door creaked open to reveal Gwaine and a pretty lady with dark hair. He recognized Lord Badawi’s daughter instantly, his eyes flicking beyond them and wondering where might her servants be—this woman never traveled without her escorts. He also couldn’t help but stare at her, the quiet dignity in her bearing spoke of someone carrying a heavy burden, and her unaccompanied presence suggesting something more urgent, more private.

“Hi, Merlin,” Gwaine said, the knight’s usual swagger subdued, only his eyes showing surprise as he took in Merlin from head to toe.

For a moment, Merlin almost forgot their quarrel, thrown by the unexpected sight of these two together—one of Arthur’s most loyal knights and the daughter of an accused traitor. But then...

He blinked as the echo of Gwaine’s accusations from yesterday rang in his ears: You’re supposed to be this great wizard and If that’s the best you can do, then Camelot is already lost. And the cruel jab about Balinor that made him see red and strike at Gwaine. That hadn’t been just about failing. It was about having all this power, yet being helpless as his father bled out in his arms. Just as he’d been helpless to protect Arthur and Gwen. Merlin set the goblet down, untouched.

“Gwaine.” His voice held all the warmth of a morning frost. He couldn’t help that either.

Lady Yaminah’s hazel eyes, dramatically outlined in black, darted between them like a sparrow caught between two circling hawks. Gwaine shifted his weight, his hand gesturing toward his companion with formality. “Um, may I introduce the Al-Sayyidah Yaminah Zahir of the Northern Plains.”

Her curtsey carried the fluid grace of nobility, her silk dress rippling in shades of emerald and gold. Her accent, when she spoke, held the warmth of foreign shores. “Lord Merlin.”

“My lady.” Merlin inclined his head, shoulders rigid as a castle wall. “Call me Merlin. Please come in.”

Grasping the pendant around her neck, she glanced at Gwaine before stepping into the chamber. Gwaine cleared his throat, closing the door behind them. “Right. Well. About yesterday, Merlin—”

“Why you’re here?” Merlin turned away, heat rising at the nape of his neck as he crossed to the bookshelf behind him, his eyes searching the bindings for anything, though the words blurred together. “I assume this isn’t a social call.”

“No.” Gwaine’s boots scuffed against the floor. “No, it’s not. But I’m sorry. About what I said. You didn’t deserve—”

“No, I didn’t.” Merlin bit out. He grabbed a nondescript book from the shelf before facing his friend again. “You knew exactly where to strike, didn’t you? Bringing up my father—” His voice cracked, magic stirring beneath his skin like a brewing storm.

“It was unfair,” Gwaine admitted. “I crossed a line I never should have. The words just... came out.”

Merlin knew Gwaine’s bitter words had been born of fear, anger, and fatigue. Now, seeing the genuine remorse in Gwaine’s eyes touched him, caught him off guard. Remembering the years of their friendship, he closed the book, set it back on the shelf. The silence returned, but something in it had shifted, like the first crack in winter ice.

Lady Yaminah’s fingers found the diamond pendant at her throat—a gesture Merlin had noticed her repeat several times now. “Actually,” she stepped forward, a slight tremor in her voice, “I’m the reason for this visit. We—I need your help, Lord Merlin.”

Merlin shook his head. “Just Merlin, my lady. I’m still a servant at heart.”

“A servant who wears black now,” Gwaine observed, a hint of his old humor returning. “Very imposing. Very mysterious sorcerer-esque. Though I preferred the neckerchiefs myself.”

Despite everything, Merlin felt the corner of his mouth twitch. “The neckerchiefs didn’t exactly command respect at council meetings.”

“No, but they had character.” Gwaine’s smile faded as quickly as it appeared, his eyes finding the lady.

Lady Yaminah drew a steadying breath. “My brother claims I have magic,” she began softly. “He says our father bound our powers when we were children. That this jewelry—” She gestured to the diamond at her throat. “That it’s not just an heirloom but a prison.”

Merlin’s eyes widened. Of all the reasons he’d imagined for their visit, this hadn’t crossed his mind—though it explained her arrival without servants. Such a revelation couldn’t risk being overheard, not even by her most trusted attendants. Lord Badawi—the man who’d spent years denouncing sorcery as an affront to God—might have used magic himself to bind his own children? His gaze fixed on the diamond pendant, studying it with new understanding. He glanced at Gwaine, whose expression confirmed this wasn’t news to him. “Your brother...?”

“Youssef,” she replied as if it were painful to speak his name, her eyes downcast. “He now serves King Lot.”

“That’s not common knowledge,” Gwaine added. “And we’d appreciate it if…”

Merlin nodded, letting the words settle, each one adding weight to an already impossible situation. Sir Youssef serving King Lot—that detail alone carried ominous implications given recent events with this family, but he filed that away for later consideration. Fear could indeed drive people to desperate acts—hadn’t he seen it with Uther? With Morgana? How many others had hidden their magic, bound it, denied it out of terror?

Merlin nibbled on his thumbnail before he quickly tucked his hands under his arms. Knights were gathering for the search parties in the courtyard on the other side of the castle—men soon to be waiting for him. With the search barely begun, and now this... He rubbed his temples. “I don’t suppose this could wait a few days?”

“She leaves for the Northern Plains soon,” Gwaine said quietly. “And Merlin... she needs to know the truth. About herself. About what she might be capable of.”

Merlin studied Lady Yaminah for a moment. “Magic isn’t something to be tested lightly, my lady. Especially not now, with tensions in Camelot running high between the magical and non-magical communities.”

“I understand the timing is... unfortunate,” Lady Yaminah said. “But I cannot return home carrying this uncertainty. My father sits in your dungeons, my brother serves our enemy, and I—” Her voice caught. “I’m not sure I know who I am anymore.”

“You’re still you,” Gwaine said softly, moving closer to her. “Magic or no magic.”

The tenderness in Gwaine’s voice made Merlin still, caught his attention. He’d never heard that tone from his friend before, and certainly hadn’t expected it directed at the daughter of a traitor. The way Gwaine stood near her without quite touching, the subtle lean of her body toward his—there was a story here Merlin hadn’t been told.

“Look,” Gwaine continued, turning to Merlin, “I wouldn’t ask this of you now. Not with Arthur—” He swallowed hard. “But if there’s even a chance her father did this to her...”

“Like Gaius did to Morgana?” The words escaped before Merlin could stop them.

Lady Yaminah’s brow creased. Gwaine questioned, “What?”

“Nothing.” Merlin spun away, moving to put distance between them. “It’s not the same situation.”

“But it is, isn’t it?” Gwaine pressed. “Keeping someone from their true nature, from knowing who they really are—how is that different?”

Merlin turned back, a sharp retort on his tongue, but stopped at the sight of Lady Yaminah’s face. Fear warred with hope in her expression, reminding him painfully of another time, another person who’d discovered their magic too late. He’d failed Morgana, failed to help her understand and accept her gifts before fear and hatred poisoned her heart.

“Have you spoken to your father, my lady?” Merlin asked. “Perhaps…”

“How can I, my lord?” Her voice remained steady despite the tremor in her hands. “If Youssef speaks true, then every moment I spent in prayer, every teaching about magic being an affront to God—it was all built on my father’s lies.” She touched the pendant again, this time with purpose rather than nervous habit. “I cannot face him until I know who I am. What I am.”

“May I see the pendant?” he asked finally.

Lady Yaminah’s fingers trembled as she reached for the clasp at her nape. “I haven’t removed it since my brother’s accusations.” She hesitated. “In truth, I’ve seldom taken it off except when necessary.”

“May I?” Gwaine stepped behind her, his hands moving to help with the clasp. The simple gesture carried an intimacy that made Merlin look away. There was definitely more between them – a connection that both intrigued and concerned him, given the complexities of their situation.

Once freed, Merlin held out his palm and Lady Yaminah placed the pendant in it. She drew a sharp breath, one hand rising to her now-bare throat, but gave no other indication of discomfort. Merlin held it up, the diamond refracting the morning light in strange patterns across his chambers. It looked ordinary enough—a perfectly cut stone in an intricate gold setting—but as he turned it over, he noticed unusual markings etched into the metal backing. He squinted at the tiny script.

“There’s something...” Merlin moved to his workbench, absently lighting the candles there with a wave of his hand as he retrieved a brass device from a drawer—two circular frames joined by sliding rings, each holding a curved glass lens. Setting the viewing device near their warm glow, he adjusted the rings until the lenses aligned at the proper distance. He held the pendant closer, studying the metal backing through the paired glasses. “They’re in the Old Religion’s tongue, but the dialect is... different. More ancient, perhaps.” He glanced at Lady Yaminah. “How long has this been in your family?”

“Generations, or so my father claimed.” She leaned closer, trying to see the markings. “Though now I wonder if that too was a lie.”

Merlin rotated one of the brass rings, shifting the second lens closer to the first. The tiny markings sharpened into crisp lines. “There seems to be some truth to what your brother told you, at least in regards to the jewelry. These particular runes... they’re more sophisticated than simple binding spells. The outer symbols form a complete circle, each with its own purpose—binding, sealing, containing. Look here.” Gwaine and Lady Yaminah moved closer as he traced one delicate rune with a fine metal pin. “See how the lines flow into each other? Your magic isn’t trapped or suppressed, it’s... redirected. Back into itself, over and over. The craftsmanship is extraordinary, designed not to crush magic but to channel it back into itself, like a river forced to flow in circles. Whoever crafted this understood both the Old Religion and the nature of magic itself.”

He looked to Lady Yaminah, but by her expression - the bottom lip she chewed – told Merlin these answers about the pendant’s origins were as much a mystery to her as they were to him. Such sophisticated spellcraft suggested someone of great magical knowledge and power in her family’s past – or someone they’d sought out. But those secrets, it appeared, were solely Lord Badawi’s. Setting the pendant down, he spread a few more books across his workbench, flipping through pages, comparing symbols to those on the pendant. “As for the release...” He frowned at a particularly complex diagram.

“What is it?” Gwaine asked, tension threading his voice.

“The unbinding requires precision like I’ve not seen before.” Merlin moved to another tome, older than the first. “One mistake and—” He caught himself, glancing at Lady Yaminah. “I don’t think we should rush this, my lady. This is a very complex, very old spell. I need time to study it, perhaps with Sir Galahad’s help….”

“Caution is wise, Lord Merlin,” she said. “But what I need is your compassion, and the answers that I trust no one else can provide.”

Merlin looked in her eyes, saw the same desperation he’d once recognized in Morgana—the need to understand, to know the truth of oneself. But this time he had a chance to do things differently. To help someone embrace their magic before fear and isolation could poison it.

“It’s alright, Merlin,” Gwaine said quietly. “We have faith in you.”

Merlin’s gaze fell to the pendant, remembering his own journey of discovery, though very different from hers. “Very well.” He looked between them—the knight and the noblewoman, each placing trust he had yet to earn. “I just need to be certain of the sequence.”

Lady Yaminah’s shoulders relaxed slightly while Gwaine gave a slight nod, the ghost of his usual grin touching his lips. Merlin turned back to his books, acutely aware of their eyes on him as he worked. After several minutes of cross-referencing and memorization, he extracted a piece of chalk from the drawer.

“My lady, before we proceed, you should understand something. If this pendant has been containing your magic since childhood, removing the spell could be... overwhelming.”

“Overwhelming how?” she asked, her hand finding Gwaine’s arm.

“Imagine a river dammed for years suddenly breaking free.” Merlin pushed aside a stack of books, making space on his workbench. “The power won’t know how to flow properly at first. It could be dangerous.”

“For her?” Alarm sharpened Gwaine’s voice as he gently covered her hand with his.

“Yes, and anyone nearby.” Merlin met Lady Yaminah’s gaze directly. “Untamed magic can be volatile—windows could shatter, furniture could splinter, the very air could become like lightning.”

“I need to know,” she said, a surety settling over her features. “Whatever the risk.”

“Then we’ll need more space.” Merlin’s eyes flashed gold, and the remaining scrolls and books lifted from his workbench, floating in an orderly stream to settle on the shelving behind him. His heart skipped—he’d never attempted anything like this before. “And precautions.”

Holding the chalk, his hand hesitated over the workbench. Everything he’d read suggested this could work, but theory wasn’t practice. Still, he began drawing the symbols, each one copied with painstaking accuracy from the texts. The runes formed a perfect circle, each mark flowing into the next—containment woven with protection, release tempered by control. One mistake in the sequence could unravel the entire spell.

“What are those for?” Gwaine asked, moving closer to study the marks. His previous protective stance near Lady Yaminah shifted to cautious curiosity.

“Containment, mostly.” Merlin completed the circle, silently praying his hand hadn’t trembled on any of the runes. The chalk symbols seemed to pulse faintly in the candle light, or perhaps that was just his imagination. “If there is magic bound in this pendant, these will help control its release.” He glanced at Lady Yaminah, her eyes fixed on the chalk symbols. “How do you feel?”

“Frightened,” she admitted, meeting Gwaine’s eyes briefly before squaring her shoulders. “But ready.”

“Gwaine, you should step back.” When his friend didn’t move, Merlin added more firmly, “Now.” He couldn’t risk Gwaine’s safety, not when he was barely certain of his own ability to control what might happen.

Gwaine squeezed Lady Yaminah’s shoulder before retreating to the far wall, a hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “If anything goes wrong—”

“We’ll be the first to know,” Merlin said, his heart thundering against his ribs. He positioned Lady Yaminah opposite him across the workbench. “Whatever happens, don’t touch the pendant until I say so. Understood?”

She nodded, her fingers twisting in her gown at her sides.

Merlin took a deep breath and began to speak words that felt older than time itself, words of power he’d just memorized feeling natural on his tongue. The chalk marks began to glow with a soft blue light. As his voice rose, the pendant rose too, hovering inches above the workbench. The diamond’s facets caught the mystical light, throwing fractured shadows across the walls. Then something within the stone began to pulse, a rhythmic flare that matched the cadence of his spell.

“I can feel it,” Lady Yaminah whispered, her face transformed by wonder. Merlin saw her hands tremble, though she remained steady where he’d positioned her. “Like... like a heartbeat.”

The pulsing grew stronger, faster, as if the magic inside fought for freedom. The diamond’s clarity began to cloud, smoke forming within it. Though his voice never wavered, Merlin desperately tried to recall if the texts had mentioned this reaction. The chalk circle blazed brighter, containing whatever force was awakening. His own magic surged in response, recognizing something ancient and powerful struggling for release.

Suddenly, the pendant shuddered. A hair-thin crack appeared in its surface.

He heard Gwaine’s voice call his name from afar, muffled, like under water, but Merlin’s eyes never left the pendant. His concentration couldn’t falter—not now, not with the containment circle already straining against the building power. The crack spread like lightning across the diamond’s surface. His voice rose, the ancient words echoing off the stone walls as he fought to control whatever was about to break free. Should he have summoned Galahad, or practiced the words longer, or studied more—?

The pendant exploded.

Light erupted in all directions, but Merlin’s chalk circle contained most of the blast, every fiber of his being focused on maintaining the barrier. Diamond shards hung suspended in the air, caught in a web of golden energy that seemed to pour from the broken stone. The energy swirled, searching, until it found Lady Yaminah.

She gasped as it struck her, her eyes flooding with gold. Her hands flew to her chest as if she couldn’t breathe. Something was wrong—the texts hadn’t mentioned this violent a reaction. Before anyone could react, her eyes rolled back and she collapsed.

“Yaminah!” Gwaine lunged forward, catching her before she hit the floor. “Merlin—!”

“Let me see her.” Merlin knelt beside them, his hands hovering over her still form. Her breathing came in shallow gasps, her skin cold to the touch. “She’s alive, but—”

A sharp knock interrupted them. “Merlin?” Sir Ranulf’s voice carried through the door. “The search parties are assembled.”

“A moment,” Merlin called, but the knight was already entering.

Ranulf stopped short as he took in the scene—diamond shards suspended in air, golden energy still crackling, Lord Badawi’s daughter unconscious in Gwaine’s arms, and chalk symbols glowing on the workbench. His mouth worked soundlessly before managing, “M-Merlin? What in God’s name—”

“Find Galahad,” Merlin ordered, his voice leaving no room for questions. “And Master Ruadan. Let’s hope one of them has knowledge of binding spells. And Ranulf?” He met the knight’s startled gaze. “Speak of this to no one else.”

“The queen?”

Merlin’s chest tightened. He met the knight’s gaze. “No one.”

Ranulf hesitated only a moment before nodding sharply and disappearing as Merlin turned back to Lady Yaminah. Her chest barely moved, and her skin had taken on an alarming pallor. Magic rippled beneath her skin like water under ice, untamed and dangerous. Had his attempt to help only made things worse? Please, he thought, not another Morgana. Not because of my mistakes.

“What’s happening to her?” Gwaine demanded, his voice raw. Gone was any pretense of formality – the fear in his eyes spoke volumes about his feelings for the woman in his arms.

“Her magic was bound for too long,” Merlin said grimly. “It’s overwhelming her system.” He sat back on his heels, his familiar companion returning to gnaw at him. First Arthur, now this. “I should have been more careful, should have—”

“Don’t.” Gwaine’s sharp tone cut through Merlin’s self-recrimination. “Just... help her. Please.”

The last word came out as a whisper, and Merlin saw in his friend’s face the same desperation he felt in his own heart concerning Arthur. He nodded, pushing aside his doubt. “Move her to the bed. And Gwaine?” He caught the knight’s arm. “This could change her—in more ways than one. Are you prepared for that?”

Gwaine’s only answer was to gather Lady Yaminah closer, her head lolling against his shoulder as he lifted her and carried her gently to the bed. Her silk dress whispered against the crimson tunic laid there—the colors Merlin had forsworn until Arthur’s return.

Merlin watched his friend arrange the woman carefully, noting how Gwaine’s usual boldness had transformed into something gentler, more vulnerable. He’d seen this protective side of Gwaine before, but always directed at their small circle of knights, at Arthur. This was different—something that made the knight’s hands tremble as he brushed hair from the lady’s face.

From where he stood, Merlin could see the morning sun painting long shadows across the upper town’s rooftops, so similar to the view from his old chambers. Somewhere beyond those familiar streets, Arthur waited to be found. Yet here in his chambers lay another person who needed him, unconscious because of his actions. Both crises now pulled at him with equal urgency, testing not only his loyalty to Arthur, but the fragile trust being rebuilt with Gwaine.

Chapter Text

George arranged the documents on Queen Guinevere's desk the way his father had taught him to organize papers: urgent matters to the right, pending affairs center, completed tasks left. The soft rustle of parchment punctuated his careful movements as he ensured each stack found its proper place: urgent matters to the right: pending affairs center, completed tasks left, a system that had always served him well.

After his brief tenure as King Arthur’s temporary servant earlier this year, he’d overheard whispers among the castle staff about his supposed obsession with polishing brass. The notion almost brought a smile to his lips, though the timing of his urgent dedication to the fixtures had been purely coincidental with the royal appointment. Their sorry state had required such attention that it had consumed nearly all his free hours, leaving most with an incorrect impression of his priorities. But proper service meant addressing such oversights, whether in maintaining perfect records through his flawless memory, ensuring every brass fixture gleamed, or preserving immaculate order in all things entrusted to his care.

Now he stood at the queen's side in her office, which though more modest than the king's study, suited her practical nature. Straightening beside her desk, his gaze wandered to dark wooden shelves that lined one wall beneath narrow windows, while a comfortable chaise and small table occupied the space beneath an elegant tapestry. The polished stone floor amplified the queen's footsteps as she entered alone, the sound echoing off the chamber walls. Though Sir Fredrick typically stood at her side, today a different knight maintained watch outside her door.

“King Arthur’s strategic actions for the war council in regards to King Lot,” George said, selecting a document from the urgent pile after she settled behind her desk. “It awaited only his seal.”

Queen Guinevere’s fingers trailed over her husband's familiar script, following the notes scribbled in the margins of the military document. George recognized that gentle touch—the same way his Rebecca caressed their children’s letters when they were away visiting her sister in Willowdale. The parchment carried Arthur's distinctive style—firm yet diplomatic, balancing authority with wisdom in a way George had always admired. Now, watching the queen study the king’s words, he wondered if she saw the same qualities he did.

“When is the next meeting scheduled?” she asked, her hand moving with grace as she melted the wax and pressed the king's seal into the bottom corner of the parchment.

George consulted his schedule book, its leather binding a family heirloom from generations of royal service. “Tomorrow, my lady. Third hour.”

She glanced at her own schedule. “That conflicts with the healing sanctuary visit. I was to meet Masters Leonard and Ruadan to assess the space.” Her hand drifted briefly to the nape of her neck, and George knew she was thinking of her brother. “But given the circumstances...”

“My lady,” he ventured carefully, “perhaps keeping the appointment would show stability. The people need to know their queen still intends to address their suffering, even in crisis.”

The queen considered this, her expression softening. “You’re right, George. We’ll shorten the sanctuary visit to half the time, then convene the war council immediately after. Have Sir Percival adjust the military briefing accordingly.”

“Yes, my lady.” George made the notation. The healing sanctuary had the potential to become a symbol of her reign – a place where those wounded by magic could find understanding rather than fear, reconciliation rather than revenge. Even Sir Elyan’s actions had been reframed as evidence of how magic could wound not just bodies, but hearts and minds.

A letter from Queen Annis of Gwynedd lay on the pending pile, its wax seal bearing the crest of Caerleon. “Her Majesty expressed interest in strengthening trade routes through the northwest passes,” George explained, adjusting the parchment so it aligned precisely with the edge of the desk. “The king had intended to discuss the matter with Sir John given Landshire’s position along the proposed routes.”

Queen Guinevere nodded. “Schedule a meeting with Sir John for day after tomorrow following my time with the steward," Queen Guinevere directed. She turned her attention to the neat piles while he recorded the appointment and made a note to contact Sir John. “Next?”

“King Arthur received correspondence from King Rodor,” George continued, selecting another document with practiced care. “Regarding Princess Mithian’s proposal for a joint hunting expedition this autumn.” Having served long enough to recognize delicate situations, he added smoothly, “Though perhaps that might wait.”

“Indeed.” The queen’s voice was composed, though her spine stiffened almost imperceptibly at the mention of the princess. “What of Arthur's second response to the dissenting leaflets circulating in the city? Has he completed it?”

“Yes, my lady.” George extracted the draft from the center pile, placing it before her. “The king made several revisions, focusing particularly on addressing concerns about magical practitioners within the city walls and their place in Camelot's future. He believed a measured tone would best serve to calm fears while maintaining authority.”

The queen studied King Arthur’s careful amendments, her eyes following his thoughtful changes in the margins where his strong hand had softened diplomatic phrases and strengthened reassurances. “Have the scribes prepare a clean copy,” she decided. “I’ll review it before tonight’s council meeting.”

She glanced at the stacks of papers that would normally fill Arthur's morning hours – proposed changes to garrison assignments awaiting his approval, detailed patrol reports from the northern borders, Sir Galahad's latest training assessments of the new recruits, and various administrative matters concerning the daily operations of Camelot. “What else requires immediate attention?”

George moved to reorganize the remaining documents, and as he lifted the stack, a folded receipt slipped free. His quick reflexes caught it before it could reach the floor, his movements swift but controlled. He glanced at it—a purchase from the confectioner’s shop in the lower town—before offering it to Queen Guinevere with slight hesitation. Her eyes moved over the list: honey-glazed almonds and rose-candied violets. She bit into her lower lip.

“The king ordered these delivered to your chambers tomorrow morning,” he said quietly. “A fortnight’s anniversary of your coronation, my lady.”

Queen Guinevere rose abruptly and moved to stand in the thin shaft of morning light streaming from the high window, the receipt still clutched in her hand. She paused, allowing the warm, gentle touch of the rays to caress her body. George noticed how her hand pressed briefly to her stomach, a gesture he’d seen often these past weeks. His lips quirked slightly, remembering how Rebecca had done the same before telling him about each of their three children—just as she had seven months ago. Now the queen stood in that same pose, and his throat tightened at the implications. In this delicate moment, he understood that sometimes duty meant knowing when to be still, when to allow silence its moment.

After several breaths, she spoke without turning. “The garrison rosters next, I think.”

“Yes, my lady.” George selected the relevant documents, arranging them where she could easily view them upon her return. “Several knights had requested reassignment to the northern outposts following recent events.”

The queen returned to the desk, her hands resting on the back of her chair, still clutching the receipt. “Tell me about these proposed rotations.”

“Sir Kay and Sir Bennet wish to transfer from the eastern patrol to the northern garrison,” George began. “Sir Ranulf has volunteered to take one of their positions on the eastern patrol, and there are three newly knighted men ready for their first assignments to fill these vacancies.”

Queen Guinevere reached for the rosters to study the proposed changes. “Sir Ranulf? He wishes to leave Arthur’s special council?”

“That appears to be so, my lady.” In his experience, knights maneuvered for years to earn a place in a king’s inner circle. Sir Ranulf’s request to step away from such a coveted position seemed... irregular and had surprised even King Arthur when it crossed his desk.

Her eyes found the date at the top of the request. "Three days ago," she murmured. Before anyone could have known what would happen in King's Woods.

"With the king missing, I'm sure circumstances have changed his mind," George offered, his throat dry.

“I’ll speak with him myself,” she said firmly, in a way that reminded George of how King Arthur handled such matters – personally, directly. “Suspend all transfer requests at this time. The training reports—continue.”

“From Sir Galahad,” George replied, handing her three slips of paper. “He’s introduced new methods combining traditional swordplay with...” George hesitated, still adjusting to discussing magic as openly as guard rotations. “With defensive magical awareness.”

Sir Galahad was of particular interest to George on multiple levels. The nobleman carried himself with the same refined dignity he recognized from his own training in service—every gesture purposeful, every word thoughtfully chosen. His dual nature as both sorcerer and knight added layers of complexity to court etiquette that he found himself studying with professional interest.

“Magical awareness?” Queen Guinevere’s attention focused sharply on the reports as she settled back into her chair. “How are the captains responding?”

Before George could answer, heavy footfalls and the familiar sound of chainmail preceded a knock. "Sir Leon and Sir Percival, my lady," the guard announced, stepping aside to admit the knights, their armor chiming softly with each step.

“My lady,” Sir Percival said, bowing smoothly. Beside him, Sir Leon simply addressed her, “Gwen.”

George maintained his position at the desk's corner, close enough to assist if needed while maintaining proper distance. He noted how Sir Percival’s expression carried both urgency and while Leon's eyes darted to the window, likely calculating daylight hours for the search parties.

“Report,” Queen Guinevere ordered.

“We’ve divided the area into sections,” replied Sir Percival, pulling a rolled map from his belt, "each assigned to specific teams." He moved to the side of the desk and spread the map so it faced the queen. Sir Leon stepped closer, his head tilted as he studied the map from across the desk. “We’ve completed the initial deployment of search parties, but some of the terrain around Entwash River presents certain challenges.”

Queen Guinevere leaned forward over her desk, her finger tracing the river’s path. “The attack happened here. How many men in each section?”

“Ten to fifteen, depending on the terrain,” Leon answered. “Small enough to move quickly, large enough to defend themselves if necessary.”

“The civilian volunteers?” she asked.

“Already arriving from the outlying villages,” Sir Percival replied, including George in his steady gaze as he outlined the plans. It seemed such acknowledgment of servants came naturally to Sir Percival, a trait of his common birth that set him apart from many of the highborn knights. “We’re organizing them into groups led by experienced trackers. We've also established checkpoints here—" his large finger touched various points on the map in succession "—to create a perimeter around the search area.”

“And the magical practitioners?” Queen Guinevere’s voice remained steady, though George detected the slight tension in her fingers as they rested on the map.

“Some have offered their services,” Leon answered. “Merlin suggested we pair them with conventional search parties, combining their skills with traditional tracking methods.”

“Very good,” The queen said, nodding consent. “Continue coordinating the search parties. I want reports every three hours, whether there’s news or not.”

As Sir Percival rolled and secured the map at his belt, Leon's expression softened. "We'll find him, Gwen." Percival nodded his agreement, his massive frame conveying strength and certainty.

The queen's answering smile, though brief, showed her gratitude for their steadfast support. Both knights bowed and departed as George turned his attention to realigning the documents their strategy session had displaced.

While Queen Guinevere stepped over to the long table and poured a goblet of water, he maintained his post as a silent sentinel by her desk. It wasn’t long for the momentary quiet to end as another set of footsteps approached and the guard opened the door. But before he could announce Sir Galahad, Sir Ranulf appeared, slightly out of breath and reaching for Sir Galahad’s arm. His usual cheerful demeanor was replaced by an urgency that made George wonder if it had anything to do with Sir Galahad’s investigation of the fallen guards’ families, or perhaps some matter of knightly protocol that required immediate attention between them.

Sir Galahad’s posture shifted subtly as he listened to Ranulf's hushed words—the change in his stance suggesting concern in his fellow knight's message. “I’ll be there directly,” he replied in low tones, an understanding passing between them with just a look. These knights had developed their own silent language, much like the subtle meanings he'd learned to read in royal gestures. With a quick bow to the queen, Ranulf departed as swiftly as he had arrived.

Queen Guinevere had already set her goblet down and returned to her seat, her expression betraying nothing of her thoughts about the unusual interruption. When Sir Galahad entered, George observed how the knight's eyes swept the room before settling on her, as if constantly scanning for unseen threats. He bowed with the elegance George had come to expect from the nobleman.

“My queen,” he said. “I have news regarding the investigation.”

It wasn’t lost on him that Sir Galahad’s arrival had coincided with several changes in the royal household. Nor could he ignore that he and Sefa had often been dismissed from certain meetings this past month. He’d noticed her confusion at these exclusions, being new to royal service When she'd sought his thoughts on the matter, he'd simply stated that proper servants understood that trust was earned in measured steps, like wine being slowly decanted to preserve its clarity.

Still, he’d served in enough noble houses to recognize the delicate dance of confidence and caution. Sir Galahad had earned his place in the inner circle through both birthright and ability. George harbored no resentment about this—rather, he found satisfaction in maintaining order around the edges of such significant matters.

“The families of the fallen soldiers have been questioned,” the knight reported. “I found no evidence of disloyalty among them.”

The queen was silent for a moment, her gaze fixed on Sir Galahad. “That brings some comfort, at least.”

“I plan to interview the kitchen staff and castle guards today. However, if those inquiries yield nothing, there may be... other methods of uncovering deception,” Galahad said, his voice lowering. “Magical means that could reveal if anyone has been compromised without their knowledge.”

“Compromised? Without detection?" The queen's voice sharpened. "How?”

Sir Galahad's presence shifted subtly, his bearing now that of a seasoned practitioner discussing the darker arts of his craft. “Some form of mind control or magical manipulation. It’s a possibility we can’t ignore,” he replied, his words carrying the authority of trained expertise. “If someone managed to enchant or control one of us, they could have gained access to sensitive information without raising suspicion.”

She shook her head, disbelief etched on her face. “But how could such magic go undetected among us? Surely someone would have noticed changes in behavior.”

“That’s precisely it, my lady,” Sir Galahad interjected, his eyes darting to George and then back to the queen. “If it was done subtly, neither the person affected nor those around them would notice any changes unless they knew exactly what signs to watch for. Even then, the manipulations can be difficult to detect. They could have unknowingly revealed information or even acted against their will.”

George’s back straightened as a measuring rod, his mind already cataloging every interaction of the past fortnight. The idea that someone could be magically compromised without their knowledge sent a chill through his ordered world. Who had he discussed the king's plans with? Which servants had been near when arrangements were being made? He found himself searching for any irregularity in the castle’s familiar rhythms. Seven days ago, when his majesty first mentioned the respite, how many had been within earshot? Even now, guarding the queen’s privacy was as natural to him as breathing, yet felt insufficient. If magic could twist minds without detection, what defense did duty and loyalty provide?

“That’s quite a disturbing thought." Queen Guinevere leaned forward, her elbows on the desktop, fingers laced and pressed against her lips. "That means one of us could be the traitor—including Arthur or me.”

The queen's words shook George's deepest convictions about service and trust. All the sacred principles that guided life at court—the bonds between monarch and servant, the oaths between knights and commanders, the very foundation of duty itself—suddenly seemed fragile, like a perfectly arranged shelf knocked askew.

Yet, was anything truly unbreakable? Sir Elyan had already proven that even the strongest bonds could shatter.

Queen Guinevere lowered her hands from her lips, her fingers splaying across the desktop as if seeking anchor. “How can we be sure?” For the first time, George heard a touch of fear tinge her voice.

“My methods are not precise enough to detect this kind of manipulation without intimate knowledge of those I question. We’d need to consult with magical experts—specifically, a seer.”

“A… seer,” Queen Guinevere stated rather than asked, her fingers curling inward to rest in her lap.

“Yes, my lady. If needed and with your permission, Merlin and I could locate someone suitable—someone whose abilities and discretion we can trust.”

Even while discussing such dark magical matters, Sir Galahad never fully abandoned his military bearing, one hand resting near his sword hilt as naturally as the other gestured with controlled power. The knight exemplified a new kind of warrior in Camelot's ranks—master of both sword and sorcery, as several others had proven to be since magic's return. Though such combinations once defied categorization, they were becoming an accepted part of the kingdom's careful order.

“Counsel me later on what that means,” Queen Guinevere replied after a moment. “Then I shall let you know.” The chamber fell silent as they awaited her next command, anticipation in the air. “As for my personal servants—you may question George and Sefa once you've completed the other interviews—if you find it necessary.”

Galahad gave crisp tilt of his head. “Yes, my queen.”

But George’s shoulders stiffened when he met Sir Galahad’s eyes. None was above reproach, he reminded himself, noting the searching quality in the knight's gaze. He thought of Sefa, of their shared duties and small exchanges about their daily tasks. Should he warn her about the upcoming interviews? No – a proper servant never presumed to interfere with such matters.

Besides, they had nothing to hide. Sefa had demonstrated nothing but unwavering dedication to the queen, and George took pride in his own transparency, in his flawless recollection of every task performed in service to the crown. Let Sir Galahad question them – their work and loyalty would speak for themselves.

Still, the notion that magic could influence minds without detection... His father had taught him that true service meant protecting not just the crown’s privacy, but its security. He would need to be even more vigilant now.

“Sir Galahad, one final matter,” Queen Guinevere said. “Tell me about the magical training program you began. It sounds intriguing.”

“Yes ma’am.” He cleared his throat. “I believe all who serve in Camelot's defense should understand how to recognize and respond to magical threats,” he elaborated. “Especially those without magical abilities themselves. And even among our own ranks, those knights and soldiers who possess such gifts still require proper guidance in using them effectively.”

“Sound reasoning,” she agreed, examining the recruit assessments more closely. “Given recent events. Though I imagine not all the knights embrace such changes.”

“No, my lady,” he replied, adjusting his stance. Such changes would undoubtedly create discord among the ranks, particularly from the senior commanders who had served under King Uther's strict policies. King Arthur would have navigated this resistance with careful diplomacy, George reflected, introducing changes gradually while maintaining the respect of his father's oldest allies. The king had shown remarkable skill in such matters, balancing tradition with necessary progress.

“We’ll discuss this further when we meet with the other knights tomorrow,” she said. “That will be all.”

As Sir Galahad departed, George returned to the documents on the desk, each paper finding its place even as his mind grappled with these new uncertainties. The king's absence left an emptiness no amount of order could fill, yet he would maintain his duties as precisely as ever – even if magic itself might question their worth.

Queen Guinevere remained seated, her gaze sweeping her office. The moments stretched into minutes and George stilled his movements in the quiet. The soft whisper of parchment and familiar scent of fresh ink filled the air as she drew quill and paper.

“Deliver this message to Lady Hunith,” she said at last. “Invite her to supper tonight, along with Jacinth. And if it’s convenient for you and Sefa, please join us as well.”

The invitation surprised George – not for its impropriety, for Queen Guinevere had always shown careful consideration for those who served her, but for its unexpectedness amid such urgent matters. Though he had served many noble households, never had he been invited to dine with royalty. He adjusted his jacket until it lay perfectly straight. “It would be my pleasure, your highness,” he replied smoothly, accepting the letter from her.

“You may go.” The queen returned to the documents on her desk, returning to the small receipt that was not meant for her to see—at least not until tomorrow.

George made his way through the castle corridors, the queen's letter secure in his inner pocket. He would deliver her message with his usual attention to detail, then inform Rebecca he would be dining at the castle tonight.

He considered the morning’s revelations as he descended the citadel steps – of magic that could twist loyalty, of knights learning to defend against sorcery, of his own carefully ordered world adapting to these changes. And the queen, facing these challenges without his liege lord, yet embodying pure fortitude and grace.

George adjusted his jacket one final time before heading to the upper town where the Lady Hunith resided. Whatever changes swept through Camelot, whatever threats emerged from shadows both seen and unseen, he would maintain his own particular form of vigilance – one measured step at a time.

Chapter Text

When Morgana broke the connection and fell into slumber a few days ago, Aithusa’s powers dimmed, severing their link to the female dragon’s mind. Victory and loss danced within Kilgharrah’s ancient soul like opposing winds. His kin were alive – thriving somewhere very distant.

All thanks to the high priestess, whose patient guidance had awakened depths in Aithusa that his millennia of knowledge could not reach—even with her magic bound and powerless. She’d sacrificed herself for their cause, he realized too late, now lying unconscious while fever and infection took hold. Though healing mortal flesh lay beyond his power, he’d channeled what dragon-magic he could to sustain her life force, to keep her spirit tethered to this realm. But such magic could only delay the inevitable.

Aithusa remained vigilant at Morgana’s side, her grief too profound to attempt reaching across the aether again. Without both her power and Morgana’s guidance intertwined, the connection to their distant kin remained beyond his grasp.

From his perch, he gazed skyward, yearning to soar into the aether and search again for whispers of dragon-song, the hope of finding them hovering tantalizingly close. He turned toward the cave mouth, its stone walls now cold and dark without Morgana’s fire. If she dies, their newfound hope might slip away like mist before dawn.

Remain here with Morgana, he dragon-spoke to Aithusa. I shall return as soon as I can. His wings unfurled as he launched from the shelf toward Camelot, trusting in Aithusa’s devotion.

Merlin…? he reached through the aether, sending his thoughts across the vastness.

Kilgharrah! The reply came swift as lightning, an urgency in Merlin’s voice that made his scales prickle. I have grave news. I must speak with you.

As do I. Dragon Mount in the Darkling Wood – I’ll await you there.”

He didn’t wait for Merlin’s response. The aether seized him, ancient magic wrapping around his form like a second skin, pulling him through unseen realms. Between one wing-beat and the next, the dense forest materialized beneath him, far north of Camelot’s walls.

I am here, he announced, landing on the perch similar to his mountain keep and settling near it.

“So am I,” Merlin said, traces of his enhanced white magic dissolving around him as he approached with purposeful steps, his expression caught between confidence and unease.

“Morgana is ill,” Kilgharrah declared, centuries of wisdom lending steel to his voice. “You must see to her care – cure her.”

His dragonlord did not reply, Merlin's eyes drifting down.

Merlin! he thundered, his dragon-speak echoing through the connection as Merlin’s defiance sparked his temper. “If she dies, the rise of Albion is at jeopardy!”

His met his gaze, sorrow etching his features. “Something never imagined has happened.”

“I am aware: magic now flows freely through Camelot, Emrys walks unveiled—”

“My news is more grave!” Power rippled through Merlin’s voice, his outburst carrying echoes of the magic surging within him. His dragonlord swallowed, his face twisting into pure grief and regret. “I failed to protect Arthur. He was abducted yesterday and we fear the worse. We’ve searched since dawn – scrying pools, tracking runes, every spell I know. Even now, knights comb the forests with torches, but nightfall forces us to regroup.”

Kilgharrah’s ancient bones seemed to turn to ice, his neck arching back as prophecy’s threads threatened to unravel before him. “It appears, young warlock,” he said, each word steeped in remorse, “Camelot crumbles before its foundation even sets.”

“As much faith as I have in Queen Guinevere and the knights, Camelot stands vulnerable without Arthur. War gathers at our borders while magic surges through the kingdom beyond anything I expected.” Merlin’s voice faltered, his eyes distant with fresh guilt. “I also tried to help someone today—to free magic that was bound since childhood. But my haste outpaced my wisdom. She lies unconscious now, overwhelmed by powers she never knew she had.” His hands clenched at his sides. “Arthur is missing, another innocent suffers from my impetuousness, and if war comes...” He met Kilgharrah’s gaze, desperation burning into something ancient and instinctual. “You must help us find him.” His voice transformed from desperation to command, wielding the authority of his dragonlord blood.

“We must help one before the other – which first?” Kilgharrah studied the young sorcerer closely, watching prophecy and duty war across his features.

“Healers attend the noblewoman now,” Merlin replied, his voice steady with resolve. “They understand unbound magic far better than I do. All we can do for her now is wait. But Arthur...” His tone hardened with purpose. “We cannot delay.”

Kilgharrah considered his next words carefully, knowing they would pierce Merlin’s certainty. Before him stood the mighty Emrys facing an impossible choice between his king and one whose destiny had become unexpectedly crucial, of one he’d once named enemy. Lives hung in the balance of either path – Arthur’s capture could spell doom for Camelot, while Morgana’s death would sever more than their newfound connection to lost dragon-kin. Her loss, Kilgharrah sensed, would ripple through destiny’s tapestry in ways he could not yet foresee. The choice he offered would test Merlin’s wisdom as much as his power.

“You may not find Arthur for many days,” Kilgharrah replied, tempering knowledge with compassion, “but Morgana will surely die sooner. She too has a vital role left to play, Merlin. I will search the aether for signs of Arthur’s presence and share what insights the ancient ways reveal. You must aid Morgana now.”

Merlin dragged fingers through his hair, his expression shifting as he accepted the truth of Kilgharrah’s words. “I know,” he murmured, his duties multiplying like stones in an avalanche. “Tell me of her. Did she use magic?”

“She has achieved something that humbled my pride,” Kilgharrah said, memories of their shared triumph still fresh. “Together with Aithusa, we breached barriers I thought impenetrable. For one brief, glorious moment, our minds touched dragons I believed lost forever.”

Merlin’s lips parted, his eyes brightening with the first hope since speaking of Arthur’s capture. “I know. I heard. That’s great news in these dark times,” he said, voice caught between joy and sorrow. “Do you know where they are? Will they return to Camelot’s skies?”

“No,” Kilgharrah said, grief deepening his voice. “The vastness of the aether yields no whisper of their presence, no trace of their song.”

He watched Merlin close his eyes, each lost opportunity carving new hollows into his spirit. Emrys, Destiny’s chosen, yet even his vast powers could not bridge every chasm fate had carved.

“For Morgana, forging that connection exacted a devastating toll,” Kilgharrah continued. “Hades’ Grip claimed its vengeance upon her. Despite my attempts to sustain her with dragon-magic, she has lain unconscious these past two days, fever burning through her veins.”

Merlin’s eyes snapped open, color draining from his face. “Two days?” The words emerged sharp with horror. Tension seized his frame, a palm pressed across his mouth, struggling to master his emotions. “I was... so consumed… I should have...”

“Even I did not realize its toll on her, Merlin,” Kilgharrah offered, regret lacing his admission.

“I’d promised to visit after your contact with the dragons happened.” Self-recrimination strained Merlin’s voice. “But when Arthur—” His jaw tightened. “No excuses. The failure is mine alone.” Resolution hardened his features as he squared his shoulders. “I’ll make this right. I swear it, Kilgharrah. Take me to her now.”

Kilgharrah curved his neck against the stone, a motion as old as the seasons’ turning. Merlin ascended the scaled path with the surety born from years of shared flight. He settled behind one of the great horns and Kilgharrah pushed off. One thought to the aether, and they vanished.

The aether released them atop his mountain sanctuary, dragon-magic bending time and space to its will. Merlin leapt from his back before Kilgharrah’s claws fully touched stone, his purposeful stride carrying him into the cave. His arm swept toward the fire pit. “Forbaernum arisan!” he commanded without slowing, eyes igniting gold. Flames erupted without fuel, their savage hunger filling the chamber as living shadows danced across the stone walls. Kilgharrah watched from the entrance, constrained by his size to remain outside.

Aithusa bounded to meet them, her dragon-speech rippling with harmonies that sang through Kilgharrah’s age-old bones – joy at Merlin’s presence entwined with distress over Morgana’s condition. Merlin knelt to embrace her, his expression softening as if he sensed the depth of her conflicted heart.

“Hello, Aithusa.” The words had barely left his lips when his head jerked sharply, as if struck by an unseen force.

“What is it, Merlin?” asked Kilgharrah, straining to see past the cave’s threshold. In all his centuries, he’d never witnessed such direct sharing of dragon-knowledge with a mortal, not even a dragonlord.

“An image in my mind,” Merlin said, wonderment tinging his confusion. “And with it came a name: Evanescen.” His gaze remained fixed on Aithusa, searching for understanding. “What is this place you’ve shown me?”

“I received it as well,” Kilgharrah admitted, humbled once again by Aithusa’s evolving abilities. “It must be the sanctuary of our lost kin. Her connection to them must have reached deeper than mine during our brief contact.”

“Or she maintains some thread of that connection still.” Merlin studied Aithusa thoughtfully, his hand gentle against her scales. The name Evanescen stirred ancient memories in Kilgharrah’s mind – echoes of whispered legends, fragments of lore lost to time. That Aithusa could access such knowledge, could perceive paths beyond his own vast understanding, spoke of powers evolving beyond the boundaries of traditional dragon-wisdom.

Merlin inhaled. “We’ll speak more of this later, Aithusa. Now, I must help Morgana.”

He rose from kneeling to approach the bed where Morgana lay still as stone. For a moment, Merlin stared down at her changed form, while Aithusa settled on the opposite side, watchful and near. Dark strands of longer hair clung damp with fever-sweat to her ashen skin, her once-defiant lips now cracked and parched from days without water. Sitting beside her, he placed a hand on her brow, confirming what Kilgharrah had told him.

Time’s tapestry unfolded in Kilgharrah’s mind to another time Morgana had hovered near death’s threshold, when Merlin had first wielded his dragonlord power – not with today’s unconscious authority, but with desperate command, forcing him to provide the cure despite his own warnings. Now, years later, he sat at her bedside again, his familiar compassion for her emerging—tentative yet unchanged in its essence.

His palm pressed more firmly on her forehead. “Morgana.” Merlin’s gentle call went unanswered, not even a flutter of response. This stillness seemed unnatural in one whose spirit had always burned so fierce, whether in loyalty or betrayal. Aithusa trilled softly, her head tilting as if sensing their dragonlord’s concern, but Kilgharrah witnessed steel entering Merlin’s eyes, sorrow hardening to resolve.

When he lifted her arm to examine the wounds, Kilgharrah narrowed his focus to her wrist, his own dismay mirroring Merlin’s sharp intake of breath. The delicate flesh bore cruel evidence of the binding magic’s price—dried blood staining pale skin, infection festering where metal had pierced flesh.

“Hold on,” Merlin whispered, his eyes sweeping the cave. Aithusa chirped, her luminous eyes fixed on his movements, her tail betraying her anxiety with each subtle shift. “I’m here now. You’re not alone.”

Those words resonated through Kilgharrah’s being. Though he and Aithusa spent many hours training away, since her collapse, they’d remained steadfast at her side. Yet somehow, Merlin’s presence filled an absence he hadn’t recognized until this moment—bringing something beyond mere healing power to their wounded ward—empathy.

Merlin moved quickly to the small collection of her possessions—the few articles of clothing, a brush, a hand mirror arranged with careful dignity on the cot. Selecting her cleanest shift and retrieving a clay cup, his movements remained decisive despite his urgency. Back at Morgana’s side, a hand hovered over the cup.

“Blóstmá,” he whispered, eyes narrowing to golden slits. Pure water gurgled to the brim, cascading droplets catching the fire’s glow. Within the cup, liquid swirled with an ethereal azure gleam, a display of magic that flowed from his fingers like a mountain spring—natural, purposeful, unhesitating. Kilgharrah observed in quiet amazement as his young warlock demonstrated mastery born not from his own ancient teachings, but from the wisdom of others and forged from his own trials.

He tore the shift in two, folding each half into squares and soaking one in the enchanted water. Every touch to Morgana’s mouth showed deliberate care, letting moisture seep between cracked lips, ensuring the life-giving liquid reached her parched throat. Then, sliding the bracelet aside as gently as possible, he grimaced, the true extent of injury and infection revealed.

“I’m so sorry, Morgana,” he whispered. Guiding her arm to rest across his lap, Merlin used the second square to clean her wounds with droplets from the cup. “Why didn’t I come sooner?” he berated, dragging the back of a hand across his brow. “She’s been suffering two days despite your efforts. And I never returned as I’d promised. I had no idea…”

Kilgharrah remained silent – they both understood the harsh truth behind recent events. Though Morgana often slumbered long hours in her isolation, something more should have alerted him after such a profound and jarring experience with the dragon link.

“Do not despair so,” Kilgharrah rumbled, deep-rooted regret coloring his voice. “My knowledge of human frailties has proven inadequate. Perhaps...” Centuries of certainty crumbled like ancient stone within him. “Perhaps I am not the guardian she truly needs.”

Merlin glanced at him, as if his words had struck some hidden chord. After a weighted moment, his attention returned to Morgana. Cupping her damaged flesh between his palms, Merlin drew a steadying breath and whispered “Iacháu Bendithio. Let no traces linger of death’s decay. Let the light of renewal cleanse your flesh.”

Golden light poured from his hands, ancient magic mending flesh and purging corruption. Kilgharrah saw color bloom across her cheeks as the fever retreated, like winter giving way to spring. Aithusa crooned softly, her neck stretching forward to better observe them.

Morgana stirred from her deathlike stillness, her first sign of life a reflexive attempt to swallow. Merlin slid a gentle hand beneath her neck, lifting her head slightly to trickle enchanted liquid into her mouth. Her eyelashes fluttered against pink cheeks as consciousness slowly returned.

At last, her eyes opened, finding Merlin’s face in the firelight. His smile held no trace of their former enmity, but warmed with quiet joy at seeing her awaken. “Welcome back,” he said, gentleness replacing years of distrust as he folded her arm across her stomach.

Morgana blinked once more, clarity returning to her gaze like morning light breaking through mist. “Noble Merlin,” she rasped, voice fragile with disuse. “You came.”

Merlin cheeks flushed, exchanging a glance that needed no voice. “Rest, now.”

Merlin rose to his feet, but her fingers sought his with unexpected urgency. “Will you stay? For a while?” The words barely carried beyond her lips.

He sank back down beside her. “All right,” he agreed softly. “For a while...” His hand steadied her head as he offered more water. Aithusa then joined them on the bed, her scaled form curling naturally against Morgana’s side. A faint smile touched Morgana’s lips as she traced her fingers along the dragon’s neck, the gesture slow and familiar.

“Are you hungry?” Merlin asked after a moment.

“Yes, a little,” she whispered. Their gazes lingered upon each other before Merlin rose and crossed the cave to survey her meager rations.

Kilgharrah drew back from the cave mouth, witnessing more than just Morgana’s recovery. In their quiet exchange, he saw ancient prophecies shifting like sand in the wind. The scene before him—Emrys tending to Morgana with such care, Aithusa curled trustingly with them— challenged ages of his beliefs. A connection formed in the space where enmity had ruled, as tenuous as the first green shoots of spring yet holding the same promise of renewal. He glanced at the cave, Merlin’s eternal fire now glowing across warm stone, transforming the cold prison into something else entirely.

And he’d proven his inadequacy in caring for such delicate humans. With her near death, perhaps an appeal to the queen might secure a more suitable guardian for Morgana—if indeed a mortal queen held authority to override the goddess’s decree.

Settling onto the perch shaped by time’s own hand, Kilgharrah listened as their voices drifted from the cave—Merlin’s questions about Mordred and his mysterious ally piercing through his contemplation. Even as one wound began to heal, it seemed darker threats loomed on their horizon.

Mention of the druid boy stirred ancient dread, but Kilgharrah found his tenets crumbling. If prophecy could bend for Morgana, perhaps Destiny’s path for Mordred was not carved in stone either. For a millennium, he’d stood as a pillar of dragon-kind, his wisdom unquestioned. Before the purge, his word carried the authority of ages. Had twenty years chained in darkness sculpted him into something rigid and unyielding? With two souls entrusted to his care – each carrying their own distinct power – he wondered if now was time to remember what other ancient truths lay dormant in his memories.

Merlin’s mention of war drew Kilgharrah back to present dangers, primal instincts stirring beneath his scales. As he spoke of Camelot preparing for conflict without their king, Kilgharrah saw how change swept through their world like a great storm—touching dragon and human alike, transforming enemies into allies, reshaping destinies thought fixed as stone. Even an untested queen now readied herself to lead a kingdom through its darkest hours. Perhaps that was the deeper truth Destiny had waited to reveal—that none of them could remain unchanged.

Iacháu Bendithio – Healing Blessing

Chapter Text

Hours after Galahad and Ruadan’s treatment of Yaminah’s unbound magic, Gwaine maintained his vigil beside Merlin’s bed, his hand clamped around her cold fingers despite her raging fever. Evening shadows crept into the chamber, while behind him, the shards of her shattered pendant hung suspended in Merlin’s containment circle, each fragment catching candlelight like a frozen tear. Every glint reminded him of his role in encouraging her to seek answers neither of them had truly been prepared to face.

“Be still, habibti,” Ishka murmured from across the bed, dabbing Yaminah’s forehead with a damp cloth. The older servant’s movements betrayed an anxiety that seemed to deepen with each passing hour. Near the bookshelves, Master Ruadan paced between ancient tomes, searching for answers, while Farouk maintained his silent vigil by the door, dark eyes fixed on his mistress. The chamber felt charged with unspoken fears, with questions none of them dared voice.

Gwaine studied Yaminah’s face in the flickering light, which cast strange shadows across features he’d etched in his mind. Her skin held an unsettling pallor, save for the feverish flush high on her cheekbones. Even unconscious, her fingers twisted restlessly in the bedsheets, as if still seeking the pendant that had confined her magic for so long.

Sir Galahad’s earlier pronouncement rang in Gwaine’s mind: “Merlin’s unbinding was exemplary, Sir Gwaine. Now, her magic seeks equilibrium, like a bird learning to fly after years in a cage. We must be patient.” The assessment had surprised him, coming from this young noble who had joined Arthur’s inner circle during Gwaine’s absence, whose refined confidence in matters of magic reflected his privileged upbringing. While he acknowledged Galahad’s expertise, he found the knight’s academic fascination with Yaminah’s condition difficult to accept. Such scholarly detachment might serve well in council chambers, but it did little to ease Gwaine’s fears now.

In contrast to Galahad’s diplomatic approach, Ruadan’s concern showed in his methodical yet hurried examinations – each touch to Yaminah’s forehead carried purpose, each check of her breathing revealed his underlying tension. “The binding spell was indeed sophisticated,” he had explained, his assessment both direct and grave. “Her magic has its own consciousness now. It moves through her like a separate entity, testing its boundaries, learning its vessel. Until her conscious self and this awakened force find harmony, we must let it run its natural course. The process cannot be rushed.”

Ruadan’s diagnosis coiled around Gwaine’s thoughts while Yaminah’s breathing grew more labored as time wore on. “I should never have brought you here,” he whispered, though he knew the lie even as he spoke them. She’d needed answers as desperately as he’d needed to help her find them.

“No, you should not have.” Ishka’s voice cut through the chamber’s stillness, her composure finally cracking after hours of maintained control. She pulled the damp cloth away from Yaminah’s forehead, her movements sharp with barely contained anger. “Look what your encouragement has wrought, my lord. Was it not enough to arrest her father? Must you now destroy everything she holds sacred?”

“Ishka,” Farouk warned from the door as Gwaine’s jaw clenched, a retort about how well their precious traditions had protected her. Farouk’s tone carried an edge of supplication, but she continued as if she hadn’t heard him.

“You know nothing of our ways, of what this will mean for her position among our people. Already they whisper about her time unchaperoned in Camelot, about a Christian knight’s attention to their lady. And now this?” She gestured to the suspended diamond shards. “Magic? Our Al-Sayyidah with magic?”

“I know that she deserves the truth about herself,” Gwaine scoffed, keeping his voice low despite the anger rising in his chest. “Would you rather she lived her entire life bound? Afraid of her own nature?”

“I would rather she lived,” Ishka replied, each word cutting like steel. “What good is truth if it breaks her? If it makes her unfit to lead her people? If it drives her from her faith?”

“Her faith?” Gwaine couldn’t help the bitter laugh that escaped him. “The same faith that taught her to fear what she is? To see herself as an abomination?”

“Your ignorance suits you, Sir Malven. There’s much about our culture you do not understand.” Ishka’s fingers tightened around the cloth. “You think because you’ve won a few smiles, a few moments of her attention, that you understand what she faces? The commitments and duties that rest upon her shoulders? The arrangements made long ago? The expectations of hundreds who look to the House of Zahir for leadership?”

“Enough.” Ruadan’s command silenced them both. “Your quarrel helps no one, least of all her. Now, unless you both wish to explain to your lady why your prejudices disrupted her recovery...?”

Farouk moved from his post at the door to place a gentle hand on Ishka’s shoulder. “Laqad ikhtarathu, habibti. Salam,” he murmured.

“La yuhimuni, Farouk. She’s Al-Sayyida Al-Jalila,” Ishka hissed, glaring up at Farouk before turning that same hard gaze back to Gwaine. She pressed her lips together, but her stare held generations of judgment – judgment of him, of what he represented, of the surname he’d offered at the coronation feast. He returned to caressing Yaminah’s hand in his, though Ishka’s assessment of his character burned deeper than he’d expected. Your ignorance suits you. The words echoed, challenging not just his understanding but his worth.

No, he knew little of Yaminah’s world. And Al-Sayyida Al-Jalila spoke of a power that demanded absolute adherence to tradition and propriety – a role his presence in her life might complicate. Since that first dreamlike waltz and that one glorious day during festival tournaments, their relationship had been consumed by crisis after crisis – the devastating consequences of arresting her father, their painful separation during his mission, her brother’s defection, his desperate journey back to Camelot to make things right with her. Helping her discover her true nature had been his sole focus after their reunion, and now, he could only watch helplessly as she fought to survive the aftermath.

Yet through the long weeks, he realized that despite his brooding during their separation, he’d avoided truly confronting the broader context of her life. Yes, doubts had plagued him during those eleven days – not just about her forgiveness, but about their very compatibility. But he’d pushed those thoughts aside, focusing instead on his desperate need to make things right. Now Ishka’s words nagged at him, carrying implications he could no longer ignore. How many other aspects of her life, her culture, her obligations remained hidden from him? He’d championed her right to know herself, yet perhaps he was the one who needed to understand more.

Al-Sayyida Al-Jalila. Such authority made him question how this magical revelation might affect Yaminah’s standing among her people, or how it could compromise her ability to lead them in her brother’s absence—he wondered if she had considered this herself. Looking back now, he saw his own naivety in viewing their relationship through the simple lens of love without careful thought of consequences, failing to recognize the intricate tapestry of customs and responsibilities that bound her to her people. What had his love asked her to risk?

A soft gasp drew his attention back to Yaminah, a flicker of golden light rippling beneath her skin, making her entire body arch slightly off the bed. Her eyes snapped opened, but instead of their usual warm hazel, they blazed with pure gold. Strange words tumbled from her lips in that musical accent he loved, though now the foreign sounds held notes of fear. Ishka began chanting a prayer once again as Farouk gripped her shoulder, his lips moving in his own silent prayer.

The golden light beneath Yaminah’s skin pulsed again, stronger this time. Gwaine maintained his grip on her hand, having learned early in these episodes that while others had to retreat, her magic accepted his touch—though each surge sent burning tingles up his arm that left his fingers numb for minutes afterward. Objects throughout the chamber began to vibrate – books rattling on their shelves, candles dancing in their holders, the air itself seeming to hum with untamed power. The room bore evidence of similar surges throughout the day: toppled furniture, scattered papers, broken vessels, and scorch marks on the walls where magical energy had escaped control. Only Merlin’s containment circle remained undisturbed, the diamond fragments suspended in their mystical prison amid the growing chaos.

“Do something!” Gwaine demanded, his voice raw with urgency.

Ruadan’s boots clicked sharply across the stone floor as he strode to the bed. “Step back, all of you,” he commanded, pulling a small crystal from his belt pouch. “As I told you, her body is the conduit her magic seeks. We must not interfere.”

Despite Ruadan’s warning, Gwaine perched on the edge of the bed beside her, defenseless against magic but driven by something stronger than reason. He clamped her hand between his. “Yaminah,” he called softly, willing his voice to reach her. “Come back to me.”

Her eyes found his, gold meeting dark brown, and for a moment he saw such confusion and fear in their depths that his heart nearly broke. Their hands remained clasped, but her other hand seized his tunic, fingers twisting in the fabric while another wave of magic surged through her. The power between them felt alive, like lightning, forcing Gwaine to grind his teeth.

“I can’t—” she gasped, her accent thickening with panic. Her back arched as the golden light pulsed beneath her skin. “It burns through every part of me. Like fire in my blood. Make it stop!”

“You’re stronger than this,” he insisted through gritted teeth, even as her magic burned through him like liquid fire where their hands joined. Each pulse sent flames racing up his arm, but he refused to let go. Behind him, Ruadan murmured something in the old tongue, his crystal pulsing in response to Yaminah’s power. “Fight it. Control it.”

“How?” The word emerged as a sob. Her body convulsed, magic rippling visibly through her like ripples in water. The room trembled around them – books launching from shelves, glass shattering, furniture scraping across stone as if pulled by invisible hands. Still, Gwaine held fast, anchoring her through this storm of her awakening power.

“The same way you’ve faced everything else,” he said, pressing their joined hands against his heart while his free hand caressed her cheek. “With courage. With faith.” He managed a smile despite his fear, trying to pour all his certainty into that single expression. “With that stubborn will that drove you to seek answers in the first place.”

A tear slipped down her cheek glowing with otherworldly light. “This power—it’s remaking me from within. I don’t know who I am anymore.”

“You’re Yaminah,” he said firmly, deliberately using her name alone rather than her titles, speaking to the woman rather than her station. He caught Ishka’s disapproving gaze across the bed before returning to the woman he loved. “Everything else are just... details we’ll figure out together.”

The magic rippling through her seemed to pause, as if considering his words. Her hand released his tunic to pressed against her chest. Her eyes never left his face as the gold slowly began to fade, revealing familiar hazel beneath. The objects around them settled, the air growing still once more.

“Gwaine?” she whispered, her voice weak but her own again.

His heart thundered against his ribs as relief flooding through him like summer wine. “I’m here.”

Yaminah struggled to sit up, but he gently pressed her back against the pillows. Behind him, he heard Ruadan exhale softly, the crystal in his hand dimming. “Rest,” Gwaine urged. “You’ve had quite a day.”

A shadow of her usual spark flickered in her eyes before her gaze drifted to the suspended diamond shards, still caught in Merlin’s containment circle. “Is that...?”

“What’s left of your pendant, yes.” He studied her face, searching for any sign of regret. “How do you feel?”

“Like I’m burning and freezing at once. Everything feels... raw. Unfamiliar.” Her fingers tightened around his, and Gwaine wished he could do more than simply hold her hand. For all his skill with a sword, all his years of training, he had no way to ease this transformation she faced, no way to shield her from what was to come.

The door opened without a knock, revealing Merlin in his new black attire, exhaustion evident in his features. His eyes immediately sought the containment circle before settling on Yaminah. Gwaine remembered her collapse this morning, how quickly everything had spiraled beyond their control. Even Merlin, for all his power, hadn’t truly understood what breaking the binding would do. Their quarrel yesterday seemed trivial now, watching Yaminah fight for control of her own soul. Merlin moved to stand beside Ruadan. “How is she?”

“Still a battle, but more stable despite the condition of your chambers,” Ruadan answered, tucking the crystal away. “She’ll need careful monitoring through the night. This is only just the beginning, Emrys.”

“I’ll stay,” Merlin began, though Gwaine saw duty etched itself across his features—the search for Arthur, the mounting responsibilities of Court Sorcerer, and countless obligations that had worn exhaustion into his friend’s face.

“As will I,” Gwaine said firmly. He hadn’t left her side since this began; he wouldn’t start now.

“You should rest.” Merlin’s gaze dropped to where Gwaine’s hand remained clasped with Yaminah’s, then lifted to study his face. “If you’ve sat here hours absorbing her magical surges, your strength must nearly be spent, Gwaine. You need to restore yourself before you can be of any real help to her.” Merlin’s voice carried the authority of a Court Sorcerer, though tempered with friendship.

“She needs me.” Gwaine met his friend’s gaze, his voice firm. “I’m not going anywhere.” Not after seeing the fear in her eyes. Some duties went beyond oaths and obligations.

“Lord Merlin speaks wisely,” Yaminah said softly. “Please, all of you should rest – Ishka, Farouk—even you.” The older servant moved closer with the damp cloth, her glare meeting Gwaine’s with unmistakable meaning – he’d already caused enough disruption to her mistress’s life, and they were quite capable of tending to her without him. Yet even as Yaminah spoke of dismissing them, her fingers tightened around his, defying her servant’s silent judgment despite her words.

“Besides, habibi.” A weak smile touched her lips, sending warmth flooding through his chest. “I believe we’ve already established that you’ll always be here for me. We’ll see each other soon.”

The echo of their marketplace reunion just yesterday – had it really been just over a day ago? – pulled a reluctant smile from him. He brought their joined hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “Always, habibti,” he promised, the foreign syllables feeling both strange and right on his tongue. He’d heard those words of affection often among her people, but only now did he dare speak it himself. “But I’m staying.”

Across the bed, Ishka’s lips curled in silent derision at his clumsy attempt at their language, but Yaminah’s answering smile held such tenderness that in that moment, nothing else mattered.

Ruadan gathered his robes, inclining his head to Merlin. “You’ve done good work here, my lord,” he said, glancing at the containment circle where diamond fragments hung suspended like stars in midnight. “Another of our kind freed from cruel bondage born of fear. I’ll return at first light to see her progress.”

After Ruadan’s departure, Merlin’s gaze swept over them. His eyes met Gwaine’s, carrying both apology and absolution. “Let me examine you, Gwaine. You’ve been absorbing magical surges for hours.”

“I’m fine,” he protested, though he knew better than to refuse. With a gentle squeeze of Yaminah’s hand, he rose and crossed to Merlin.

Merlin pressed his fingers to Gwaine’s temples, then closed his eyes in concentration. “Any numbness? Tingling?”

“Only when the magic hits. It fades quickly enough.” Gwaine studied his friend’s exhausted features, noting the shadows beneath his eyes. “Though I must say, your chambers have seen better days.”

A ghost of Merlin’s old smile touched his lips as he lifted Gwaine’s arm, examining from fingers to forearm. “At least the furniture can be replaced. Unlike certain stubborn knights.”

The chuckle died in his throat as thoughts of Arthur returned. “The search?”

“We’re looking in all directions – three more teams head north at first light.” Merlin released Gwaine’s arm, his hands dropping. “The druids reported strange energy several leagues east of the castle, but every trace led to nowhere.” He paused, his expression shifting from troubled to mild amazement. “You’re resistant somehow. To her magic. It should have caused more damage, yet...” He shook his head. “Another mystery for another time.”

“We seem to collect those lately.” Gwaine squeezed Merlin’s shoulder. “Get some rest, old friend. Arthur needs you sharp tomorrow.”

“You too, Gwaine.” Merlin’s tone brooked no argument as he moved to stand before the containment shield, studying the suspended shards intently.

“Gwaine?” Yaminah called softly. As he approached the bed, the candlelight caught her wild hair, casting shadows that reminded him of polished obsidian. Despite her pallor and evident exhaustion, something in her bearing had changed – as if chains he’d never noticed were finally falling away.

“Yes?” He clasped her hand as he sat beside her, his heart lifting at hearing her speak with such clarity since the ordeal began, though worry nagged at how long it might last. Would this moment of lucidity slip away like the others?

“Thank you. For helping me. For seeing me.”

He smiled, memorizing how she looked in that moment – tired but undefeated, scared but determined. “Thank you for trusting me enough to show me.”

In the quiet of Merlin’s chambers, as the night deepened around them and Yaminah slipped into slumber, Gwaine understood with bone-deep certainty that his heart belonged to a woman whose very nature was transforming before his eyes. Across the bed, Ishka’s presence was a constant reminder of all that stood between them. Yet despite knowing so little of Yaminah’s world, her customs, the intricate traditions that had shaped her, he would learn. He would prove that ignorance need not define him. Whatever changes her unbound magic might bring, he would face them at her side, determined to understand not just the woman she was becoming, but the rich culture that had forged her.

Because that’s what love meant – accepting someone not just as they were, but as they might become, and walking the path of discovery together.

“Laqad ikhtarathu, habibti. Salam,” – “She’s chosen him, beloved. Peace.”

“La yuhimuni.” – “I care not.”

Al-Sayyida Al-Jalila - title for women who inherit or independently manage family estates and holdings.

Chapter Text

After spending yesterday questioning the castle staff, soldiers and guards, and other potential suspects, Galahad faced one of his most delicate tasks – interviewing the royal servants George and Sefa at Queen Guinevere’s command. Investigating those who served the crown most intimately troubled him deeply, yet Galahad knew that no one, not even the most devoted servant, could escape scrutiny.

Their innocence would then cast shadows on the king’s inner circle – perhaps even reaching the throne itself. Sir Elyan’s betrayal had already revealed fissures among them; another traitor might shatter what remained of their fellowship. Galahad’s fingers curled tighter around his list of questions at the thought. Such devastation befalling the grieving queen and her faithful knights could jeopardize the kingdom’s stability.

Queen Guinevere presided from the short dais, a faint golden aura surrounding her. The gem in her gold-braided circlet caught the morning light like a star at dawn as she sat straight-backed, her hands folded in her lap. Galahad stood alone beside her, the minimal audience designed to put the servants at ease during questioning.

The lesser hall’s wooden doors groaned on ancient hinges as George entered, each step precise as a clockmaker’s pendulum. His bow flowed with practiced perfection, his immaculate attire befitting the refined standards of the royal household. No magical aura surrounded the manservant, though his bearing radiated the quiet pride of one who had mastered his calling.

Galahad descended the dais and took his position where he could observe both queen and servant. His hand settled on his sword hilt as the other lifted the list of questions. “Do you understand why you’re here?”

George met his gaze. “Of course, Sir Galahad,” he responded, each word flowing with assurance. “I’m here to aid in any way possible the investigation into our beloved monarch’s disappearance.” Pride suffused his certainty, resonating with absolute belief.

“Well put,” Galahad replied with a nod, the rustling of his cloak and crinkle of his notes filling the momentary silence. “How long have you been in the service of the king, Master George?”

“One month, two days, and fourteen hours, my lord,” he answered with such swift precision that Galahad couldn’t stop his eyebrow from lifting. Such exactitude reminded him of his childhood tutors – though they’d have envied George’s ability to count days without consulting the almanac. He’d likely be able to state the exact hour he presented his credentials to the king.

Galahad asked, “Do you like working for King Arthur?”

“It’s the highest honor to serve his majesty, the king. I could not have wished for more.”

“I understand you did not accompany the king and queen to Entwash River. Where were you during their absence?”

“In the castle mostly,” George replied. “A few errands outside of the citadel. To be effective, my goal is to accomplish my daily tasks quickly, efficiently.”

Galahad studied the manservant, intrigued by the refinement in his speech, the delivery of his responses. Camelot seemed to collect educated commoners like precious manuscripts – many revealing unexpected depths of knowledge. The thought would surely scandalize the nobility at Clarwick, where they prided themselves on their superior education.

“Sir Galahad?” Queen Guinevere’s voice pulled him from his musings. Her raised brows and questioning eyes reminded him of his duty. “Your delay?”

“Apologies, my queen. A minor distraction.” Heat rose beneath his collar as he acknowledged his lapse – noble-born and knighted being called to task by his sovereign. Clearing his throat, the sound harsh in the stillness of the room, he consulted his list. “Can anyone corroborate your whereabouts?”

“Many, my lord,” he answered smoothly.

“Names, Master George. Please provide them.” Galahad’s words were firm, his gaze unwavering.

“Cook and the scullery maids first thing. The armory officer – Arthur’s spear and dagger needed attention. The tailor in town. Sefa as well…” George recited his encounters throughout the morning, the soft rustle of his sleeves filling the momentary pauses. Galahad found himself comparing how the servant’s detailed accounting surpassed the vague responses of previous interviewees. Where others recalled glimpses of their movements, George offered a detailed chronicle.

Galahad glanced at the queen, a faint smile touching her lips, before returning his attention to the servant. “Thank you, George,” he interrupted, lifting a hand, the scrape of his boots against stone punctuating his slight adjustment in stance. “Perhaps you could prepare a written list for me later?” The request carried a polite but unmistakable command.

“Yes, my lord.”

“As King Arthur’s personal servant, you had knowledge of his travel plans. When did you learn of them?”

“Seven days ago, my lord. After Sir Elyan…” George’s composure wavered for the first time as he glanced at Queen Guinevere before lowering his gaze.

“A blow to us all,” Galahad said gently. He too had learned of Sir Elyan’s severance from vow and duty about then – the memory still fresh as an unhealed wound. “Did you share details of the royal couple’s planned respite with anyone else?”

“No, my lord. I hold the king’s privacy in utmost regard. I would never share details of any conversation or any private matters of the king or queen.” George’s stance remained resolute, the truth ringing in every word.

“Not even with your family?”

“Especially not my family, my lord,” George replied, looking almost scandalized. “It would be as if shouting to the whole of Camelot.”

Galahad chuckled, easing the tension as he caught the queen’s amused glance, the gems in her crown circlet lending warmth to her features. “I understand,” he replied to George.

“Besides,” George added, “it would violate the trust I hope to build with the king.” His words held both hope and the quiet acknowledgment of doors still closed to him.

Galahad turned to the queen, he too having noticed George and Sefa’s conspicuous absence from most inner circle meetings. She met his eyes, confirming his assessment before turning back to George. They had not yet fully trusted the servants with their confidence, though his time in the king’s service had taught him the necessity of such caution, especially now when each revelation could reshape Camelot’s future.

“Besides you and Sefa,” Galahad continued, “who else had foreknowledge of the respite details?”

“Sir Merlin, and the queen, of course.” George considered each name thoughtfully. “Sir Percival perhaps – given his responsibility for security. Beyond that, I know of no others, my lord.”

“The king moves about the citadel and grounds, interacts with many people throughout the day, in the towns. When accompanying him, did you notice any unusual activity in the days or weeks leading up to King Arthur’s abduction? Any strangers around the citadel or lower town in recent days that appeared out of place?”

“Strangers are common, my lord. But since the coronation festivities ended, nothing stood out as unusual. I should have watched more carefully.” George’s posture yielded to remorse, his shoulders bending slightly.

“It’s all right, Master George. All of us share in that burden.” George’s small smile acknowledged Galahad’s words, a sense of responsibility settling between them.

“Have you heard any rumors or chatter related to plots against the king or queen?” Galahad maintained an even tone despite the question’s significance.

“None, my lord. Such treasonous whispers would not pass my lips unopposed.” George’s declaration carried the sharp edge of fierce loyalty.

“I hold the same conviction,” Galahad nodded. Here stood a man whose service embraced a deeper purpose – the protection of those he served. “Can you think of anyone who might have revealed the royal couple’s travel plans?”

After a moment’s thought, George shook his head. “I’m afraid I do not, my lord.”

“Very well.” Galahad turned to Queen Guinevere. “Your highness, have you any questions?”

“Nothing regarding the investigation,” she replied, her eyes meeting his with subtle understanding. “Your questions were quite thorough, Sir Galahad. Though I would ask after your family, George. How fares your mother? I recall she was unwell last month.”

George’s expression softened. “Much improved, your highness. The physician’s remedies have helped greatly.”

“I’m glad to hear it. And Goodwife Rebecca?”

George’s face brightened, the formality of his bearing giving way to quiet joy. “She fares well, your highness. We shall be adding to our numbers very soon.”

Queen Guinevere’s smile remained gentle. Her hand drifted to her stomach where magic illuminated the sovereign heir, her gesture holding both promise and grief – a new life growing while its father remained beyond reach. Galahad looked away, focusing instead on her seemingly casual inquiry that served the dual purpose of kindness and assessment.

Such questions about family and private matters had been discussed earlier – any inconsistencies might reveal magical interference if they contradicted what was known about a person’s life.

“Thank you, George,” she said, her voice tender. “Your service is much appreciated. You may go.”

When the doors sealed behind the manservant’s departing footsteps, Galahad considered the authenticity of his answers. “He’s a good man,” he observed. “His responses seem genuine, undistorted by outside influence.”

“As you’ve said—sometimes the truest test lies in the smallest details of one’s life.” Queen Guinevere straightened in her chair, raising her chin. “I’m sure we’ll find Sefa equally forthright.”

The queen stood, stretching her neck before stepping behind the throne chairs to pour water. As she drank, Galahad considered his role in this crisis. While his fellow knights scoured the countryside for their king, his duty lay in uncovering the treachery that might have enabled King Arthur’s capture. The task suited his particular talents—the same patience that allowed him to guide others in magical matters now served him in these meticulous investigations.

His thoughts drifted to Lady Yaminah, someone in desperate need of such tutelage. Her awakening magic reminded him of his own first encounters with his powers, balancing squire duties with new and terrifying magical abilities. Though delicacy would be required when faith and power intertwined, her training must begin once she recovers. Nearly a full day later, the woman still lay in Merlin’s chambers drifting in and out of consciousness.

Life in Camelot had taught him to value different paths of service. Through these investigations, he served the crown in ways equally vital as those searching the forests and hills. Each question asked, each response analyzed, brought them closer to understanding how their defenses had failed—and perhaps closer to finding their king.

King Arthur’s castle thrummed in ways his noble upbringing hadn’t prepared him for—where else might one find servants who spoke like scholars and queens who commanded with the same poise they once showed as servants? Such energy charged the very air around him, as potent as any magic. Though the constant ache of missing his loved ones remained ever-present, he’d found unexpected solace in this kingdom where ancient ways and new magic flourished together.

The doors parted and Sefa entered with hesitant steps, the soft scuff of her shoes barely disturbing the chamber’s silence. Through the closing doors, Galahad caught a glimpse of the redheaded woman he’d noticed during the queen’s abduction report two days past. Though she’d remained in the shadows then, her presence had caught his attention.

The queen resumed her position as Sefa curtsied, loose curls hiding her downturned face. A faint pink aura surrounded her, barely a breath of magic, yet unmistakably present. “My queen,” she murmured, her voice matching her delicate presence, her trembling hands wringing the sides of her skirt.

“Mistress Sefa,” Galahad began, but the queen raised her hand.

“It’s all right, Sefa,” Queen Guinevere said in the same soothing tone she used to calm anxious petitioners. “We only have a few questions. Do you understand why you’re here?”

Sefa lifted her gaze, uncertainty flickering across her features. “Yes, my queen,” she whispered.

Queen Guinevere nodded to him to begin his questioning. Unlike George’s articulate understanding laid out with clear declarations, this shy and timorous woman preferred brevity instead, her words as fragile as spun glass. Galahad found himself wondering how the castle’s two royal servants seemed to embody opposite approaches to their duties – George’s exactness in contrast to Sefa’s simpleness.

Through each response however, Sefa’s quiet certainty matched George’s formal assurance. Their answers aligned naturally, each showing loyalty to the crown in their own manner. He turned and offered the queen an opportunity for questions, his hand outstretched in deference.

“I know this scrutiny cannot be easy, Sefa,” the queen said softly. “Your service these past weeks has been invaluable and is much appreciated. I know I’ve had little time to catch up with you, given all that’s been going on.” The queen smiled, her gentle tone masking strategy. “Your father is doing well as one of our physicians. His magic and Master Leonard’s conventional methods seem to complement each other.  You must be very proud of him.”

“Thank you, my lady.” Sefa’s shoulders relaxed slightly at the mention of her father, the pink aura surrounding her remaining faint but steady. “He speaks often of their work together, how they’ve developed a system for treating patients, though he says the master healer gives him strange looks whenever magic is used. Still, I think they’ve grown fond of each other.”

The queen’s smile deepened with genuine warmth. “That’s wonderful to hear. And speaking of pleasant matters, how is your young man?”

Sefa blinked, a small smile touching her lips as color rose in her cheeks as she shook her head. “Young man? I don’t have a young man, your majesty.”

Queen Guinevere straightened, tension threading through her jawline while Galahad’s mind raced toward an unfolding revelation. “Sefa, you told me about Derrick Andronicus of Eofham over a week ago. You spoke of him quite fondly and at length. I remember this clearly.”

The girl’s brow creased in confusion. “I don’t know what you mean, my lady. Who’s Derrick Andronicus?”

The queen’s sharp glance met Galahad’s, her lips pressed into a thin line, his next move already calculated. “I think we need that seer now, your majesty,” he said.

See Between the Sorrows and the Passions Chapter 19 Songs Only Two Can Hear if you missed Gwen and Sefa’s conversation about Derrick.

Chapter Text

In the cave’s quietude, Morgana sat beside Aithusa, her fingers tracing the baby dragon’s scales, drawing comfort from their silken texture. Reclined against the cave wall, she watched Merlin’s conjured flames paint the walls in ethereal blues, their mysterious radiance an echo of his own magic that breathed with a life of its own. His visit had kindled something in her world of stone and shadow, warming spaces long grown cold.

For two days, her consciousness flickered between agony and ecstasy. In her fever dreams, she soared alongside Aithusa through auroral skies, their wings cutting pristine paths through clouds tinged with lavender light. Other dragons joined their dance, their scales catching the ethereal glow like constellations in the heavens. But each sublime moment shattered as pain lanced through her body, drawing her back to the confines of flesh and bone.

In those dark intervals, Kilgharrah’s ancient magic would find her, wrapping around her essence like silver threads in a tapestry, securing her to life when death beckoned. She sensed his growing strain as hours became days, felt the tremor in his power as he channeled more of his strength into preserving her fading spirit.

His vigil over her revealed layers she’d never perceived in the great dragon – not merely vast power, but wisdom born from decades of solitude, and depths of compassion he’d forgotten he possessed. As the last of his kind, he surely understood what it meant to stand sentinel at the edges of existence, watching as time swept away all that was familiar and cherished. Perhaps this shared understanding had fueled his determination to preserve her life, recognizing in her isolation a mirror of his own. Perhaps their mutual yearning to reach the lost dragons demanded she live.

Through it all, the young dragon’s physical presence provided an anchor more vital than Kilgharrah’s mystical tethers, Aithusa’s scaled form pressed close even as fever raged through Morgana’s body. Deep in delirium, Morgana sensed Aithusa’s fear vibrating through their connection, yet the dragon responded not with retreat but with gift after gift of vision – magnificent dragons wheeling through crystal-speared skies, their forms painting stories of hope across her mind’s eye. Each image carried its own silent plea: Stay with us. The wonders are not yet done. You are needed here.

She recalled surfacing from darkness to find Merlin’s face illuminated by azure light, his features softened by an expression she hadn’t seen in years. “Welcome back,” he’d said, his voice carrying notes of the friendship they’d once shared in Camelot’s halls. Her response was barely more than breath – “Noble Merlin... you came” – yet in those simple words, something long-dormant began to stir.

When he moved to leave after bidding her rest, her hand sought his, the gesture startling them both. “Will you stay? For a while?” The words emerged soft and unfamiliar, like a secret she hadn’t meant to share. He settled beside her without hesitation as Aithusa joined them, claiming her place at Morgana’s side – a position she maintained even now.

Merlin’s kindness flowed as steady and natural as a spring-fed stream, wearing smooth paths through her fortress of defenses. Each gentle act – comforts he’d increased for her over time, the quiet companionship last night – carved deeper channels through barriers she’d believed unassailable. As her protection eroded and his kindness expanded, she found herself exposed, like new skin emerging after a long winter’s healing. This raw vulnerability set her adrift between competing currents – gratitude pulling her toward trust while fear urged retreat, her heart following the tide of his presence.

“How does it feel,” she asked softly, seeking safer ground, “to be Emrys, to use your magic so freely?”

Merlin’s eyes found hers, deep blue depths penetrating at the unexpected question. “It feels... natural,” he said, his voice rich with newfound freedom. “Like I’m finally breathing with both lungs, no longer forcing part of myself into shadow.” A soft laugh escaped him as he ducked his head. “Though I’ve barely begun to grasp what my magic can truly become.”

“I see something greater in you now,” she said, her smile gentle, her eyes taking in his new black attire. “You’ve become who you were meant to be. Your magic, your wisdom and compassion growing with each passing day.” A quiet yearning stirred within her as she watched him inhabit his power with such grace – this freedom she’d sought but never found. “The change suits you, Merlin. I’m happy for you.”

Merlin’s face flushed, but his gaze held hers with unwavering intensity. “That strength lives in you too, Morgana,” he said, his conviction resonating in every word. In that moment, the shadows of their past receded, leaving space for something new to bloom between. She felt tears rise at his certainty, at this belief he held in her despite everything, but she forced them back and diverted her eyes away from his.

Before the silence deepened, Merlin spoke of Arthur’s capture and Gwen’s assault. As she shared what she knew of Dodd – his ruthless nature, his shape-shifting powers, his unwavering loyalty to her cause – she felt like she was describing someone else’s life, a story told by a stranger.

Silent tears traced paths down her cheeks now. The yearning for connection, for redemption, gnawed at her bones, yet the barriers built from years of hatred forced a reckoning, standing firm as fortress walls. Her thoughts of Arthur and Gwen, of the devastation she had sown across their lives crashed into her. Even if she found courage to walk a different path, would they ever see beyond the witch who had tried to destroy them?

Morgana eased Aithusa’s sleeping form aside with careful movements, the young dragon barely stirring. Rising from the bed demanded patience, her body still remembering its brush with death. She made her way to the fire pit with measured steps, refusing to let weakness claim her again. The mystical flames beckoned, their sapphire radiance spilling across her as she drew near.

“The flames, Kilgharrah,” she murmured into the cave’s hushed air, her thoughts drifting to Merlin. The strange fire danced before her, its cool brilliance masking the profound warmth that permeated the chamber. “They exist beyond nature’s laws, cool and hot at the same time, pure and endless. Like him... like Merlin has become.”

“You perceive him in a new light,” Kilgharrah said from his post at the entrance.

She offered no contradiction. Merlin’s power manifested with crystalline clarity now, thrumming through him as though magic had become as much a part of him as sinew and bone. He was indeed something new.

She’d observed him with Aithusa too, noticed how his touch whispered across her scales with a parent’s devotion. His face had brightened at each of the young dragon’s joyful sounds, their silent exchanges flowing through subtle shifts of expression, in the quiet harmony of their movements. Though their dragon-speech remained private, their bond spoke through every gentle gesture.

“The young warlock believes in you,” Kilgharrah said, ancient wisdom tempering his words. “As does Aithusa.”

Morgana turned to the great dragon, reading the changes in his demeanor. “And what of you, Kilgharrah? What truth do you see?”

“That Destiny’s paths branch in ways I had not foreseen.” He settled his ancient form at the threshold, scales rustling against stone. “You bridged a chasm my centuries of wisdom could not cross, Morgana.”

Memories of their shared achievement rippled through her mind, along with remembered pain from Hades’ Grip. “I wanted to help,” she said softly. “Not for dominion or revenge. Simply to help.”

“A choice that almost claimed your life.”

“Yet I live, because Merlin chose to heal me.” Her gaze lingered on the otherworldly flames, drawn to their impossible nature. “He offered kindness – a few moments of companionship where none was required...” Her voice grew soft with remembrance. She glanced at her wrists, which held no trace of injury. “Gifts I thought forever lost to me.” On the bed, Aithusa shifted atop the blankets with a soft whisper of wings.

“Time has reshaped you both, Morgana.” Kilgharrah’s ancient gaze rested upon her, considering.

“Perhaps,” she murmured. Weariness pulled at her limbs, yet she remained before the flames, these thoughts demanding voice. “But transformation cannot unmake what was done. Arthur’s kingdom still carries the wounds of my vengeance. Gwen...” She faltered, searching for the fury that once blazed at thoughts of her former friend. In its place lay only silence. “I find no emotion for them now. Neither hatred nor love. Only emptiness.”

“Are you certain it is emptiness you discover?” Kilgharrah pressed. “Or does the absence of hatred finally allow buried truths to rise?”

Morgana’s eyes narrowed. “You presume to read my heart regarding Merlin?”

“I merely observe,” Kilgharrah replied, a rumble of mirth in his gruff voice. “How your pulse races whenever his name crosses your lips.” Aithusa raised her head from the bed, her luminous eyes studying Morgana with unmistakable curiosity as she released a trill.

“I respond to compassion as any soul might,” Morgana said, the cobalt light of Merlin’s flames spilling across the cave walls. “Nothing beyond that.” Yet memory betrayed her words – the catch in her throat when his eyes had found hers, the whisper of awareness that had bloomed beneath his healing touch.

“He perceives the truth of you,” Kilgharrah said gently. “Beyond the shadow of vengeance, past the mantle of priestess. He sees Lady Morgana as she was meant to be.”

She turned from the flames, her eyes closing at his words piercing as a blade. Making her way back to where Aithusa lay watching, each step cautious against her body’s protest, she settled beside the young dragon. “What difference can that make? The Goddess’s decree binds me here, confined to this cave. Merlin’s perception cannot alter these stone walls.” Yet even as she spoke, she found herself wondering when he might return – not merely the question itself, but the unspoken yearning that accompanied it, taking her unaware.

“Perhaps not. But it has already changed you.”

Aithusa stirred with sudden purpose beside her on the bed, the young dragon’s focus sharpening. Morgana recognized the familiar touch of vision pressing against her consciousness – another glimpse of Evanescen seeking form.

The vision bloomed in her mind: beneath lavender-tinged skies, dragons in countless hues wove intricate patterns through the air. Then the scene shifted, revealing towering peaks she hadn’t witnessed before, their summits veiled in eternal dusk. Rising from the mountain’s core, a citadel of living crystal caught and scattered light in brilliant and strange patterns.

“They come in greater numbers now,” Morgana murmured, drawing strength from Aithusa’s presence as the vision expanded. “Far more than other glimpses had revealed. More dragons gather in its shadow.”

“Yes. It’s as if they answer an ancient call.” Kilgharrah’s voice quickened with intensity. “The citadel’s spires pulse with magic – and I sense Aithusa’s essence within it.”

"Your essence within it?" Morgana turned to the young dragon with renewed curiosity, staring into the depths of her emerald eyes. "What does this mean, Kilgharrah?"

"I am... uncertain," the great dragon admitted. "Perhaps Aithusa calls to them without even knowing it."

Aithusa stirred at his words, her eyes bright with understanding that surpassed her years. But before Morgana could question further, the vision began to fade, and Aithusa sank into her embrace, trilling softly. She cradled the young dragon close, lending her own warmth and strength to comfort.

“These visions from Aithusa aren’t like that first contact,” Morgana reflected, “when our minds touched the female dragon’s consciousness. It transcended anything I’d ever experienced.”

“As it did for me,” Kilgharrah acknowledged. “Your connection to Aithusa unveiled paths through the aether I had not known existed. In all my long years, such communion was beyond imagining.”

“Yet Aithusa’s link appears to be constant.” She looked up at the great dragon. “My link slipped from our grasp so swiftly. Why?”

“The power may not have been yours to give. It demands too much.” Shadows crept into his tone, and Morgana sensed the unexpected regard in his voice. “Its cost too high.”

Aithusa stirred against her, releasing another trill. Morgana’s fingers traced the young dragon’s scales, the familiar motion calming them both. “The cost was worth the risk,” she said. “In that single moment, when our minds found theirs... when we knew they survived...”

Kilgharrah remained silent, his gaze turning inward with contemplation. “We lacked a vital piece,” he said at last. “And I believe that piece is Merlin.”

“What do you mean?” Morgana asked.

“The answer eludes me fully, but as a dragonlord...” Kilgharrah paused with deliberate intent before he glanced at her. “His power might complete what we’ve begun.”

Morgana shook her head, a soft sigh escaping. “Merlin’s priority now is finding Arthur,” she said, her voice taking on a practical edge. “He won’t be easily persuaded to divide his attention.”

“I am aware – his devotion to Arthur runs deep,” Kilgharrah acknowledged. “But the fate of his kin cannot wait indefinitely.”

“Then we must attempt the connection ourselves,” Morgana suggested. “Without Merlin.”

A low growl rumbled from Kilgharrah’s throat. “No. The risk is too great without him.”

Her gaze settled on the eternal flames as that first connection surged in memory – the pure exhilaration as their minds found the lost dragons, before Hades’ Grip unleashed its vengeance. Common sense warned against such reckless pursuit, yet she ached to bridge that distance again, to touch realms beyond her prison where magic of a different kind flowed free.

“If Merlin’s power is what we need,” she said carefully, “how would it work? The binding still limits my magic.”

“That remains unclear,” Kilgharrah admitted, his voice both urgent and cautious. “I must think on this further.”

Morgana gazed into the eternal flames, finding herself drawn to thoughts of Merlin’s return. Their time together last night had awakened something she thought buried beneath years of darkness – a flicker of connection in every shared look, in every gentle touch that made her question her worth. Would he choose Arthur over helping them reach the dragons? Would he risk her life again so soon after healing her?

Yet such reflections led to nowhere safe. This fragile understanding between them couldn’t erase their bitter history, couldn’t alter her confinement or his unwavering loyalty to Arthur. Even if Kilgharrah spoke true about requiring Merlin’s power, even if they found harmony in working together, she dared not nurture deeper hopes.

Morgana let her head rest against the stone wall, allowing herself to sink into the gentle radiance of Merlin’s flames. For this brief interval, she would accept the gift of tranquility – Aithusa’s comforting presence beside her, Kilgharrah’s watchful wisdom at the threshold, and threading through it all, the lingering echoes of Merlin's tenderness.

Chapter Text

In the physicians’ quarters, Sefa clung to her father as Queen Guinevere paced the length of the chamber, her emerald gown whispering against stone with each turn. Jacinth sat beside the druids, moving her hand in gentle circles across Sefa’s trembling back. The neat rows of vessels, bottles, and leather-bound tomes ascending the walls reflected something far grander than village remedies—this was healing meant for the heart of Camelot.

Master Leonard worked at the foot of the staircase, his quill scratching against parchment as he bent over his task. When a strand of fair hair slipped from its tie, his instinctive motion to secure it awakened memories in Jacinth’s chest—Sir Erwan at his crossbow, pausing to brush back loose strands before resuming his watch.

“Sefa,” Gwen said, stepping closer to them. “Is there anything you can tell us? Even the smallest detail could help us find Arthur.”

“I want to help, my queen, I do,” Sefa whispered between hitched breaths. “But I don’t—I can’t—”

Gwen resumed her pacing opposite the table where they sat the red gem in her gold-braided circlet bright against her olive skin. As Jacinth watched her, she still couldn’t quite reconcile how this regal figure had once shared simple bread with her in Longstead, then stood as her protector in captivity. Those memories cast new light on Gwen’s confrontation with the Whipmaster—that gentle might had always been there, waiting for its moment. Her friend-turned-queen’s composed expression revealed only the slightest tension at the corners of her mouth, but Jacinth recognized the worry in her eyes.

When Gwen turned at the door, the space seemed to await Fredrick’s presence. Jacinth found her gaze drawn to that spot, imagining his vigilant stance. Her thoughts strayed to him in his chambers, confined to enforced rest, wondering when she might next see him. But she pushed such musings aside, returning her attention to Sefa’s distress.

“I don’t know anyone named Derrick Andronicus of Eofham, Father,” Sefa whispered into her father’s robes. Jacinth pressed a linen cloth into her friend’s hands, and Sefa wiped at her face.

“You spoke of him to me also, child,” Master Ruadan said gently. “Though I noticed you had not spoken of him these past days.” He met the queen’s gaze, his blue eyes clouded with concern. “I dismissed it as the ways of young hearts, nothing an old man should meddle in.”

The tenderness in Master Ruadan’s voice surprised Jacinth, transforming her image of the man she’d met yesterday. She remembered how his jeweled amulets and rich robes had filled the corridor, his sword and dagger marking him as more than just a healer. Now his voice flowed gentle as spring water while he cradled his daughter.

“He manipulated you for information about the king and queen,” he concluded, anger threading through his words. Sefa curled deeper into his embrace, fresh sobs shaking her frame. Jacinth’s teeth worried her lower lip as she met Gwen’s gaze, finding her own unease mirrored in her queen’s eyes.

“My queen.” Master Leonard’s heels struck a solemn cadence on the stone floor as he approached Gwen, offering her the parchment. “I’ve recorded my examination findings of Sefa. There’s nothing physically wrong with her. Whatever is affecting her memories, it isn’t a medical issue.”

Gwen’s face tightened as her eyes moved over the parchment, though her voice remained steady. “Thank you, Leonard. We’ll have to see if the seer can provide any further insight.”

The past few days had upended Jacinth’s world. She’d barely crossed the castle threshold when certainty crumbled around her—the king’s disappearance, Gwen’s brush with death at the stream, and now Sefa, whose warm welcome to Camelot had turned to ashes as she denied memories that painted her a traitor. Tears burned behind Jacinth’s eyes as she watched her new friend tremble. Court intrigue, she realized, carved wounds deeper than any village dispute could reach.

Gwen drew near to the druids, her hand finding Sefa’s, offering the gentle touch that Jacinth remembered from her own darkest moments. “Sefa,” Gwen said, radiating the same resilience that had sustained them during their captivity, “dry your tears and look at me.”

Sefa’s sobs gentled into uneven breaths as she dabbed at her face before raising her reddened eyes to meet her queen’s gaze. “I’m sorry, my queen,” she whispered with trembling meekness. “I would never—”

“I know what it’s like. I’ve been in your place, and I’m truly sorry this has happened to you.” A haunted expression flickered across Gwen’s face, but her voice held firm. “I’ve been cursed to do things that I otherwise would never have done. My life nearly shattered more than once from forces beyond my control, but others fought for me when I couldn’t fight for myself. We won’t abandon you now.”

This glimpse into Gwen’s own experience with magical violation shifted Jacinth’s understanding of her queen. The mettle she’d witnessed in their captivity, the deep compassion she showed to others – these weren’t just noble virtues, but a noble truth forged in the fires of her own devastating struggles against forces that might have broken a lesser spirit.

Jacinth’s gaze swept the room, taking in each reaction to this revelation—Ruadan’s expression tempering with newfound respect, Leonard leaning forward with scholarly intensity, and Sefa’s face brightening with renewed hope. Though still finding her footing in court life, her connection to both women drew her deeper into their story.

She cleared her throat, gathering her courage. “Master Ruadan, Gw-Queen Guinevere,” Jacinth said, the royal address still catching in her throat, “what will happen to Sefa? What can a seer reveal about her lost memories?”

“If I may, your highness,” Ruadan said, waiting for Gwen’s nod before continuing. “A seer’s gift reaches beyond what ordinary eyes can perceive. They might uncover the truth hidden in Sefa’s mind, show us what has been taken from her. Perhaps aid us in finding the king.”

In her few days at court, Jacinth had sensed how deeply the king’s absence permeated daily life – servants speaking in hushed tones, knights gathering in urgent clusters, magical practitioners coming and going at all hours. The castle itself seemed to hold its breath, waiting for its sovereign’s return.

Jacinth nodded slowly, remembering her village where magic lived only in whispered claims from three brave souls after the ban lifted. Her only true glimpse of such power had come during her rescue— unseen forces ripping through the Southron camp, scattering bodies and weapons like leaves in a gale. Those memories invaded her dreams still.

Now, watching Sefa tremble, that same unease stirred in her stomach. Here in Camelot, magic wasn’t confined to whispers and rumors—it touched everything, immediate and raw in its power. Her pulse quickened with the realization of how far she’d wandered from the comfortable patterns of village life, into a world where even memories could be stolen.

The door opened, jolting her from her own mounting dread, and Gwen’s sorcerer entered, the one whose magic had scattered papers and toppled candles during that heated exchange with Sir Gwaine two days ago. Merlin—she’d learned his name—wore dark attire that suited the man who had commanded such power, his presence filling the room as naturally as smoke from a hearth. Black hair fell in waves to his neck, and his deep blue eyes fixed immediately on Gwen with unmistakable concern.

The woman who followed him drew Jacinth’s attention like a flame in darkness. Tall and regal, she carried herself with a fluid grace that seemed to transcend ordinary movement. Small carved bones and silver rings adorned intricate plaits, each piece seemingly placed with ritual purpose in her light brown hair. Her gown of midnight-blue silk flowed like liquid shadows, embroidered with silvered threads that traced intricate geometric patterns, each delicate stitch a whispered map of ancient mysteries. This, Jacinth knew with certainty, must be the seer.

Sir Maxwell secured the door behind them. Jacinth watched him take his place there, still finding it strange that this was the same Sir Galahad who had questioned Sefa. She wondered what personal story had prompted this change, what determination had led him to choose a different name. To her, he would always be Sir Maxwell, the name she’d known when he and Fredrick broke her cage that day and pulled her to safety.

She caught him glancing her way, his expression softened with the same subtle interest she’d noticed since her arrival. He quickly diverted his gaze, cheeks flushing. She shook her head. Her heart held no space for the knight’s gentle overtures— not while her thoughts remained fixed on Fredrick.

As the others gathered around Gwen, Jacinth’s mind drifted to those five days on the road from Longstead. She’d watched Fredrick lead their small party through forest paths and open meadows, his assured leadership revealing why he’d been chosen as the queen’s protector. Yet those days had only deepened an impossible longing that had begun the moment his arms lifted her from that cage. She knew she must seem little more than a child to him, just another soul he’d rescued, but her heart refused to listen to reason.

“Queen Guinevere.” Merlin’s voice filled the chamber with subtle power, making Jacinth straighten instinctively. He turned to present the woman with bone-adorned braids. “May I introduce Lady Wynifreed of Brechfa, a seer of great renown among my people.”

Gwen inclined her head, the red gem in her circlet gleaming against her olive skin. “Lady Wynifreed, thank you for coming on such short notice.”

The seer’s gaze settled on Gwen with an intensity that made Jacinth’s skin prickle. “I understand the import of the matter, Your Majesty,” she replied, her voice as cool and smooth as winter frost. “The disappearance of a king is no small matter, especially one with Pendragon blood.”

The name “Pendragon” reverberated through the chamber like distant thunder. Jacinth felt the change—subtle as weather before a storm. Even in her remote village, whispers persisted of King Uther’s reign, when magic users met their end on the executioner’s block. The seer’s words seemed to stir those old memories, making the room feel smaller, colder.

Gwen met Lady Wynifreed’s penetrating gaze undeterred. “Indeed, Lady Wynifreed. King Arthur’s absence strikes at the heart of our kingdom. We believe the answers we seek lie within my maidservant’s lost memories.”

“As your sorcerers have explained to me,” the seer imparted. Her gaze turned to Sefa, who shrank deeper into her father’s embrace, as though Lady Wynifreed could read every secret written on her soul. “A hidden thread in a tangled tapestry. And you hope that I might undo these threads?”

“One thread is all we need to lead us to the king.”

“Understand what we risk here,” she said, each word as careful as frost forming on glass. “Searching through another’s mind is like walking blindfolded through unknown woods—one misstep could lead us astray, or worse.”

Sefa paled at these words, but lifted her chin even as tears brightened her eyes. Jacinth’s chest tightened watching her friend master her trembling with visible effort. In her village, thoughts and memories belonged to each person alone—the idea of someone reaching in to examine them, to pull them out like threads from cloth, seemed a violation beyond imagining.

“I’ll be right here, my child,” Ruadan murmured, his arm steady around her shoulders. Jacinth squeezed Sefa’s hand, offering a small smile of encouragement to her.

Sefa straightened, her words unsteady but determined. “I’m prepared to face what must be done, Lady Wynifreed.”

The seer nodded, something like respect warming her cool gaze. “Very well. I shall do what I can to uncover the truth.”

“One final matter,” Gwen said, meeting each of their eyes in turn. “What happens here today stays within these walls. Those who oppose magic in Camelot would seize upon this to sow discord. We cannot risk such knowledge becoming a weapon against the kingdom’s peace.”

A hush fell over the room as the others absorbed the queen’s warning, their silent nods acknowledging the burden of secrecy they now shared. Understanding passed between them all—of how much rested on their discretion, how deeply magic still divided the kingdom.

As Lady Wynifreed stepped forward, Jacinth’s heart quickened, her grip instinctively tightening around Sefa’s hand. Her words held an unmistakable authority: “Everyone but the girl must step back. Give us space.”

Jacinth retreated with the others to the room’s edges, while Ruadan remained seated beside his daughter. Lady Wynifreed drew items from the folds of her gown—a small leather pouch, a delicate silver circlet set with a moonstone, a crystal that refracted the light strangely, and what looked like bird bones as pale as winter’s first snow. These she arranged on the worktable with ritual precision, each object finding its ordained place.

The seer turned her gaze to Ruadan, whose arm encircled Sefa protectively. “With respect, Master Ruadan,” the seer said, “you understand better than most the delicacy required for such work. Please step aside.” He nodded, then squeezed his daughter’s hand before letting her go.

Lady Wynifreed placed the circlet upon Sefa’s head, ensuring the moonstone was centered between her brow. Standing behind Sefa, she placed her fingers gently on Sefa’s temples. “Close your eyes, child,” the seer murmured. “Think of nothing. Let your mind drift like leaves on water.”

Jacinth edged closer to Gwen, her thoughts swirling as Lady Wynifreed began to chant in a tongue unfamiliar to her. Sefa’s face went slack under the seer’s touch. The urge to reach for her queen’s hand rose within her, but uncertainty held her back. Those gestures belonged to their shared past, before she understood who Gwen truly was. Jacinth drew in a steadying breath and waited—like everyone else—for whatever secrets lay hidden in Sefa’s stolen memories to be revealed.

As Lady Wynifreed’s chanting rose, Sefa’s moonstone began to pulse—not a mere reflection of light, but something alive and aware. The seer’s free hand moved over her arranged items—touching first the crystal where shadows swirled beneath its surface, then sliding the pale bones between her fingers, tracing their surfaces as if divining secrets etched in its core.

Through her own churning fears about stolen memories and ancient magic, Jacinth noticed Gwen’s hand pressed against her stomach – a protective gesture that seemed almost unconscious. At the foot of the staircase, Master Leonard returned to his notes with fierce concentration, his quill moving rapidly across the parchment. Merlin stood alert on the other side of the table, his earlier formality replaced by focused attention to the ritual unfolding before them, while Ruadan kept vigil beside him, his restlessness betrayed by subtle shifts of weight. Jacinth’s gaze found Maxwell by the doorway, his presence offering an unexpected anchor amid the uncertainty, before she returned her attention to Sefa.

The seer’s voice changed pitch, becoming deeper, more resonant. Sefa’s features had relaxed, but beneath her closed lids her eyes darted frantically, as though pursuing visions. Lady Wynifreed’s words quieted to whispers of intent. Between Sefa’s brows, the moonstone’s radiance quickened like a heartbeat.

A gasp tore from Sefa as her spine bowed upward. Master Ruadan surged towards his daughter, but Lady Wynifreed’s piercing look froze him mid-stride. Her chant intensified as she chose the crystal then raised it before Sefa’s face, where a pale flame seemed to dance within its core, imprisoned in frost.

“There,” Lady Wynifreed whispered, her voice filling the chamber despite its softness. “Show me what was taken.” Sefa’s lips shaped words without sound as the moonstone pulsed in time with her rapid breathing.

“A man,” the seer continued, her eyes half-closed in concentration. “Both young and old—hair that shifts between silver and black. He speaks of... trade routes, of gems and metalwork. He whispers sweet nothings and steals a kiss.” She paused, lines deepening between her brows. “But these memories conceal something sinister beneath their surface, like dark ice masking treacherous depths.”

“Silver hair,” Merlin repeated softly, sharing a glance with Sir Maxwell.

The crystal blazed brighter as tremors took hold of Sefa. Jacinth’s instinct urged her toward her friend, but she kept her place beside Gwen, knowing any disruption could bring danger.

The seer’s voice sharpened. “Magic threads through these memories – delicate yet unbreakable as a spider’s silk. A powerful hand has reshaped her mind.”

 “Can you determine his identity, my lady?” Gwen asked. The exchange of looks between the queen, Merlin, and Sir Galahad told Jacinth they already knew this sorcerer.

Lady Wynifreed’s fingers pressed against Sefa’s temples, while in her other hand, the crystal dimmed before flaring with renewed brilliance. “No. He’s concealed his presence too skillfully. But—” She faltered as Sefa released a small, broken sound. “The memories of this man, this Derrick... they aren’t fabrications. They existed, but they’ve been... altered. Twisted to serve another purpose.”

Master Ruadan’s fists clenched at his sides. “What other purpose?”

“More than just learning of the king’s movements,” Lady Wynifreed said. “More than just to gain the trust of one close to the crown. Beneath that lies—” The moonstone’s glow surged, casting strange shadows across Sefa’s features. “Something darker. Something concerning—”

Sefa’s scream split the air, before she slumped forward onto the workbench. The crystal slipped from Lady Wynifreed’s grasp, clattering against the stone floor as she staggered backwards. Merlin moved swiftly to brace her, his arm supporting her shoulders.

“Sefa!” Gwen said, hurrying to the bench as Master Ruadan gathered his daughter into his arms. “Sefa.”

Jacinth moved toward her companion, but Maxwell’s firm grip on her arm kept her back. The air still crackled with magic, remnants of whatever had caused Sefa’s collapse.

“Wait,” he warned, his voice low and urgent. “The magic is unstable – it’s not safe.”

“But the queen…” Jacinth began.

“She’s protected,” he said. Jacinth wanted to protest, but something in his bearing – the tension in his stance, the absolute certainty in his voice – kept her rooted in place.

Master Leonard rushed forward with an uncorked vial, its scent of mint and honey spreading through the chamber. “Here,” he said to Ruadan. “This will help settle your daughter.”

“Someone guards these secrets,” Lady Wynifreed said, her words coming in short bursts. Merlin released her to stand on her own, moving back a step. “He’s lain snares in her mind. To go further would risk shattering both her and the one who dares to look too deeply.”

“What manner of magic could do this?” Gwen asked, turning to Lady Wynifreed as Maxwell knelt to retrieve the fallen crystal. The seer gathered her remaining items, her hands unsteady as she accepted it from his outstretched palm, tiny beads of sweat forming above her brow.

“Dark and powerful magic,” Lady Wynifreed said, “wielded with precision. Ancient objects are at work here – artifacts that should remain untouched.” She faltered, her fingers gripping the table edge as color drained from her face. Merlin and Leonard moved toward her with practiced urgency, but she raised a hand to halt them. “I am well enough.” Drawing herself upright, she continued, I glimpse fragments—copper and gems, shadows and memories. The magic obscures itself, turning away from examination.”

Merlin exchanged a glance with Maxwell, another shared secret seeming to pass between them. “Can you tell us anything else?” Merlin asked.

Lady Wynifreed’s movements slowed to stillness. “Only that whoever did this knows the old ways well. As I said, this magic extends beyond mere memory alteration, reaching toward something far more fundamental—” She stopped abruptly, pressing her fingers to her temples, a grimace betraying her earlier claims of wellness.

The seer’s warnings tumbled through Jacinth’s mind like leaves caught in a whirlwind – old ways, memory alteration, something fundamental. This talk of minds being changed made her head spin. Her confusion stilled as Sefa stirred, her father cradling her head to help her sip Leonard’s remedy. Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused and bewildered.

“What happened?” The words came out faint, uncertain. “Did you find...?” She trailed off, the question dissolving like mist, the moonstone’s glow dulled to a lifeless white.

“Rest now,” Gwen said tenderly, removing the silver circlet before gently touching Sefa’s hand. “You’ve shown us more than enough. Ruadan, please take your daughter to the private room upstairs. Leonard, if you would attend her please?” As they nodded, she turned to Jacinth. “Stay with her. Sefa will need your friendship when she fully wakes.”

Jacinth observed the muted efficiency as each person moved to their assigned task. She watched as Ruadan gathered Sefa into his arms, her friend appearing unnaturally delicate in his careful embrace. But as Leonard followed them into the small chamber, Jacinth found herself lingering, her attention drawn to the hushed conversation unfolding between the queen, the sorcerer, and the seer. She glanced at Maxwell across the room, who seemed equally absorbed in their exchange.

“My lady, could you tell how long ago the magic was worked?” Merlin asked.

“Eight days, perhaps ten. The traces still pulsed like newly spun silk.” Lady Wynifreed’s eyes lost focus, as if studying a landscape only she could see. “Beyond the surface memories, I sensed... malice, preparation. As if the spellwork had been laid with great care, knowing someone would try to unravel it.”

“He expected us to look?” Gwen asked. She passed the circlet to the seer, her hand drifting to her stomach.

“He wanted you to know how deeply he’d penetrated your defenses,” Lady Wynifreed replied, carefully wrapping the circlet in a silk cloth before returning it to her collection of items.

“A message then,” Merlin suggested. “But to what end?”

“The spellwork was meant to wound those who pried too deeply.” Lady Wynifreed’s voice had grown fainter. “A message indeed. A warning, perhaps. Or a trap.”

“For someone specific?” Sir Maxwell asked. Jacinth caught his eye across the chamber, saw her own unease mirrored in his expression. Their words painted pictures she could barely grasp, yet their implications made her skin prickle.

 “For someone powerful enough to look,” the seer implied. “Someone he knew would try.” Her gaze found Merlin with unsettling certainty.

“But I’m not a seer,” he said, his tone dry.

“No. You are Emrys. He knows that.” She glanced at Maxwell. “And you, knight of purpose, he harbors even more enmity.”

“We…battled once,” Maxwell explained haltingly, shifting his stance. “He eluded me.”

“He fears you both.” She reached for Merlin’s wrist. “When I touched the girl’s memories, I sensed... satisfaction. Not from the girl, but from the one who took her memories. This man of many faces—each one worn like a mask, yet his ambitions serve another’s glory, not his own.” She pressed her fingers to her temples, pain flickering across her features. “He views this as all proceeding according to design.”

Silence filled the chamber like water in a deep well, broken only by Merlin’s solemn declaration.

“Then we’re already playing their game,” Merlin said quietly. “And they’re several moves ahead.”

Lady Wynifreed lifted her chin with effort. “You must find your king swiftly, my lord Emrys. Whatever dark purpose those artifacts serve, they’re weapons, or a tool. Something that reaches deeper than mere memory. I sense what they plan goes beyond mere—death.” Her eyes rolled back, her body crumpling forward as the last of her strength failed. Merlin lunged, catching her before she struck the floor.

“Lady Wynifreed!” Gwen rushed to the seer as Merlin eased her onto the chamber floor. Leonard emerged from Sefa’s room with Ruadan behind him, while Jacinth retreated from the doorway, her heart hammering.

Gwen and the physicians converged around the fallen seer, forming a tight circle that left Jacinth and Maxwell as observers at the edges of the chamber. Though his stance suggested readiness to assist if called upon, Maxwell remained where he was, close enough that Jacinth could sense the tension in his frame. With each movement of the healers, she found herself drifting closer to him, like autumn leaves caught in the same current.

Leonard pressed fingers to her throat while Ruadan’s hands hovered above her chest, a soft blue glow emanating from his palms. But it was Merlin’s reaction that made Jacinth’s breath catch – his face had drained of color as he cradled the seer’s head.

“The magic’s taken root,” he said, voice tight with strain. “Like thorns wrapped around her thoughts.”

Jacinth felt Maxwell stiffen beside her at these words, his hand moving instinctively toward his sword before dropping back to his side. She hadn’t realized how much closer they’d drawn together until his sleeve brushed against hers, neither of them stepping away from that small point of contact.

“We must draw it out,” Ruadan said, the blue light intensifying. “Quickly, before it burrows deeper.”

“Wait.” Merlin’s command stopped Ruadan’s spell mid-gesture. “Look how it’s anchored. If we pull too hard, we risk tearing her mind apart.”

Maxwell’s sharp intake of breath matched Jacinth’s own. She found herself leaning slightly toward his steadying presence as the terrible implications of Merlin’s words sank in. The chamber suddenly felt colder, though perhaps that was just the fear coursing through her veins.

Leonard glanced between them. “Her pulse grows weaker. Whatever you’re going to do—”

“We ease it loose,” Merlin said. “Gentle as untangling silk.” His eyes flashed gold as he placed his hands on either side of her temples. “Master Ruadan, lend me your magic. Direct it through me – I’ll guide it.”

The two sorcerers bent to their work, blue light merging with gold. As their combined magic filled the air, Jacinth held her breath without realizing it until Maxwell’s exhale beside her reminded her to breathe. The intensity of their spellwork made the air vibrate, and she noticed his fingers curling against his leg, his stance rigid as he watched the others work.

Sweat beaded on their brows as they worked with painstaking care, like herbwomen drawing poison from a snake’s bite with poultice and prayer. The chamber grew warmer with their magic, yet Jacinth couldn’t stop trembling. She crossed her arms tightly, trying to still the shaking, and felt Maxwell shift his weight, angling himself slightly toward her as if to block the worst of the magical current flowing through the room.

The combined light from Merlin and Ruadan’s magic cast strange shadows across the walls, their faces shining with exertion, sweat darkening their hair. Gwen remained beside the physicians, her presence steady amid the magical storm, while Leonard pressed trembling fingers to the seer’s pulse.

“There,” Merlin said through gritted teeth. “I can feel it loosening.”

A low groan escaped Lady Wynifreed’s lips. Jacinth felt an instinctive pull toward Maxwell’s unwavering presence, his tender strength offering something real, something present.

“Careful,” Ruadan warned, his flickering blue light drawing Jacinth’s focus. “The trap is layered. Like a web within a web.”

“I see it,” Merlin replied, golden light intensifying around his hands. “Master Ruadan, on my signal, withdraw your power – slowly, as if you’re untangling thread.”

The blue glow began to recede as Merlin’s magic pulsed brighter. Lady Wynifreed’s back arched slightly, another weak sound escaping her lips. Leonard’s fingers remained steady at her throat, but his expression tightened.

“Her pulse is stabilizing,” he said. “Whatever you’re doing, it’s working.”

The seer’s eyes fluttered open, confusion clouding them before recognition returned. “Emrys,” she whispered. “The trap...”

“We managed to loosen its hold, my lady,” Merlin said, his magic dimming as he helped her sit.

Maxwell was still beside her, his attention shifting between the seer’s recovery and his protection of her. Something warm stirred in her chest. Perhaps she had been too quick to dismiss his gentle interest, too focused on impossible dreams.

“Thank you,” she said kindly, preparing to join Sefa. His eyes met hers, holding a warmth that followed her as she turned away and he resumed his position by the door. Jacinth paused at the short staircase, turning back as Leonard produced another vial from his pouch.

“This will help restore your vitality, my lady,” he said, uncorking it.

Merlin supported the seer’s shoulders as she reclined against him on the stone floor, her hands steadying as she accepted the remedy. Gwen stepped forward. “You should rest, Lady Wynifreed. I’ll have chambers prepared.”

“Thank you, your majesty.” The seer’s voice carried surprising intensity despite her ordeal. “The shape-shifter’s purpose runs deeper than we imagined.”

From her position by the stairs, Jacinth watched the seer’s gaze move between Merlin and Maxwell, her expression grave. “Yes, he used the servant to know the king’s location, but the trap was meant for one or both of you. Had either of you attempted to probe those memories, your minds would have shattered like glass struck by lightning.” Her gaze moved between Merlin, Leonard, and Ruadan. “I was fortunate to have such skilled healers present. My intervention might have served his purpose just as well – to demonstrate his power by destroying those who dared to look too deeply.”

“Yet we are no closer to finding Arthur then we were before,” Gwen said somberly, returning to the seer’s side. Tears brightened her eyes before she blinked them away, her chin lifting with practiced composure. Merlin turned sharply toward the window, his shoulders rigid with frustration, while Maxwell’s gaze fell to the floor, his jaw working silently. The weight of their failure seemed to press the very air from the room.

“I am sorry, great queen. I wish there was more I could tell you.”

“We’re grateful for what we did learn,” Gwen, her voice steady despite the earlier distress. “Sir Galahad, please escort Lady Wynifreed to the east tower chambers, then join Merlin and me in the great hall.”

As the sorcerers helped the seer to her feet, Jacinth lingered, watching Maxwell’s fluid transition to his new duty, opening the chamber doors as all but the two physicians remained. In the moment before he closed the door, their eyes met one final time – something unspoken passing between them. Though both understood the seriousness of Arthur’s absence, this quieter awareness stayed with her as she climbed the stairs to where Sefa waited.

Chapter Text

Dodd shifted on his narrow cot, the catacomb’s rough stone walls pressing close. Each breath filled his lungs with stale, earthen air that left a bitter taste on his tongue. Above him, the flickering light of a single candle cast eerie shadows on the walls, darkness lurking just beyond the small circle of light. As he lay there, his thoughts drifted to Sefa Firestone, the young druid who had unwittingly become a pawn in his grand scheme.

He saw her every morning by the stone walls of the well, sizing up the innocence of her delicate frame. Sefa was a frail young thing – timid yet earnest, with a face that betrayed every emotion. Her blue eyes held no guile, her smile open and trusting, and her gentle voice soothing enough to calm the most troubled soul. But not his. The icy void in Dodd’s chest remained untouched by her virtues and growing affections. Sefa was merely a means to an end.

Killian noticed this new arrival hovering at the edges of the royal’s tight circle. Her youthful naivete, set against the seasoned courtiers, marked her as vulnerable after just a few observations. With his insights into the court’s patterns, Dodd swiftly devised his plan of infiltration. Though breaching the court’s defenses carried risk, deception was his craft, honed through years of disguises and calculated manipulation.

He magicked himself younger – his mature features smoothing to those of a man barely twenty summers, though he kept his natural silver hair and piercing grey eyes. He chose attire of modest success – simple but well-made – while his hands bore the honest wear of trade. That first day, he paused by the well, his head tilted in quiet consideration as their eyes met, letting the moment linger as if time itself had slowed for them.

The following morn, he strode past as if oblivious to her presence, then halted mid-step and turned, meeting her curious gaze before she hastily glanced away, her cheeks coloring with a faint blush. He acknowledged her with a slight incline of his head before continuing on his way, the sound of his footsteps lost in the voices of the lane. The next day found him haggling animatedly with another merchant nearby, his boisterous laughter carrying through the air as he surreptitiously watched her from the corner of his eye. When he caught her attention, he winked, a breeze whipping a strand of his silver hair across his features.

On the fourth morning, he orchestrated their initial conversation, centering it around an object she clutched tightly in her palm as she worked the well, the rhythmic creaking of the pulley punctuating his approach. With a subtle flick of his fingers, he magically loosened her grip on the wrapped item.

Sefa gasped when it clattered to the cobblestones. The fallen item unfurled like a blossoming flower – a brooch of a silver bird with wings outstretched, its beak clasping a modest pearl that gleamed in the morning light. The jewelry piece offered the perfect chance to bolster his cover, lending credibility to his interest in the brooch.

Dodd bent down, his movements smooth as he scooped up the precious treasure – his thoughts honing in on details of his fabricated backstory. “Allow me, mistress,” he said, his voice rich and warm as honey, the cadence and tone carefully chosen to put her at ease. With deft fingers, he gently re-wrapped the brooch in its protective cloth before handing it back to her, his fingers brushing against her trembling hand. The brief contact served as an opportunity to gauge her reaction and adjust his approach.

“Thank you,” Sefa whispered, her voice scarcely louder than the gentle breeze. She kept her gaze lowered, fair lashes casting shadows on flushed cheeks as she inspected the brooch. Her nimble fingers traced its edges before wrapping it securely once more.

“It’s lovely,” Dodd murmured, his eyes tracing the delicate lines of her features. “My sister crafts similar pieces. She has such a way with silver and gems, bringing designs to life with her hands. I would offer you coin to add this to our inventory, but alas, I fear we cannot afford such a treasure.” His gaze held hers. “Though it suits you beautifully.”

“Oh, no, no,” Sefa stammered, her cheeks blooming with a rosy hue as she shook her head, her light brown curls dancing around her face. “It belongs to the queen. It required a minor repair—the pearl needed resetting, and I’m returning it from the master jewelsmith.”

Dodd allowed surprise to flicker across his features. “I see,” he said, his voice low and conspiratorial as he drew near enough to catch the rosemary and mint scent of her hair. “You dwell in high places, privy to the intimate world of the royal court.”

Sefa’s smile widened at his words, pride warring with timidity as she lifted her chin. “I’m honored to serve her majesty,” she said, the soft morning light bathing her face in a warm glow. “Though I’ve only just begun my duties.”

“One day,” he continued, “should our paths cross again, you must indulge my curiosity and share a glimpse of what that life entails.” He bowed slightly at the waist. “Derrick Andronicus of Eofham, at your service.”

In response, she dipped into a smooth curtsey, the rustle of her simple gown whispering in the air. “Sefa Firestone of Powys, clan Maeldur,” she replied, her voice filled with a quiet gratification.

Dodd’s lips parted, genuine astonishment breaking through his facade. Her druidic heritage stilled his performance for a moment—she was magickind, one who should have been beyond his betrayal. His gaze swept over her exposed skin, searching for the telltale inked symbol of her clan, but found only smooth face, neck, and hands. Guilt sliced through him at the thought of betraying one of his own, but ambition quickly sealed the wound. Some sacrifices were necessary, even those of ancient kinship.

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mistress Sefa,” he said, every muscle in his face set to convey sincerity. “One day, you must also enlighten me about the meaning behind your clan’s name—if such knowledge is meant to be shared, of course.” He understood how druids wove their histories and ancient customs into their names, each one carrying layers of meaning passed through generations. This knowledge of their sacred traditions would serve well as a path to earning Sefa’s trust.

In the days that followed, he used ordinary opportunities to assist her – steadying water buckets, balancing parcels – each helpful gesture another strand in his web. Sefa agreed to meet him in the evenings, where they could talk more freely without the bustle of the market lanes. Dodd chose less traveled paths through town, mindful of the keen-eyed knight whose scrutiny could pierce his facade.

As they navigated the lanes, Sefa spoke of her duties within the castle walls, her druid clan’s history, and her bond with her father. In the soft glow of the setting sun, she revealed dreams and stories previously kept close to her heart. Dodd listened attentively, his mind cataloging each detail while he offered well-placed compliments, each brushstroke designed to draw out the secrets he sought.

Yet beneath his constructed performance, a different truth simmered. As Sefa spoke with genuine warmth and admiration of her service in the royal household, Dodd fought the bitter bile that rose in his throat. She praised the kindness and wisdom of the king and queen, her voice filled with hope of their magical reforms, blissfully unaware of the dark history that haunted his every waking moment. The king’s recent proclamation about healing old wounds only fueled his rage— such diplomatic phrases about tending to the “lingering wounds” of the Great Purge were nothing but empty promises from a Pendragon. Like so many of his kin, Sefa seemed to have allowed the anguished horrors of the past to fade from memory, absolving the king of his heinous acts as if they had never stained the pages of history. Their blind faith in the Pendragons sparked that burning hatred within Dodd that threatened to shatter his mask of attentive interest.

Yet, despite his efforts, his progress was slower than he’d anticipated, his patience wearing with each passing day. The coronation’s vibrant celebrations had dimmed to memory, and the presence of a merchant from Eofham in Camelot’s streets after their conclusion sparked innocent questions he could not afford to answer.

To quell these unwanted inquiries, Dodd resorted to weaving a subtle spell around Sefa, his whispered incantations binding her doubts like invisible chains. His magic clouded her mind, muffling her instincts about his lingering presence and guiding her thoughts away from dangerous questions. This enchanted haze granted him precious moments to unravel the secrets he sought.

By the eighth day, mounting pressure drove him to act. As twilight painted the sky, Dodd seized his moment. He drew Sefa close, fingers tangling in her hair, and claimed her lips in a kiss designed to overwhelm her defenses. Her mouth yielded to his, the honeyed mead on her breath matching the sweetness of his deception. In that moment of manufactured passion, her guarded discretion dissolved. Sefa divulged the details of an intimate, private affair set to take place near a river in a matter of days. The information, whispered breathlessly against his lips, was the final piece of the puzzle at last.

As he deepened the kiss, ancient words of forgetting whispered against her lips. His magic flowed through the intimate contact, transforming their shared moments into nothing more than fragments of half-remembered dreams. The spellwork erased any memory of their time together—a rare act of mercy from him, sparing Sefa the inevitable heartbreak and betrayal that would have followed, a small glimmer of humanity in his otherwise ruthless pursuit of vengeance.

The spell served another purpose – one that had taken shape when he’d planned to manipulate Sefa's memories from the onset. Within the enchantments around her mind, he layered in subtle thorns of dark magic, each designed to tear through the thoughts of any sorcerer who dared probe too deeply. His lips curved in satisfaction – while guilt had touched him over using an innocent druid, no such feeling softened his heart for Merlin or that meddlesome Sir Maxwell. The sorcerer had torn Morgana from him, and the knight’s blade had nearly ended him in the crypts. His trap wasn’t just necessary – it was personal. Let them try to undo his work – they would find their own minds shattered in the attempt.

Feeling triumphant, he pulled back from their embrace, his gaze roaming over Sefa’s face, committing every delicate feature to memory. Despite himself, he couldn’t resist stealing one last kiss, an indulgence in softness and warmth that he wouldn’t experience again for some time.

When they parted, Sefa’s eyelids fluttered open, her gaze unfocused and distant. Dodd stepped back, his fingers trailing along her jawline before falling away, the cool evening air rushing in to fill the space between them. He eased away several steps, watched as she blinked slowly, her brow furrowing in confusion as she looked around, her eyes passing over him as if he were nothing more than a ghost. After a final, lingering glance, Dodd turned and melted into the shadows, disappearing into the night. That was the last time he laid eyes on Sefa Firestone.

As Dodd lay in his cot, a muffled sound drifting through the winding tunnels drew his attention. Mordred, he supposed, cowering in his alcove as he wrestled with their brutality toward Arthur. He stretched his neck, the bones cracking with a satisfying pop. Mordred needed to toughen up – there was more to come for the dread king, and they couldn’t afford any weakness or hesitation.

But for now, in this brief moment of respite, Dodd’s mind drifted back to Sefa Firestone. His final memories of her smile, the warmth of her touch, and the sound of her laughter slowly receded, replaced by a steely determination to see his plans through to the end, no matter the cost.

Chapter Text

Merlin stood with Gwen at the balcony’s threshold overlooking the dwindling activity inside the great hall, his shoulders as rigid as the marble beneath his boots. The once grand space had been transformed into a war room, with rows of tables and maps covering every available surface. The scratch of quills mingled with hushed conversations as scribes diligently recorded the discussions and decisions being made at nearly every table. He scanned the room, taking in the gritty faces and the purposeful movements of those gathered, ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice.

Fredrick hovered near Leon, who sat at the table centered in the hall, men and women crowded around him, focus and concern upon their features. Percival, captains, and commanders bent over their own tables upon the dais, maps and papers spread before them. Arthur and Gwen’s throne chairs had been tucked even further back in a corner, a poignant reminder of the king’s absence.

A mix of the classes wove between the tables, their shared mission to find King Arthur binding them together. Even George and Jacinth contributed by providing food and water for those in the hall, George directing other servants while his mother, Hunith, managed the replenishment and distribution of provisions. The absence of Sefa, still recovering from her ordeal with the seer, was very noticeable.

Knots in Merlin’s shoulders had crept up his neck and blossomed into a full-blown headache, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. He rubbed his temples, trying to ease the tension, but the dull throb persisted. After two and a half days of Arthur’s absence, exhaustion loomed inevitable. His second search attempt had ended prematurely this morning when Galahad pulled him away to find the seer. Now, with dusk approaching, Merlin’s frustration mounted at the day’s loss, restless energy surging through his veins. He shook his head in exasperation, shifting his stance.

Like the group of people circling Leon, their voices rising and falling in a steady hum of conversation, Merlin waited to be assigned to tomorrow’s team. Leon kept meticulous record of searched areas and territories still needing coverage, his quill moving steadily across the parchment. Merlin deferred to others to lead the teams, knowing his duties as Court Sorcerer could pull him away at any moment, just as they had earlier today.

As Merlin watched the activity, his mind wandered back to his meeting with the seer. The journey to find Lady Wynifreed begun at the druids’ encampment where he and Galahad consulted Masters Iseldir and Alator. The earthy scent of the forest clung to their clothes as they sat cross-legged in the dimly lit tent, the flickering candlelight casting dancing shadows on the canvas as they discussed the seer’s whereabouts.

From there, reaching the Isle of the Blessed required only a simple teleportation spell. The tang of dark magic saturated the air, the crumbling stones of the castle thrumming with power. His magic kin had returned in force to rebuild their sacred site, but unlike the assembly of sorcerers the week before, this dense gathering stirred an inexplicable unease in him. His magic bristled and coiled with each step, ready to strike as ancient power pulsed through the very foundations around them. Upon finding the seer, it was her steep and unusual demand for recompense that truly caught them off guard.

Lady Wynifreed’s striking blue eyes glinted with a hint of malice as she named her price: a vial of blood from each of them, freely given. He and Galahad had exchanged wary glances, her unsettling demand hanging oppressively between them. Yet, they could receive no higher recommendation than the two master sorcerers and paid her price, watching as the dark crimson liquid swirled in the delicate glass vials she held up to the candlelight.

Though the seer confirmed Sefa’s mind had been tampered with magic, Lady Wynifreed had been unable to find anything to aid in the search for Arthur. She did learn some things about the young man named Derrick Andronicus. From the memories that she captured of Sefa’s experiences, Derrick was not his true name, nor was his true appearance so young. Several layers of spells were peeled away, each one like a veil of mist dissipating under the seer’s relentless probing. The deeper she searched, the more sinister the magic became, with traps laid specifically for Galahad and him. Through these masterfully woven deceptions, it became clear how Sefa had been enchanted, magically forced to reveal the details of the king and queen’s travel plans.

Merlin glanced at Gwen, her expression distant, the sun’s final light marking the passing minutes. Her shoulders matched the rigidity in his own, yet she maintained the burden of her calling with quiet fortitude. He understood what lay below the surface of Gwen’s regal bearing – the private anguish of a wife, the solitude of a queen’s rule, the uncertainty of impending motherhood without Arthur at her side.

“Have you decided what you’ll do about Sefa?” he asked, steering their focus to matters requiring action.

Gwen’s gaze shifted to meet his, solemnity etched into her features. “It wasn’t her fault,” she replied, grief tinging her words. “She’s taken this hard – as are we all.” Gwen scratched her brow, a subtle gesture of frustration, a fleeting crack in her queen’s armor.

“Morgana warned Dodd was a dangerous shape-shifter. Now we know the depths he would go to get what he wants.” Dodd’s actions mirrored his magic – twisted and malevolent. If he would inflict such harm on an innocent like Sefa to achieve his goals, Merlin dreaded contemplating what torments he might devise for Arthur, his true target. He pushed the thought away, steadying his voice. “But despite it all, Sefa survived his assault – one soul still with us. Ruadan is using something Galahad referred to as ‘gentle healing magic’ to help her through this. She’ll be all right. I promise.” His reassurance rang hollow, offering little comfort when Arthur’s fate remained unknown.

“That’s good to hear. Sefa may return as my servant whenever she’s ready. I won’t forsake her.” Gwen’s lips thinned. “But are any of us safe now, Merlin? Anyone can be assaulted, get close to Arthur and me. Who knows what other evil is brewing in the kingdom, in the towns, in this very castle? How many others will strike against us in the future?”

Her questions sent a chill through his bones, the hairs on the back of his neck rising as if sensing these unseen threats. His headache exploded into a constant throb as he looked out over the bustling hall. The untiring faces of the people blurred together, their individual features lost in a sea of shared purpose. Yet, beneath the surface, he could sense the undercurrent of fear, a hushed dread of darker days to come.

Merlin turned to face Gwen fully, studying her features, taking in the subtle signs of distress flickering past her calm exterior. He drew a deep breath, the pleasant scent of her lavender drifting on the soft breeze. “Gwen, I share your fears, but we can protect you, the heir, and Arthur when he returns. I can create powerful protection spells to shield you from those who wish you harm and repel enchantments. With a trusted sorcerer always at your side, you’d have a fighting chance against magical attacks.” A glimmer of doubt shadowed Gwen’s countenance, spurring him to continue.

“Still, I fear this abduction would have happened even if things hadn’t changed,” he pressed on, determination threading through his tone. “There will always be dark magic in the world, Gwen – freed or not. There will always be someone or some evil lurking in the shadows—now and in the future. But we must not despair.” A relentless drive surged through him as he spoke. “We must fight back with every ounce of our being, to preserve the light of hope that Arthur and so many of us have fought so hard to build. In the face of evil, we must stand tall and unafraid, a beacon of courage and compassion in the gathering storm or else it will consume us. For Arthur’s sake – we’ll never give up hope. We’ll battle until our last breath.”

Something in her bearing shifted, a subtle transformation that reminded Merlin of the blacksmith’s daughter who had faced down a prince. Her shoulders eased at his words, the royal facade softening. “It’s so difficult at times,” she admitted.

“Gwen, we – sorcerers – need your strength and support now more than ever too,” he said, his words imbued with a quiet urgency that sent a visible shiver through her body.

Gwen studied him thoughtfully, nodding, her hair rustling with the gentle motion. “You have it, Merlin,” she said, her promise filled with resilience and steely resolve that he could feel. “Always.”

His emotions rose in his chest, a swell of gratitude and pride for his friend of so many years. He swallowed hard, the lump in his throat making it difficult to speak. Instead, he simply nodded in acknowledgment.

Merlin returned his gaze to the center of the war room where Leon was now hunched over a large map. He marked off areas with a decisive stroke of his quill and began assigning new territories to the gathered teams. He straightened, his great height towering above near all the rest, fresh maps grasped in his large hand.

“Lord Vincent, Sir James, and Reeve Ernst,” he ordered, his voice drifting towards them, clear and authoritative despite the distance. He handed each of them a map as he continued, “Report to Sir Ranulf at the northern checkpoint tomorrow. He’ll dispatch you from there. Lady Johanna, you’re with Master Allen and Daegal —see Sir Robin in the west at first light.” As the next set of team leaders stepped forward, their boots scuffing against the floor, Leon efficiently sorted through the remaining assignments.

Merlin watched the organized precision before him, deeply move by Camelot’s remarkable unity in crisis. Knights and commoners, merchants and farmers, magical practitioners and some who once feared sorcery – all had set aside their differences to join the search for their king. While this show of solidarity inspired hope, Merlin’s earlier unease persisted. The artifacts stolen from the vaults could pose a devastating threat to Arthur, and these earnest volunteers who searched so diligently might find their worst fears realized.

“In light of Lady Wynifreed’s revelations, Galahad and I are returning to the druid camp tomorrow to consult the masters. We hope they can shed more light on the artifacts and their potential.” His explanation struck a delicate balance, careful not to fuel further concern.

“Extend my appreciation and gratitude for their assistance,” she replied with the natural authority of a queen who had earned her crown. “Camelot will not forget what they do for their king.”

“Your words will mean much to them,” Merlin replied. His gaze shifted to the far end of the hall, where the plush throne chairs once sat, now replaced by a long table where the war council assembled. Arthur’s most experienced commanders and captains were deep in discussion, their voices low and urgent, the rustling of maps and the clink of chainmail punctuating their counsel. Among them, Percival listened intently, absorbing the wisdom of his seasoned colleagues.

A flicker of doubt crept into Merlin’s mind, like frost claiming a windowpane. Would all their valiant efforts prevail? The kingdom faced threats from within and without – civil unrest in the streets, a sorcerer who had penetrated their defenses, and enemies potentially gathering at their borders. How could they overcome such odds if Arthur remained lost? Merlin clenched his teeth. He couldn’t let these questions concern him. They would find Arthur, he steadfastly believed. It was only a matter of when.

He knew the force of magic provided the balance they needed, a power that pulsed through his veins and countless others like him, itching to be unleashed. He also knew Gwen was fully aware of all her allies – she wielded more than just the authority of the crown and the people she commanded. Magic stood behind her, a silent but potent presence now called into service. She employed all her resources to find Arthur – magic and might – evidence of her unwavering courage and leadership.

Still, a husband was missing, and a child was on the way…

Merlin looked at her, his admiration deepening as she guided their kingdom through this crisis. “You’re amazing, Gwen,” he breathed, his whisper almost lost in the hall’s clamor. “I can’t imagine your burdens… your despair, your… loneliness. With all that has happened, you’ve done well. Arthur would be very proud.” The sentiment felt inadequate, a mere sigh in the magnitude of their situation, but he hoped she could feel the sincerity behind them, the depth of support they offered.

Gwen’s eyes glistened briefly before she mastered herself. Moving away from the hall’s commotion, she walked onto the balcony. Below, the square had begun to empty as the day’s final search parties returned. The scattered sounds of horses and quiet commands drifted upward, the evidence dwindling of how many had set aside their daily lives to aid in finding their king.

“Thank you, Merlin,” she replied, turning to face the courtyard where braziers flickered to life against the deepening dusk. “To be honest with you, sometimes I feel as fragile as a cracked eggshell.” Her fingers found his briefly, the touch conveying what speech could not. “It’s all right. I’ll be all right,” she added with unwavering resolve, despite the vulnerability in her smile.

Merlin studied Gwen, wondering how much the child growing within her influenced her remarkable composure. Yet another question nagged at him, one he had avoided until now. “Gwen, there’s something I wanted to discuss with you—about Morgana,” he ventured.

Her expression cooled, a practiced neutrality falling into place that gave Merlin pause. He understood the complexity of her position – Dodd and Mordred had served Morgana once, their brutal attack on Gwen, and Arthur’s disappearance, echoing their former mistress’s methods. Though Morgana had provided what information she could about the men, her usefulness to Gwen had likely run its course. After all, what did a queen owe to someone who had repeatedly tried to destroy her and her kingdom?

“It’s important,” Merlin said, ignoring the persistent ache in his head. Gwen’s stern gaze held him in place, her hands folded protectively over her stomach. He cleared his throat, preparing to address a subject that had once haunted her sleep. The war room behind them, with its maps and urgent voices plotting Arthur’s rescue, felt worlds away from this moment of truth, muted by what he needed to say.

“Morgana did something selfless – something wonderful,” he confided, choosing each word deliberately. “Against all odds, she helped Kilgharrah and Aithusa make first contact with the lost dragons.”

Gwen stilled, surprise flickering across her face before understanding transformed into judgment that needed no voice. “Merlin, despite the acceptance of magic and sorcerers,” she challenged, each word reinforcing her command, “this is one thing I know Arthur feared most – more dragons in our skies.”

“If it hadn’t been for Arthur, they wouldn’t have gone searching.” Merlin countered, conviction strengthening his tone. “The skies nor the dragons are Arthur’s realm to control. They’re creatures of magic, born of the Old Religion, and they have as much right to exist as any other being.”

“Merlin—”

“To deny them that is to deny the very essence of magic itself.” Merlin held Gwen’s frigid stare, the ancient authority of the dragonlord lending steel to his stance. Silence stretched between them, threatening years of friendship, but he refused to yield on this point. And yet, realizing this conflict only distracted from his urgent purpose, Merlin drew a steadying breath and collected himself. “Right now, that is not the issue, Gwen. Morgana injured herself during the connection with them. She could have died if I hadn’t arrived when I did.”

“So she’s alright then,” Gwen stated flatly, the response stripped of its usual warmth. The distance between them had grown into something more than physical space, and Merlin needed to tread lightly.

“She’s recovering,” he replied. Gwen’s unflinching stare made him acutely aware of what he was about to ask. “But Kilgharrah doesn’t believe he can continue as her sole guardian after this incident. Without human contact or aid...” The plea faded, leaving his unspoken request suspended between them. He had made his appeal; the decision now belonged to the queen alone.

Gwen remained inscrutable, each heartbeat of silence diminishing Merlin’s hope as Morgana’s fate pressed down on him. Her jaw tensed, a subtle ripple beneath her skin that spoke of restrained anger.

“Merlin, we didn’t choose her prison nor her guard,” she declared. “Why don’t you take this up with your goddess?” She turned to leave, then faced him once more. “And may I remind you, that it is only by Arthur’s mercy that Morgana is provided sustenance and clothing that could otherwise feed and clothe our own people. And remind her to take better care of herself.” With that, Gwen departed, her skirts rustling as her footsteps faded into the great hall.

George materialized behind her with the fluid silence that had served Arthur so well. Jacinth and Fredrick followed, assuming their positions in her guard. Merlin watched them vanish out of the great hall, where the day’s search efforts gradually waned to evening’s tasks.

Gwen’s dismissal left him off-balance, forcing him to face an uncomfortable truth – Arthur might have responded the same way. Morgana’s betrayals ran deeper than mere political rivalry; she had systematically attacked everything they held dear. They’d reached the point of final judgment, ready to close that chapter permanently, when the Triple Goddess intervened through the Great Dragon’s rescue. Yet the question remained: did divine intervention require eternal imprisonment? The uncertainty gnawed at him as such decisions lay beyond his authority.

Merlin sighed and turned away. Beyond the ring of torch light, darkness beckoned at the edges of the courtyard, matching his bitter disappointment to Gwen’s cold refusal. He’d wanted just one element of this crisis to yield, one small path forward to reveal itself. Instead, he found himself gripping the balcony rail, head bowed under the weight of accumulating setbacks. In the wavering light below, he remained still, trapped between duty and despair.

A gentle touch on his back made him straighten. His mother stood beside him, and Merlin attempted a smile. “What is it?” she asked softly.

“It’s Gwen—no. It’s Morgana,” he confessed. “She’s changed, Mother. I wish Gwen could see that.”

His mind returned to those hours with Morgana – her shortened hair framing her face, her eyes bright in the firelight, every detail preserved with startling clarity in his memory.

“The queen sees many things,” his mother said, her wisdom gentle but pointed. “Perhaps more than you realize. Are you certain your concern stems only from compassion?”

Merlin found himself confronting feelings he’d once forbidden himself to acknowledge – sentiments buried beneath years of betrayal. Now they demanded recognition as he gazed across the courtyard.

“She was different that night,” he explained. “Vulnerable, isolated, without any trace of her former bitterness. She expressed no hatred, showed no anger toward anyone – not even Arthur and Gwen.” Though Morgana had remained indifferent to Arthur’s abduction and Gwen’s near-death, at least she hadn’t celebrated their misfortune.

“I see,” his mother murmured, studying his profile. “Your perspective has shifted because you witnessed her change firsthand. But Gwen’s memories of Morgana are stained with years of betrayal. She watched her closest friend transform into someone who repeatedly tried to shatter everything she loved. Such treacheries leave scars that even time struggles to fade.”

“I hear what you’re saying, Mother,” Merlin said quietly. “I shouldn’t expect Gwen to set aside her pain just because I’ve glimpsed traces of the Morgana we once knew.” His expression softened as that evening with her warmed him. “If you could have seen her with Aithusa – the gentleness she showed, the depth of their connection. It’s unlike anything I expected to find in her.”

He turned to lean against the railing, crossing his arms. “It’s odd. My studies suggested only a dragonlord could form such a connection.” Merlin recalled the ancient text he and Galahad had discovered – how that long-ago dragonlord had written of his dragon Avaline with the same devotion Morgana showed Aithusa. “It was comforting, to say the least.”

“It seems to me,” his mother observed, “that you both found solace in each other’s company, each filling a void of loneliness – yours as much as hers on that mountain peak.”

The truth in her words brought a faint smile to his face. After Freya’s death, he had buried himself in his duties, convincing himself that loneliness was merely the price of destiny. The endless tasks of protecting Arthur and building Albion had left little room for companionship.

“That’s part of the problem, Mother. She almost died on that mountain. Since Gwen refused to help, I’m thinking – what if the great dragon could find her a safer place? The goddess never specified the location; Kilgharrah chose it. Perhaps he acted hastily at first, with no time to consider better options for her care.”

“You’re thinking of a place where you wouldn’t need him for transportation,” she ventured. “Somewhere you could reach through your own magic?”

“Yes, exactly!” Merlin straightened, energy coursing through him. “When this crisis is over, I could visit more frequently, spend real time with her. Like the other night, we could—” He caught himself, but his mother’s knowing smile made him continue. “We could share a proper meal, talk as... as friends should.”

“I’m certain you both would enjoy that,” she said. “But Merlin—”

A surge of voices from the great hall interrupted her counsel, and their attention shifted to the crowd gathered around Leon’s table. Though the words were unclear, their urgent tone was unmistakable – a search party had returned with no news of Arthur. Their clothes bore evidence of their long hours on the road – dusty, sweat-stained, yet their posture remained determined despite the grave report.

Merlin turned to his mother, already calculating his next steps. “I need to speak with Galahad and Kilgharrah.”

“Of course,” she replied. “Just remember, Merlin – compassion can sometimes blind us to wisdom.” She reached up and guided his head down to kiss his forehead, a mother’s gesture unchanged by his height. “I should return to managing provisions for these final arrivals. Be careful.”

His mother touched his arm briefly before departing, new faces among the servants converging on her – efficient replacements for George and Jacinth. As the last search teams headed for the doors with assignments for tomorrow, Merlin’s thoughts had already turned toward the mountain peak – the possibility of finding Morgana a better sanctuary demanding swift action.

He needed Galahad to discuss this approach first – his mentor would understand the complexities of such a request. Then a careful conversation with Kilgharrah about secluded alternatives that would better serve everyone’s needs.

Though the great hall would remain active with Leon and the commanders into the night, Merlin had found a different path forward – one that might ease at least one burden weighing on him. His headache forgotten in this surge of purpose, he left the search for Arthur to the others. The sooner he found Galahad, the sooner he could set this new plan in motion.

Chapter Text

The first clear thought Yaminah had was of prayer—the Morning Office and verses from Psalms that Ishka had whispered at her bedside, the familiar cadence of the Lord’s Prayer in Arabic resonating through her thoughts. Opening her eyes to candlelight shifting across carved ceiling beams, her mind surfaced from what felt like an endless sea of fever and magic. Time had lost all meaning—fragments of voices, golden light upon her skin, strange men in robes examining her with crystals and muttering in ancient tongues.

Lifting her head to glance around was a challenge. Silk screens surrounded her borrowed bed in Lord Merlin’s chambers, though gaps offered glimpses of the room beyond. Between the panels, she could see the remains of her shattered pendant suspended in a glowing circle, while other crystals floated throughout the chamber, their magic vibrating against her newly awakened senses.

Ishka’s faint breathing came from a nearby bed within the screened area, while beyond she heard the quiet shifting of movement. Farouk. No. Gwaine. She felt his presence—distinct and reassuring. The thought that he had remained with her ignited through her mind as her heightened senses began to distinguish more figures in the chamber.

Her fingers found her throat, the bare area there still startling. Each heartbeat pulsed with unfamiliar energy, her magic rippling with every breath. Yet, something pressed upon her consciousness—a sacred obligation she couldn’t quite grasp.

“Ishka,” she whispered, the sound strange to her own ears, roughened by fever and delirium.

“Thanks be to God, you’re truly awake.” Ishka’s reply emerged in their shared tongue. Her servant appeared at her bedside with water and a damp cloth, helping Yaminah take small sips before dabbing gently at her forehead in a gesture as familiar as sunrise prayers.

“How long—?” Yaminah asked in Arabic, barely audible.

“Fever has held you these past two days.”

“Two days?” she tried to push herself up, but her arms trembled with the effort. “When are—the Sabbath preparations—”

“Lie still, child. It’s near dawn on Friday. We have time yet before sunset tomorrow.”

A chair scraped quietly on the other side of the screen. “Everything alright?” Gwaine asked, confirming her earlier sense of him. His voice rushed through her like lightning, stealing her breath.

“She’s awake,” Ishka called in the common tongue, though her tone held a note of caution.

“May we enter?” came the question from a voice she recognized yet could not name in her memory.

“One moment,” Ishka announced, wrapping a shawl around Yaminah’s shoulders. She adjusted the pillows to support Yaminah’s head, then smoothed her braids into place. Only when she nodded did Ishka call out, “You may.”

A dark-haired knight emerged from behind the screen. She recalled him now—in her fever haze—yet his bearing surprised her. Despite his youth, he moved with the grace of someone far older, his eyes holding a depth that suggested wisdom beyond warfare.

Then Gwaine appeared at the screen, his gaze finding hers immediately. Warmth lit his expression despite the shadows beneath his eyes, suggesting he hadn’t slept; and a few more days’ growth darkened his jaw. Something within her stirred—not magic this time, but that same flutter he had always awakened in her. Remaining near the screen’s edge, he clasped his hands behind his back, a soldier’s discipline in every line.

“My lady, I’m Sir Galahad,” the knight said to her, keeping a respectful distance near the end of the bed. She hadn’t expected someone so young attending her, yet Gwaine had trusted this man’s knowledge of magic. Her cheeks warmed at the thought of what he might have witnessed during her fever—her wild magic unleashed, his powers intertwined with hers as he fought to stabilize her condition. “How do you feel?”

“Like I’ve been thrown from a horse,” Yaminah admitted. Gwaine’s soft chuckle eased some of her tension before she added, “Though I remember little of the last few days.”

“That’s probably for the best,” Gwaine said, restraint keeping him at his post. “You gave us quite a fright.” His controlled stance—the careful way he held himself back—made her long even more for him.

“Gwaine,” she said, extending a weak arm. He moved forward instantly, propriety forgotten as he knelt beside her bed and took her hand in both of his. Something passed between them—actual magic or simply the fever’s remnants, she couldn’t tell.

“I thought—” He pressed his lips to her knuckles, his eyes bright. “When you collapsed... these past two days…”

“I’m still here.” She caressed his cheek with her free hand, feeling the rough growth that marked his days at her bedside. His devotion through her fever—this unwavering vigil—touched places that magic could never reach.

Sir Galahad’s polite cough intruded upon their moment. “I should examine you, my lady. Now that you’re properly awake.”

“I’ll step out,” Gwaine offered.

“Stay.” Yaminah surprised herself with the request, defying years of tradition with that single word. “Please.”

Gwaine’s eyes searched hers, recognizing the price of such a simple plea, though he nodded. “Always.”

“Al-Sayyidah, no.” Ishka moved forward. “It isn’t proper for him to remain.”

Gwaine’s grip tightened around her hand, his gaze pinned to her servant, tension in every line of his body. Her fever had blinded her to this silent war between them—Ishka’s disapproval hardening into open hostility, Gwaine’s patience cracking against the constant reminders of his outsider status.

“Step aside, Ishka.” The quiet authority in Yaminah’s words rose above her weakness, yet Gwaine’s hold ease slightly despite her command. Every lesson in propriety, every rule of modesty ingrained since childhood told her Ishka was right—no man outside her family should witness her in such a vulnerable state. Still, the same force that had drawn her to this knight was older than time-honored custom. Perhaps her magic pushed against those boundaries that had always contained her—because of their differences.

Gwaine pressed a kiss to her knuckles before his hands fell away, acquiescence settling across his features. “I’ll wait outside.” He rose, receding from her like the sun behind clouds. “Summon me if you need anything.”

Ishka’s shoulders relaxed slightly as she moved forward, triumph flickering on her face. Yaminah watched Gwaine’s retreating form before fixing her servant with a hard glare, knowing this small victory would only fuel Ishka’s resistance to their bond.

Sir Galahad pulled a chair to the bedside, his movements unhurried as he seated himself. ‘May I?’ he asked, gesturing to her wrist. At her nod, he cradled her wrist in his fingers, reading the rhythm of her life force.

“Tell me if you can feel this.” His fingers traced along her arms, testing the warmth of her skin. When she tilted her head, he pressed his thumb against her palm. “Now make a fist.” She complied, though her grip remained weak. Examining each limb in turn, her muscles trembled with the effort to respond to his tests.

“Do you understand what happened to you?” he asked, gently lifting each lid to examine her pupils. His face hovered so close to hers that she could feel his breath, the unexpected intimacy of his examination making her acutely aware of Gwaine’s absence.

“I…” She twisted the edge of her shawl, suddenly feeling adrift without him. “I’m not certain. My pendant…”

“Your body is learning to channel magic naturally for the first time,” he explained, sitting back. Gold flared briefly in his eyes as azure light gathered at his fingertips. Ishka took a sharp step backward as his hand began to weave intricate patterns that left trailing wisps of blue light. Sir Galahad turned to address her servant. “I won’t harm her, Mistress. This is only to aid in her examination. The light helps me see how her magic flows.”

“It’s alright, Ishka,” Yaminah murmured in Arabic. Her servant swallowed, fear diminishing even as she clasped her hands tightly at her waist. After two days of watching uncontrolled magical outbursts, it surprised Yaminah that Ishka still found Sir Galahad’s deliberate use more frightening – as if intention made the power an abomination.

“When your pendant fractured,” he continued, sketching luminous symbols in the air between them, “years of contained power surged free at once.” He held his palms over her, his magic flowing like cool water across her skin—a subtle stream compared to the wild energy that had coursed through her veins. “Your magic raced without direction—surging and retreating, responding to your emotions, your physical state, even the magical energies around you.”

Sir Galahad traced a finger through the glowing symbols, which shifted and swirled at his touch like ink in water. “As for feeling like being thrown from a horse,” he added, his serious expression lightening, “your body fought the surges much as it would resist a fall—tensing and twisting to protect itself. Lord Merlin said even experienced sorcerers would struggle against such a sudden release of power.” A glance at Gwaine’s direction. “Your knight barely left your side through the worst of it.”

Yaminah’s cheeks warmed at his mention of her knight as Sir Galahad closed his fingers into a fist, extinguishing the ethereal glow. “According to the life tracings, your powers are still settling. It will take time for your body to adjust. This is why these protective measures are necessary, at least until you learn to channel the flow yourself. These first days will be... unpredictable.”

The crystals chimed softly as a fragrant aroma reached her—cardamom and mint, the tea of her people, of countless prayers and ceremonies. Yet now, even these cherished traditions seemed fraught with danger. How could she perform the sacred rituals when her own body harbored such erratic power? She glanced at Sir Galahad, unable to keep the sudden tremors from shaking her body. “What will happen to me now?” The question carried all her unspoken fears about her future, her faith, her place among her people.

“Lord Merlin and Master Ruadan are the men who attended you with me,” he supplied. “But I’m well-versed in the art of magic, my lady. If you’re willing, I offer my services to help guide your training.”

Training. The prospect itself made her tense. She had only flashes of these men during her delirium—Lord Merlin with his singing crystal and the elder drawing glowing runes in the air with a silver stylus—strangers reshaping the woman she was meant to be. This was witchcraft. Evil. Youssef was right about Baba’s betrayal, but what would their father think of her now? A shiver spiked through her, a nearby crystal chiming suddenly, its pure note filling the chamber.

“Yaminah,” called Gwaine, his tone concerned.

Sir Galahad reached for her wrist again, his other hand already weaving a calming spell. “Be still, my lady,” he murmured. “Let the magic settle.”

“Habibti.” Ishka took a hesitant step closer, her eyes fixed warily on Sir Galahad’s glowing magic.

“I’m alright,” Yaminah replied, catching her breath as the trembling eased, several footfalls approaching from beyond the panels. “I’m alright.”

Farouk appeared at the screen’s edge, bowing deeply. “Al-Sayyidah, pardon. Perhaps tea from our mint gardens would settle your spirits?”

“Yes,” she replied, the offer itself comforting her. “Thank you.”

Her servant withdrew and Gwaine entered, stopping at a distance as Sir Galahad concluded his examination. “You’re still very weak,” he said. “I recommend at least two more days of complete rest.”

“That isn’t possible.” It came out sharper than she intended, the knight diverting his eyes from her momentarily. “The Sabbath begins at sunset tomorrow. There are preparations tonight—”

“Which others can handle,” Gwaine interjected. “Surely your faith allows for illness.”

She gazed at him, seeing the care in his eyes but also a fundamental misunderstanding that made her chest tighten. “Sabbath preparations are not mere tasks to be delegated. As Al-Sayyida Al-Jalila, I must—”

Gwaine stilled at the unfamiliar title, his brow creasing as he took a step closer. “What does that mean mean—exactly?” he asked.

His unwanted question died as heat flooded her vision—her first acknowledgment of a title inherited through her father’s sedition, through Youssef’s betrayal of the crown. Rigid obligations that could not be abandoned now held her captive. She caught her reflection in a nearby crystal, revealing eyes of liquid gold, ancient and strange in her face.

“No, please—” Yaminah cried, terror clawing at her throat.

Ishka gasped, stumbling backward into Farouk as he approached with the tea. The tray clattered to the floor, porcelain shattering. Scrolls whipped through the air, vials rattled on shelves, furniture groaned against stone, while the crystals’ hum rose to a piercing intensity. Gwaine crossed to her bedside in two swift strides, catching her quivering hands in his.

Sir Galahad’s incantation resonated through the chamber, cooling waves flowing through her fitful magic until it settled like morning dew on flowers. When she could breathe properly again, shame burned behind her eyes as she watched the golden shimmer fade from hers and Gwaine’s joined hands. Even surrounded by their protection—Gwaine beside her, Ishka’s constant faith, her household’s loyalty—she felt unmoored from the foundations of her life—every revelation stripped away another layer of certainty about her place in the world. She was a sorcerer.

“Gwaine,” was all she could utter, each breath surrendering to her altered state, to her family’s betrayals, to a destiny she never sought.

His grip tightened as he leaned closer. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

Sir Galahad’s calming influence began to fade. “Your magic responds to emotion,” he explained. “Fear, anger, confusion—they all feed into it. That’s why proper training is essential before attempting anything significant—”

“As Al-Sayyida Al-Jalila,” she interrupted weakly, the title bitter on her tongue, “I must lead my people. Our faith has endured through far worse than this.”

“Your faith isn’t in question,” Gwaine replied gently. “But even leaders need time to heal.”

“You see only the physical danger,” she said as Sir Galahad’s foreign magic ebbed away. “What about the spiritual cost of neglecting my holy obligations? What message does it send to our household if their Al-Sayyidah cannot even direct the Sabbath preparations?”

“I’m sure your household is aware of your condition by now, my lady,” Sir Galahad stated, studying a nearby crystal pulsing with blue light. “At least, that you had fallen ill. They’ll see your need for rest and recovery.”

Two servants arrived to clean the spilled tea, broken porcelain tinkling as they gathering it in trembling hands. Farouk returned with a fresh tray, placing it on the small table beside the bed, his usual poise faltering at Sir Galahad’s mention of magic. Their subtle flinches, their averted gazes—these betrayed their true feelings.

“What do they truly see? That their leader was brought low by forces our faith condemns?” Yaminah’s throat tightened. What did they truly know? Did whispers travel through the tribes now about her collapse and her magic? That she could not touch holy objects without risking sacrilege? “Even so, the Sabbath isn’t negotiable, my lord. These rituals have sustained us through exile, through loss, through every trial. I won’t abandon them now.”

“No one’s asking you to abandon your faith,” Gwaine said, measuring each word like steps across uncertain ground. “But surely there’s a way to honor both your beliefs and yourself.”

“By hiding away? By letting others prepare the sacred vessels, direct the prayers, maintain the traditions that bind us together?” She met his gaze, willing him to understand through his evident agitation. “What happens if word spreads that their Al-Sayyidah’s magic makes her unfit to serve?”

“So you’d rather risk harming yourself?” Gwaine’s fingers tensed against hers, his frustration giving way to rising alarm. “What happens when it manifests during prayers? When the faithful see their Al-Sayyidah lose control?”

His questions bore deep, but Yaminah kept her chin lifted. “Then they will witness their leader facing her trials with grace.”

“Grace?” He withdrew his hand as he stood, leaving her fingers cold. “There was nothing graceful about watching you writhe in fever. Nothing dignified about hearing you cry out as magic tore through your body.”

“Gwaine,” Sir Galahad cautioned, but Gwaine continued pacing with the restless protectiveness of a devoted heart.

“No, she needs to understand. You weren’t conscious,” he said, turning back to Yaminah. “You didn’t see what this power can do. For two days, objects hurled across the room, windows shaking in their frames—even Merlin struggled to contain it at first.”

“Which is why I will master it,” Yaminah insisted, her hands twisting in the bedsheets. “Not hide from my duties like a frightened child.”

“Mastery takes time,” Sir Galahad interjected. “Years of study and practice—”

“Time I do not have right now.” Yaminah pushed herself straighter against the pillows, though the effort made her arms shake. “The Sabbath begins at sunset tomorrow. Our people need routine now more than ever.”

“Your people need you alive.” He knelt again beside her bed, his eyes bright. “I need you alive, Yaminah. Can’t you understand that watching you suffer like this—”

He broke off, the raw pain in his expression compelling her to reach for him. Magic crackled between them, blue-white light dancing, but Gwaine didn’t pull away. Instead, he caught her hand, the power making his fingers tremble against hers.

“This is why you must rest.” His voice was rough with fear rather than anger. “Please, just give yourself a day or so to heal.”

“You don’t understand.” Yaminah closed her eyes, steadying herself. Beneath her weariness lay a deeper need—to prove her worth despite this change, to show that magic hadn’t stripped away her ability to serve. When she opened them again, resolve strengthened her. “I cannot properly prepare for the Sabbath here, amid these other magical currents.” She eyed the suspended crystals, the shelves lined with artifacts that hummed against her new senses. “I need to return to my quarters.”

“My lady,” Sir Galahad began, “your condition—”

“Is precisely why I must return to my own chambers.” She pushed back the covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed, her white gown flowing around them as her feet found the softness of a bedside rug. “How can I learn to control this power if everything here pulses with foreign energy? How can I distinguish what’s mine from what exists in this room?”

Disappointment shifted across Gwaine’s features. “So you risk everything for hubris,” he said. Not a question.

Yaminah forced her gaze from his, her heart fluttering at the worry in his eyes and the defeated tone that had crept into his voice. Pride? No, duty. Obligation. The weight of generations. “My quarters are better suited for our Holy Day preparations.”

She gripped the bedpost and pushed herself up, but the floor seemed to shift beneath her feet like desert sand. Her legs failed her. Both Gwaine and Ishka rushed forward, but Yaminah raised a hand to ward them off as her grip tightened around the solid wood post.

“The Sabbath begins at sunset tomorrow.” She planted her feet on the rug, drawing slow breaths until the room settled around her. “There is much to be done before then.”

“You can barely stand,” Gwaine said, hovering just beyond arm’s reach as if expecting her to fall.

“Then I will sit if I must.” She took a tentative step, pride flickering as her legs held firm. A chair waited only a few paces ahead. “But I will not neglect my duties to my household and my faith.”

“You should remain here, my lady,” Sir Galahad insisted. “The binding spell’s aftermath—”

“Can be monitored in my quarters as easily as these.” Her next step sent bottles ringing like distant bells. “Please. I need the solace of my own quarters.”

“Then I’m coming with you.” Gwaine moved towards her, tension evident in his stride.

“The preparations are holy, my lord.” Ishka’s words fell like iron on anvil and Gwaine halted his approach. “For the faithful alone. Your presence would profane our rituals.”

Yaminah sank into the chair, her limbs burning with each movement. She observed her servant and her knight, feeling pulled in opposite directions—faith on one side, her heart on the other.

“Is that how you see it too?” Gwaine’s jaw clenched as his gaze snapped from Ishka to Yaminah.

“I’m sorry, habibi,” she said. “The Sabbath requires absolute purity, especially its preparations. Even those of our household who don’t share our beliefs know to keep their distance during these days.”

“Purity.” He practically spat the word, her term of affection ignored. “And what of your magic? Does it not defile these ‘sacred rituals’?”

“My lord!” Ishka stepped forward, but Yaminah raised a hand to stop her.

“His anger is with me, Ishka, not you.” The air grew suffocating, her power building within, but somehow she managed to maintain control. “And you are right, Gwaine—I don’t know if my magic will respect our sacred boundaries. But I must try. I must prove that this power has not changed who I am at my core.”

“Even if it kills you?” His restraint finally crumbled. “Even if it means pushing away those who—” He turned from her, raking fingers through his hair.

She completed his unspoken thought: Those who love you. The truth cut bone-deep, more than she expected. He couldn’t—or wouldn’t—understand that her faith and her position demanded certain sacrifices, even from him. When the tears leaked from her eyes, she recognized this familiar ache of a heart breaking.

“Forgive me,” Gwaine said, concern replacing his anger. “That was out of line.”

“But not untrue,” Yaminah murmured, wiping the moisture from her cheeks.

“My lady,” Sir Galahad said quietly. “I will be happy to begin your training when the Sabbath ends.” With a gentle motion of his palm, the healing crystals suspended around them glowed briefly before floating to his waiting hand. So casual his display of magic – such open use of power still felt forbidden, despite her own gifts. “For now, I have urgent business that might aid in the efforts to find the king. Master Ruadan will check on you later.”

The mention of King Arthur struck them all silent as Sir Galahad departed. Through the haze of her changing nature, Yaminah had nearly forgotten the larger crisis gripping Camelot. Now she saw Gwaine’s features twist with guilt—his loyalties divided between duty and her.

“Go,” she urged gently. “Join the search. I’ll be well-attended and guarded in my quarters.”

“I made my choice when you collapsed in my arms two days ago, habibti.” His response came swift and firm. “I won’t leave you.”

For a precious moment, the world narrowed to just them – his unwavering loyalty warming her more than any magic could.

“Even if it means remaining on the other side of a door?” Ishka remarked, cruelly severing their connection. “Unable to approach or assist? Separated by laws older than Camelot itself?”

“Kafana, Ishka,” Yaminah rebuked, the harsh command overlapping Gwaine’s defiant “If that’s what it takes.”

Weariness settled over Yaminah, her eyes closing briefly against their conflict. “Please, both of you. Can you not discern how much your discord tears at me?” She met Gwaine’s gaze. “You may attend me to my quarters.” He nodded, accepting his place as she turned to her servant. “Prepare my clothing. We leave for my chambers immediately.”

Gwaine moved to the chair where she sat, his hand lingering near her shoulder, not quite touching. “I’ll be right on the other side of that screen,” he said softly. “If anything happens—if you need me—”

“I know,” she replied, lifting her chin. “You’ll always be there.”

Always. Such a dangerous word between them. She watched Gwaine retreat through the screens, speaking in hushed voices with Farouk. His devotion only emphasized what stood between them. Yet she couldn’t allow him to share in the sacred moments that defined her life, not even to stand guard outside her door. But until the commencement of the preparations, she would cherish his presence, even if from a distance.

As she stepped into a modest silk caftan, its high collar and long sleeves providing proper coverage for the journey to her quarters, memories of the coronation feast surfaced—that first spark of a link to Gwaine. Perhaps her bound magic recognized not just a kindred spirit in breaking conventions, but someone whose authenticity called to her true nature – the self she had to keep contained, just as her magic was contained. Their connection transcended social barriers because they both understood what it meant to hide essential parts of themselves. Now, caught between worlds, their situation stretched beyond impossible—a knight of Camelot and the daughter of an accused traitor. An unbeliever and a woman of faith. Centuries of beliefs dividing their hearts.

“Some loyalties cannot breach custom, child,” Ishka murmured in Arabic, tugging the folds of the caftan into place, adjusting the intricate fastenings at her throat and wrists, smoothing wrinkles from the delicate silk. Her servant’s glances held knowing sympathy, but also warning. After all, hadn’t Ishka already witnessed the whispers about their Al-Sayyidah’s unseemly attention to a Christian knight?

Those whispers would pale against the truth of her magic. Would her people accept a sorcerer as their leader? Would they see her power as divine blessing or demonic curse? As Al-Sayyida Al-Jalila, she held authority over all aspects of their lives – property, resources, even personal matters that once fell to her father and brother. Perhaps this power was meant to strengthen her rule rather than diminish it, granting her the freedom to choose her own path, including whom she would marry. Her magic surged at the thought—this truth pulsing through her veins like sacred verses.

Yaminah sank into the chair, fingers gripping the arms as Ishka knelt to wind the leather straps of her sandals. But this energy felt new and unfamiliar, coursing steadier now. Through the screens, she found Gwaine, his presence calling to her like a prayer of its own. In her heart, she knew this man would remain at her side no matter the circumstance. As her magic settled within her, perhaps it had revealed not just her true nature, but her true path forward.

Chapter Text

Dodd circled in the torchlight like a wolf sizing up its prey, smiling as Arthur suffer on the stone slab. Mordred forced himself steady, his nails digging half-moons into his palms. Every time Arthur gasped for air, the sound bouncing off the rough rocks, it cut through Mordred like one of the ritual knives from home. The king’s body was fine – no real rope around his neck – but in his mind, Arthur was choking, thrashing against the stone bindings that held him down. Mordred bit his cheek so hard he tasted blood, anything to keep from crying out, from begging Dodd to end it.

Through the dancing shadows from the torches, Mordred watched Arthur’s eyes bulged with terror, his chest heaving as he fought for breath. His muscles seized in violent spasms against the restraints, each motion punctuated by the steady click of Dodd’s boots against stone. The king’s face darkened to a deep crimson as his body bucked and twisted on the slab. The tourmaline gem in the braided circlet atop the king’s brow pulsed with an unnatural light, feeding the visions that tortured his mind, choking him with unseen ropes. The thick incense burned Mordred’s eyes, turning everything into a nightmare he knew would haunt his dreams. Even in the cave’s chill, he wiped sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.

Four days now. Eleven deaths for Arthur. And still, Dodd and Killian hungered for more, their eyes bright with a wild joy as they made the king suffer again and again. A sour revolt stirred in Mordred’s gut, his hearty breakfast of venison and fruits turning to poison. He’d thought he wanted Arthur to pay for what was done to their people, for destroying the sacred places, for burning innocent druids in Uther’s fires. People like his parents, killed when he was small.

Wet, strangled gasps tore from Arthur’s throat, Mordred resisting his instinct to retreat, his feet remaining rooted. But this? This wasn’t justice. This was cruel for cruelty’s sake, born from a darkness Mordred had seen in the shapeshifter before but never truly understood until now.

Dodd’s family had been ripped away in Uther’s war against magic, with a young Arthur complicit in their grisly execution—he believed with no doubt. But while those same kinds of losses had turned Mordred hard with wanting revenge, they’d broken something deeper inside Dodd.

And now they wanted to steal Arthur’s throne by wearing his face, using dark magic to bend the kingdom to what they wanted. The thought made Mordred feel like standing at the edge of a cliff watching the rocks give way under him. This wasn’t going to end with anyone winning despite what Dodd assumed. With Arthur dead, more darkness and pain would spread across the land.

Mordred flinched when Arthur’s strangled gasps faded into silence, leaving only the creak of an invisible rope haunting his own thoughts as the king went still as death. The quiet that followed squeezed Mordred’s chest so tight he could hardly draw breath, dread settling like a leaden ball in his gut.

Dodd stopped his prowling, standing beside Mordred, his gaze fixed on Arthur’s limp body and a smile that made Mordred’s skin crawl. The dim light caught the sorcerer’s grey eyes, revealing both victory and something clever and cruel enough to drain the strength from Mordred’s legs.

“You’re being awfully subdued.” Dodd’s voice went soft as honey, but Mordred knew better than to trust it. “Tell me, young friend, what you think of our work so far.”

His throat went dry, his heart pounding from the horror—from Arthur and the stone slab—so hard he thought Dodd must hear it. Trying to keep his face blank like he’d learned to do with strangers, his thoughts raced wild as startled deer. One wrong word now could mean his death – he had to hide how sick this all made him feel.

“The magic... it’s powerful,” Mordred uttered, the words sticking in his throat. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Indeed.” Dodd’s voice carried a dark satisfaction. “And what of our king’s suffering? Does it not warm your heart to see him pay for what his family did to ours?”

“As you say,” Mordred managed to say, not truly a lie. He looked at Arthur’s still form, remembering his parents’ screams. But the memory felt distant now, overwhelmed by what he’d witnessed. “He suffers greatly.”

Dodd shifted, his shadow falling over Mordred. “Such tepid words from one who should burn with vengeance. Having second thoughts about our cause, young friend?”

Fear lanced through Mordred’s belly. “No,” he said quickly – too quickly. “I just... didn’t expect...”

“Didn’t expect what?” Dodd’s cultured voice roughened, his grey eyes shifting for a beat to brown and brutal. Mordred stiffened – it was as if Killian had purposefully glared out at him.

“I didn’t expect him to last this long,” he said, hoping the man would hear hatred rather than compassion in his words.

“Ah yes.” Dodd’s smile widened as his gaze swept over the king, noting every twitch and tremor. “The great King Arthur. His legendary strength serves our purpose well, doesn’t it? The longer he endures, the more deaths we can make him suffer.” He moved to the opposite side of the stone slab, his fingers trailing along its edge as he studied the king. The dim lighting cast strange shadows across Arthur’s face, every flicker revealing new lines of pain etched by their torments.

“Each death teaches us something new about him,” Dodd continued. “What fascinates you most – the way he fights the visions until consciousness fades? Or perhaps how quickly his pride crumbles once the pain truly begins?”

His vision blurred, and Mordred’s jaw tightened as he clasped his hands behind his back to hide their trembling. “The way he...” His voice quivered, betraying him. “The way he breaks.”

“Mm.” Dodd fell silent, contemplative. The whisper of silk marked his approach as he circled to stand behind Mordred. Unlike Killian’s straightforward menace, Dodd’s elegant malice froze the breath in his lungs. He didn’t dare turn around, but he felt the slight brush of silk against his shoulders. “We haven’t truly broken him, my young friend. Yet something troubles you. I can sense it.”

“Just tired,” Mordred whispered. “Haven’t been sleeping well.”

“The screams?” Dodd leaned in, his breath tickling Mordred’s ear, the closeness uncomfortable and unwanted. “They are rather musical, aren’t they?”

Mordred fought the urge to step away. Killian was savage too, claiming his cruelty came from pain and rage of losing kin. But Dodd... Dodd treated torture like it was a game, turning Arthur’s agony into a sport. Whatever lurked behind those grey eyes made Mordred’s magic curl into itself, seeking shelter in the deepest corners of his being.

“Shouldn’t we put him back in his cage?” Mordred’s eyes darted to where Arthur lay motionless. “Let him eat, build his strength? Like you said – the longer he lasts...”

“Such concern for our guest.” Dodd placed a hand on his shoulder, his fingers slowly digging through the thick layers of clothing. “Tell me, does your heart bleed for the man who let your parents burn?”

Mordred turned to face him, shrugging off the painful grip. “I want him strong enough to feel everything we do to him,” he said, letting old anger sharpen his voice. “A half-dead king won’t suffer properly, will he?”

A smile played at the corners of Dodd’s mouth. “Well spoken, young friend. Go ahead then. Return our king to his cage.”

Mordred edged closer, his palms sweaty as he reached for the circlet. He remembered how it had burned his fingers the first time he’d touched it so soon after its work. This time, the metal band felt cool as he worked it free from the king’s sweat-soaked hair. Arthur’s face twitched as the circlet lifted away, but his eyes stayed closed. So near to him, Mordred could see the tears, the way his chest barely moved with each shallow breath. Between his hands, the tourmaline stone pulsed once, like a dying heartbeat, before going dark.

“Admiring my work?” Dodd asked, making Mordred’s grip tightened around the circlet.

“Memorizing it,” he replied. “So I never forget what magic can do to even the strongest of men.”

He turned and crossed to the table, placing the circlet carefully upon it. Behind him, Arthur’s stone shackles dissolved at Dodd’s whispered word, drawing a soft moan from the king. “You need help lifting him?” Dodd asked.

“I can manage.” He returned to the stone slab, ignoring the fresh blood soaked through the ragged bandages on king’s wrists. Grasping him under his arms, he tried not to think about how light Arthur felt after four days of torment.

“Careful now.” Dodd’s voice held all the concern of a snake eyeing a wounded bird as Mordred started the slow work of dragging Arthur toward his cage. “We wouldn’t want any... accidents.”

He pulled Arthur through the iron door, laying him as gently as he could on the thin furs. He knew Dodd was watching, testing, always testing. Draping another over him, Mordred noted the king’s ghostly pallor beneath the dirt and sweat.

“He needs water,” he said, keeping his voice neutral, moving out of the cage. “And some of our bread from breakfast. No use starving him before we’ve finished with the circlet’s work.”

“Next you’ll suggest feeding him Killian’s game and my goods,” Dodd said, a sharp edge entering his voice. “No. Porridge will serve just fine.”

“That’s not enough,” Mordred snapped. “Even as Uther’s prisoner, I was fed better than this. Your porridge barely keeps rats alive.”

“Watch your tongue, boy,” Dodd replied, a lethal softness in his words. “Or have you forgotten who taught you to use that magic you’re so proud of?”

Mordred looked down at his hands, as if seeking answers there. “The druids taught me first,” he asserted. “They showed me magic could heal as well as harm.” He met Dodd’s gaze. “A strong prisoner serves better than a weak one. You taught me that too.”

Dodd considered him for too long, head tilted like a predator reckoning its next move. Then his lips curved into that familiar, unsettling grin. “Very well. Get him water, and bread with his porridge. But remember, young friend – mercy can be a dangerous weakness.”

“It’s not mercy.” He fell into step beside Dodd as they headed down the tunnel to their stores, their footsteps echoing off the stone walls. “It just makes sense.”

“I trust you’ll make sure he eats then,” Dodd said, the words filling the empty tunnels. “We have plans for him if Killian becomes bored and has his way.”

“What—kind of plans?” Water dripped somewhere in the darkness as something skittered across their path, disappearing into a crack.

“The circlet’s shown us the obvious deaths – hanging, burning, drowning, decapitation.” His voice turned reflective, almost scholarly. At their cache, Mordred scraped what remained of Arthur’s morning porridge into a clay bowl, painfully aware of Dodd’s eyes following his every move. He lifted a barely half-full waterskin and a small chunk of bread that felt stale in his hand – better than nothing. “But there are older ways of execution, crueler methods that even Uther shied away from. The Romans, for instance...” He paused, the words as ominous as darkness. “They were quite creative with their punishments.”

Mordred’s mouth went dry, a chill creeping up his spine. “Crucifixion?” His fingers dug into the bread as distant stones clattered somewhere unseen.

“Among others. Flaying is an art in itself,” Dodd replied, retracing their steps through the passage. “And there are techniques from the far east that few in Camelot have ever witnessed. The circlet will make Arthur feel every new sensation, every cut, every tear of flesh from bone. Just a few additional gems and a precisely spoken incantation, we can unlock even darker magics.”

The simple task of carrying the supplies suddenly felt like bearing heavy stones. Where had Dodd kept these gems? And when did he steal them? What secrets did they hold? The three in the circlet already wielded terrible strength, and yet Dodd spoke of forbidden power with such casual hunger.

Back at the cage, Arthur hadn’t moved. Mordred knelt beside him, setting down the meager provisions. “Those kinds of deaths take time,” he said, arranging the food and water, using the moment to steady his voice. “Won’t that give his knights more chance to find us?”

“Worried about discovery?” Dodd’s grin never wavered as he approached the iron bars. “The wards we’ve created will keep us hidden. Camelot’s forces can search every forest in the realm – they’ll never find this entrance nor ever realize their mistake.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Besides, ‘Arthur’ will miraculously return to the castle one day ending the search.”

“What if the king dies too soon?” Mordred forced himself to ask. “Before you’ve finished your work with him?” 

“Then ‘Arthur’ will show up sooner than later. Besides, you’ll strengthen him up...” Dodd’s smile widened. “…so he can endure what’s coming. Now, make sure he eats. I have—” His refined tone slipped for just a moment “—Killian plans to hunt before midday meal, and I suppose I have some thinking to do before Arthur’s next encounter with death.”

“I should replenish our water supply,” Mordred said mildly, needing distance between them. “And check the wards when I’m finished here.”

“Quite right, young friend. We wouldn’t want anyone stumbling upon our little sanctuary, would we? Not when we’re having so much fun.”

Mordred nodded, keeping his hands steady as he uncorked the water flask and poured the liquid into Arthur’s empty cup. Behind him, Dodd’s footsteps bounced off the cave walls, growing fainter until they disappeared altogether. Only then did Mordred release his held breath, his shoulders sagging under the weight of what he’d learned.

Arthur looked dead and Mordred touched his arm – the skin felt like ice. Two days ago, he’d watched from the shadows as Arthur had spilled his water across the stone floor, too lost in grief and pain to drink. Now the king lay motionless, trapped somewhere in the aftermath of the circlet’s torment.

He lifted his prisoner’s head carefully, bringing the cup to his lips. “Drink,” Mordred whispered, letting a few drops fall. His throat moved slightly – a good sign. Mordred poured more water, making sure the king didn’t choke. He needed him to drink, to eat, to keep his strength. But as he held the cup steady, Mordred wondered if he was truly being merciful or just helping prepare Arthur for worse torments to come.

Water dribbled down the side of Arthur’s mouth as Mordred continued. They were going to kill this man slowly, painfully, in ways that would break both body and spirit. The thought turned his stomach as he remembered the eager light in Dodd’s eyes when he spoke of flaying, of crosses, of tortures that even Uther hadn’t dared use. This wasn’t the justice Mordred had dreamed of in the druid camps, or during those long bitter nights alone wandering the forests. This was something darker, something that made his magic curl up inside him like a frightened animal.

Mordred’s hands shook as he lowered Arthur’s head back to the furs, feeling just as much a captive as the king – just in a different kind of cage. If he showed too much mercy or further weaknesses, Dodd or Killian would turn on him without hesitation. If he tried to run, they’d hunt him down. And if he stayed... he’d have to watch every moment of Arthur’s suffering, knowing he’d helped make it possible.

He reached for the bread, but realized Arthur hadn’t truly woken, had only swallowed the water by reflex. The leftover porridge had grown colder and thicker, but that hardly mattered – Arthur needed to eat something. “I’ll return after I’ve completed my tasks,” Mordred whispered, though he doubted the king could hear him. “Try to eat when you wake up. You’ll need your strength.” He closed his eyes for a moment, knowing what that strength would be used for.

A sound rebounded from deeper in the cavern – footsteps approaching. Heavier this time – Killian, coming to assess Dodd’s work with those dark, unsettling eyes. Mordred quickly gathered the water flask, forcing his face back into that careful mask of indifference. As he left the cage, locking it with a simple spell, he caught one last glimpse of Arthur. The mighty king of Camelot, reduced to this. And Mordred had no choice but to play his part in what was yet to come.

Arthur surfaced slowly through layers of pain, each breath a conscious effort. The phantom rope still burned around his throat, every muscle drawn taut from fighting against death’s grip. His raw wrists bled anew where the stone cuffs had cut during his struggle. Cold seeped through fur, the altar replaced with meager comfort, but when had that happened?

Voices drifted back through the fog, fragments piercing his consciousness: “... strengthen up...” “... endure what’s coming...” “...next encounter...” His stomach clenched as his weary mind conjured images of endless deaths still awaiting him. Each execution would bring new agonies, fresh torments he could scarcely imagine. For him, there would be no final release – only more deaths, more suffering.

Water lingered on his lips, his collar wet from it. Mordred had made him drink – the boy’s hands gentle, almost kind. Strange that one who helped torture him would show such care. The others relished his executions, but neither would bend a knee – not even to feed him. His throat worked, desperately wanting more water, but his limbs felt leaden. Even opening his eyes seemed beyond him. How long had he been here? Time was lost, yet each death inflicted seemed to strip another year of life from him. How many more could he endure?

Guinevere. The name brought fresh agony, sharper than any physical pain. Gone. She was gone. And he remained here, trapped in this endless cycle of death without the mercy of joining her. Tears slipped from beneath his closed lids, but he had little strength left to wipe them away.

Moments ticked away before he finally opened his eyes. A cup sat just within reach, a bowl and now bread beside it. His captors wanted him strong enough to suffer, to endure torment after torment until his spirit finally shattered. Not to survive, no – for them, death would come only after they’d stripped away everything that made him who he was. But he would deny them the satisfaction of breaking him. He would suffer these thousand deaths before he ever cried for mercy. He was Arthur Pendragon. Let them see what a king’s resolve truly meant.

Chapter Text

Their horses secured among the silver birch saplings in the Darkling Woods, Galahad walked beside Merlin as they approached the druid encampment about half a league from the northern walls of Camelot. Like other knights who visited the sacred grounds, he’d traded his chainmail for a high-collared tunic and green cloak—a gesture of peace that had become custom these past weeks. Merlin cut an imposing figure in his fitted black attire, the elegant lines reflecting his renewed resolve. The transformation suited him well beyond his display of power at the council meeting days ago. His magic had scattered papers and toppled candles at Sir Gwaine’s accusations, yes, but Galahad had watched his former student grow into something far greater—a bridge between the Old Religion and the crown itself.

Activity ceased as the druids noticed their approach, and one by one, they knelt before Merlin, heads bowed and palms raised in reverence.

“Oh no,” Merlin mumbled, acknowledging his followers with crisp nods as they passed. “I really wish they’d stop doing that.”

“I’d think you’d be used to this by now,” Galahad teased, nudging Merlin with his elbow, amused at the great Emrys squirming under such adoration.

Merlin shot him a wry look. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this.”

After paying homage to Merlin, the druids returned to their tasks, their auras flowing like gentle streams into the forest’s own magical currents. Venturing deeper among them, Galahad’s eyes roamed their active encampment. Children in brightly colored robes scampered about, their laughter ringing through the air like a joyous melody. Their auras, vibrant and pure, flickered and danced around them like tiny, playful wisps. Galahad couldn’t help but smile at their unbridled enthusiasm, the sense of peace and harmony permeating everywhere.

The scent of herb-infused stews and fresh bread mingled with sage and sweetgrass from nearby fires. The rhythmic clash of practice staves carried from a training circle, while the soft murmur of spellwork drifted from meditation groves. Clusters of people gathered in quiet discourse or focused on their crafts, their daily routines a testament to their thriving community. Only Catha and the Isle of the Blessed rivaled such concentrated magic, though their power manifested differently than this harmonious blend with nature.

A workshop tent drew Galahad’s attention, where artisans fashioned talismans and charms. His magical sight revealed the intricate layering of enchantments—how gold and silver chains captured and amplified the gems’ natural properties, while braided cords bound the spells in place. Each object sang with its own magical signature, from protection amulets glowing steady as stars to healing crystals that pulsed like heartbeats. He paused to study their work, recognizing techniques that differed fascinatingly from Catha’s more rigid magical structures.

A craftswoman with silver-threaded hair bent over the small table, her gnarled fingers moving with precision as she wove enchantments into the piece before her. Through his magical sight, Galahad observed how she merged the intuitive energies of moonstone with lapis lazuli’s celestial properties, binding their combined power through braided leather cords.

“May I?” Galahad asked, indicating a finished talisman as Merlin leaned closer to study an assortment of unfinished charms, their cores still thrumming with raw potential.

The older woman looked up, her eyes widening at the sight of Merlin. She began to raise her palms, but Merlin nodded his head first, halting her worship of him. Still smiling, her hands settled onto her lap, a warm shimmer in her delicate aura.

Galahad’s fingers tingled as they encountered the protective runes. “Ah, aventurine,” he exclaimed, identifying both the stone and the runic symbols etched into its polished surface. “The druids’ preferred crystal for defensive enchantments.”

“Yes, my lords,” she replied, her expression alight with amazement. “Green aventurine shields its wearer from emotional negativity—stress, anxiety, self-doubt. The runes cultivate the stone’s protective properties, fostering inner peace and balance.”

Galahad turned the amulet over in his hands, admiring how the craftsmanship enhanced the stone’s natural properties. He imagined how the gem might complement Mistress Jacinth’s features—the aventurine highlighting her porcelain skin and vibrant red hair. Their recent encounters in the physicians’ chambers during the seer’s work with Sefa had revealed a softer possibility between them, though he understood her heart remained uncertain. Perhaps such an extravagant gesture would only widen the gulf between them, but with time, the right moment may present itself for such a gift.

With a thoughtful smile, he returned the amulet to the table. His gaze lingered briefly on the rose quartz and pink tourmaline—stones of heart healing and emotional harmony—before he offered the craftswoman a grateful nod and continued with Merlin toward the center of the encampment where the masters awaited.

To Galahad’s trained eye, the runes revealed themselves—courage, wisdom, and most troublingly, love. His training at Catha had taught him the profound responsibility that came with wielding such power. The thought of using a love talisman to sway Jacinth’s heart sent an uncomfortable chill through him, his magic rejecting the very notion. If he were to earn her regard, it would be through truth and time, not artifice. He turned to Merlin, seeking his wisdom about the boundaries between sorcery and matters of the heart, but their discussion yesterday about finding Morgana a more suitable sanctuary reminded him that Merlin wrestled with his own moral quandaries. Before Galahad could broach either the ethics of talismans or his friend’s concerns, a shout split the air.

“Emrys!” The familiar voice called, drawing their attention.

Galahad looked to see Master Iseldir approaching from a joining path, his power emanating from him in waves of silvery-blue, steady as moonlight on still water. The druid’s grey robes caught the morning light as he walked toward them, his unhurried stride reflecting the same serene control as his magic. When he arrived, he knelt with fluid grace, raising his palms in the traditional greeting.

“Welcome, Emrys,” he said. “It is an honor.”

“Rise, Master Iseldir,” Merlin said. “You and your people continue to greet me warmly. Thank you.”

Iseldir rose, acknowledging Galahad with a nod. “It’s good to see you again, my lord. Welcome.”

Galahad bowed his head respectfully. “The honor is mine, Master Iseldir. To see your people thriving so near Camelot’s walls brings hope for our future.”

“A sign of changing times,” the druid agreed, his magic brightening with quiet satisfaction.

“Your numbers seem to have grown since our visit just days ago,” Merlin observed, surveying the expanded encampment.

“More clans arrive daily to help rebuild the Grove of the Ancestral Spirits,” Iseldir explained, his aura pulsing stronger at the mention of the sacred site. “Each new arrival strengthens the bridge of trust between our peoples.”

“That’s incredible news,” Galahad said. “I’m sure King Arthur would be pleased...” The words died in his throat as their purpose here crashed back into focus, Arthur’s absence smothering like a suffocating fog. Merlin’s shoulders tensed, his many-colored aura fracturing with distress.

Iseldir stepped forward, a gentle touch on Merlin’s arm. “Come, Emrys. Master Alator awaits in the council tent. Let us discuss the grave matter of the king at once.”

Galahad’s heart quickened as they approached the center of the encampment, anticipating his second encounter with the High Priest of the Catha. Alator’s reputation had filled many teaching hours during Galahad’s studies—his mastery of ancient magic, his fierce devotion to the Old Religion, and his formidable abilities as a warrior-priest. Now in the presence of such revered figures—Alator, Iseldir, and Emrys himself—surpassed Galahad’s most ambitious dreams.

The central tent loomed before them, its canvas walls adorned with intricate symbols that seemed to dance and shimmer in the filtered sunlight. The air around it thrummed with living energy, signaling the power of the man who waited within.

Iseldir moved forward, drawing back the tent flap, the fabric whispering as it parted. He bowed his head in deference. “My lords,” he murmured.

They entered the tent, and Galahad felt the outside world dissolve into a realm where magic and destiny intertwined, the fate of king and kingdom hovering like a blade’s edge. An energy crawled across his skin, raising the hairs on his arms and neck, igniting the magic in his blood. As his vision adjusted to the shadowed interior, wisps of exotic incense and candle smoke embraced him, their ethereal fragrance infused with ancient rites.

Master Alator sat cross-legged on a woven mat, his pure white aura illuminating the space around him like dawn’s first light. His closed eyes and still posture suggested deep meditation, while before him rested a tome of copper plates bound with gold wire and adorned with unknown symbols. Scrolls of silk and bamboo surrounded it, their ancient surfaces holding secrets of foreign magic. The bald man’s clear blue eyes opened at their approach, his smile welcoming them to this sanctuary of knowledge.

“Emrys,” Alator greeted, inclining his head, his rich brogue rolling through the tent like distant thunder. “Please, sit. We have much to discuss.” They settled onto the mats opposite Alator, Iseldir joining them, the simple woven fibers anchoring them to this sacred moment.

“Queen Guinevere again expresses her gratitude for your willingness to meet with us and offer assistance,” Merlin said sincerely to the elders. “She deeply appreciates the support of the magical community during this difficult time.”

Iseldir lowered his head in acknowledgment. “The queen’s gratitude honors us both. Camelot shall not stand alone against this threat,” he replied, each word a binding oath.

“The eastern incense burning in the censer today,” Galahad noted. “We used the same blend during advanced training at Catha.”

“Ah yes, I remember learning that well...” Alator smiled, running a hand over his bare head, “back when I had hair.” The comment drew brief smiles, offering a breath of lightness before their grim purpose reasserted itself.

Iseldir turned to Merlin. “Emrys, we have information on the three objects you believe Mordred stole from Camelot’s vaults.”

“Yes,” replied Merlin, shifting to rest his arms on his crossed knees. “The tourmaline brooch, the jet pendant, and the opal circlet. You found something substantial?”

“Indeed, we did,” Alator said, his brogue inflections turning grave. “These artifacts also come from eastern lands—their arcane origins and rare magic making knowledge of them scarce in our realm. But the combined resources of Catha’s libraries and our distant allies have revealed their true nature.”

He leaned in and picked up one of the scrolls, using tender care to unroll the delicate silk before passing it to Merlin. The fabric was gossamer-thin, yet the metallic ink remained vibrant, shimmering as if newly brushed onto the material. He lifted the tome of copper plates, its cover adorned with intricate carvings of mythical beasts and ancient markings, the weight of centuries resting in his hands as he gently handed it to Galahad. Unlike the fragile silk scrolls, these metal plates retained their luster, each sheet bound to the next with fine gold wire. Alator then retrieved a scroll of bamboo slips strung together with bronze rings, its surface bearing the patina of time, and also passed it to Merlin.

"These three items," he continued, "each hold their own dark power. The opal circlet—the Lumīn-shu or Reacher, as we call it in our tongue—draws forth even the most deeply buried memories. The tourmaline brooch, known as the Ming-zhi, Destiny Stone. The jet pendant, the Soul Chest or Yīng-po, completes the trinity, trapping the souls of those remembered, capturing them as death claims them.” He gestured to the items in their hands. “These texts speak of their creation. The artifacts themselves may have traveled west centuries ago, perhaps through ancient trade routes.”

“That would explain their presence in Uther’s vaults,” Merlin said, glancing at his silk scroll. “He seized anything magical without understanding their true nature.”

Galahad’s eyes roamed over the copper plates, his fingers tracing ancient creatures he did not recognize circling its edges. Inside, elegant eastern script flowed across the metal in graceful columns. Though his studies at Catha had introduced him to several foreign tongues, this dialect lay beyond his knowledge.

Iseldir nodded soberly. “The tome you hold, Sir Galahad, references the Destiny Stone. It is the most troubling of the three. While their individual properties may seem harmless, when combined with the other two gems on the circlet, they become weapons of terrible power. It can force the victim to relive the deaths of those individuals repeatedly, experiencing their final moments as if they were their own. The pain, the suffering, the fear – it would all feel terrifyingly real.”

Merlin’s fingers tensed around the gossamer-thin silk, his brow furrowing as magic flickered around him like disturbed water. “Morgana warned that if they were imbued as one…”

“She is correct. The process of combining these artifacts requires powerful, Old Religion magic.” Alator reached for another silk scroll, this one bound with intricate knots of gold thread. He set it before them with grave purpose. “This text reveals the exacting steps. One must master the ancient eastern language to cast the proper spell, understand the precise placement of each gem, and achieving the proper heat needed to reveal the hematite core within the opal. Most crucial is knowing how to channel the gems’ curses through the copper and gold band.”

Iseldir shook his head. “Such intricate preparation lies beyond Mordred’s current abilities.”

Galahad’s heart stuttered in his chest as he eyed the foreign scroll, a jolt of apprehension surging through his body. “But not beyond Dodd’s.”

“You spoke of this man as Mordred’s accomplice,” Alator said, his brogue deepening with concern. “A shape-shifter. Trained sorcerer. The fact that he could translate these eastern incantations and understand their magical principles indicates formidable scholarly knowledge. Combined with his power in the Old Religion, he would be capable of bridging these traditions. Such fusion of eastern and western magic creates a dangerous tool indeed.”

Gold filled his eyes as he raised his hand, palm facing upward and whispered a spell. A shimmering green light began to coalesce above his fingers, taking shape of a circlet. The copper and gold-entwined metal pulsed with otherworldly energy, the tourmaline blazing with power. The opal with its hematite core and the jet stone flanking it amplified the light, their combined power casting spectral shadows across the tent’s walls. Galahad’s magic retreated from the image, sending a bone-deep shiver through him.

“King Arthur may be forced to relive his worst nightmares, trapped in unimaginable cycles of his deepest fears and regrets – perhaps something even worse.” Alator’s voice resonated with power, spiking tremors in Galahad’s own magic. “If the repeated exposure to malevolent mental stress does not kill him, I fear his spirit would be broken, his mind shattered beyond any hope – perhaps even to that of magic – leaving him a mere shell of the man he once was.”

“Lost forever to the abyss of his own torment,” Iseldir added, his eyes flicking to Merlin, whose face had drained of color. “In Mordred’s hands, the former is likely the case: King Arthur will surely die.”

An unspoken understanding, as ancient as the secrets of the Old Religion, flowed between the masters and Merlin. It settled in Galahad's core, a leaden weight that dimmed the ember of hope he'd harbored for Arthur's survival.

“The tourmaline is now at the center, not the opal," Merlin noted quietly, studying the manifested circlet.

“Dodd would need to reset the opal with the tourmaline for this spell to work,” Iseldir replied. “We must cling to the hope that the magic can’t be done, despite his knowledge. To have even found information on these items is an enormous feat within itself.”

“At least there is that,” Merlin replied dryly.

"And if it could be done, what fate awaits Albion?" Galahad defied, his voice rising above their calm demeanors. "The hard-fought unity of the kingdoms? If Arthur falls or his mind fractures beyond repair, will his dream of a united land crumble to dust?” The questions leached the warmth from the tent, each possibility a specter of dread.

The circlet faded as Alator lowered his hand, sorrow etching new lines in his features. His piercing blue eyes met Galahad’s. “The destiny of Albion cannot be denied, Sir Galahad. Its threads are woven into the very fabric of our world, bound to prophecies beyond counting.”

“With or without the circlet, the prophecy of Mordred slaying King Arthur may come to pass,” Iseldir said, his voice laden with wisdom and sadness. “Their tragic paths have been known to the druid elders for many centuries, yet even if he succeeds, Albion’s destiny will not change – only the players to bring it about will alter.”

The meaning behind their shared glances crashed over Galahad, a scoff catching in his throat. He turned to Merlin, desperate for any shred of hope, but found only resigned certainty on his friend's face. "Merlin, please," Galahad whispered, his voice raw with dawning horror, "what is he saying?"

“That Arthur’s legacy will endure,” Merlin said darkly. “And believe me. This was one prophecy I wish I’d never heard.”

“The king’s role in Albion’s destiny cannot be overstated,” Iseldir declared. “His choices and tireless efforts have laid foundations that will remain beyond his time. The alliances he’s forged, the vision he’s inspired—these will guide those who follow, even if he falls to Mordred. Though the crown may pass to another, Albion’s path remains unchanged, shaped by Arthur’s dream of unity.”

Galahad’s brow furrowed as he glanced at each of them, desperation threading through his voice. “There’s nothing we can do? Arthur’s fate is sealed—that he dies and Albion rises without him?”

Merlin inhaled deeply, his aura shifting and taking on an ancient quality that matched the timeless wisdom in his next words. “What we are saying, Galahad, is that the path of prophecy is not ours to control. Fate will not be deprived, no matter how much we may wish it otherwise. We must trust in the wisdom of the gods and the strength of our own resolve.”

Galahad turned away, his mind filled with visions of Camelot’s people—the queen bearing Arthur’s heir, the knights who’d sworn their lives to him, the common folk who’d finally begun to trust in their king’s dream of unity… How could light pierce such darkness ahead? How could hope survive without the heart that had taught them all to believe? The depth of such inevitable loss pressed against his ribs, pushed the air from his lungs.

“Take comfort, Emrys, Sir Galahad,” Alator said, his aura flaring with conviction as his brogue rang through the tent. “The future is not set in stone. While the prophecies may guide our steps, it is our actions and choices that ultimately shape the world we live in. We must have faith in ourselves and in each other, for it is through our combined strength that we will face whatever the Triple Goddess has in store for us.”

Alator’s assurances did little to ease Galahad’s fear. Arthur was more than his sovereign—he was the king who’d trusted him with Camelot’s secrets despite his own struggles with magic, who’d welcomed a knight skilled in sorcery into his inner circle. “What is a golden age without Arthur’s guiding light?” Galahad whispered, his gaze falling to the tome in his hand. “It makes no sense to me.”

The question lingered in silence, only their breathing an answer. Merlin turned his gaze to Master Iseldir.

“Arthur’s necklace,” he said, swallowing hard as hope slipped further from their grasp. “Anything?”

“I’m sorry, Emrys. Where ever they are, strong magic shields them from our sight.”

Merlin scrubbed his forehead, his eyes closed before he looked at Alator. “Is there anything you can do to help locate Arthur?” he asked, his voice raw and strained. “Any whispers of dark magic that might lead us to him?”

Shadows deepened the lines of the master’s face. “Dark magic speaks every day,” Alator warned, his voice dropping to a foreboding murmur. “There are many places it dwells, hidden in the crevices of the world, some in plain sight.”

Iseldir shook his head, his mouth set in a stern line. “Too numerous to count within and outside the kingdom. It is like trying to find a single drop of poison in a vast ocean.”

The scent of burning incense, once comforting, now took on a bitter edge, as if tainted by the very mention of the magical forces they sought to combat. Trepidation coiled in Galahad’s gut like a restless serpent, his skin prickling with an unnerving sense of foreboding. He looked at Merlin, whose shoulders bowed as if Atlas himself had surrendered his burden, as he carefully laid the silk scrolls on the mat before him. Following Merlin’s lead, Galahad set the copper tome down with reverence.

They rose, Iseldir placing a hand on Merlin’s arm. “You have the support of the druids, Emrys. We will do everything in our power to aid you in this fight.”

“I will send word to our network of allies,” Alator said, his white aura brightening with power. “Continue the search for Mordred and Dodd. They cannot hide from us forever.”

“But how much longer does Arthur truly have?” Galahad asked quietly. Tense glances were exchanged, another ominous question that none could answer.

“Thank you for your efforts,” Merlin replied, letting out a slow breath, his voice low with disappointment, yet firm. “Our queen would appreciate whatever assistance you can provide. So would I.”

As they emerged from the tent, unease clung to Galahad like morning mist. The masters’ vast knowledge had yielded nothing to help locate Arthur. This truth settled in Galahad’s stomach like cold iron, made heavier by what these stolen artifacts could inflict upon the king. He dreaded bringing such bitter findings to the queen.

The encampment’s magic, which had so enchanted him earlier, now seemed to withdraw from their passing. His magical sight dulled, the once-vibrant auras of the druids now appearing distant and faded. The camp’s familiar sounds—children’s laughter, the clash of practice staves, the murmur of spellwork—reached him as if through water.

Merlin walked beside him, nodding stiffly to his druid followers, masking the despair Galahad had witnessed in the tent. Their footsteps fell soft against the earth, each step carrying them further from hope and closer to the pressures of futile duty that awaited in Camelot.

“Merlin,” Galahad said, his voice as empty as a deserted cathedral, “the queen – she must be told.”

Merlin’s jaw clenched, his anxiety rippling through his aura like heat waves. “No,” he replied, the word sharp enough to make Galahad pull a breath. “Not…all of it… We learned nothing good here today. Gwen has enough burdening her heart and mind already. But…”

When Merlin fell silent, his eyes fixed on the path ahead, as if afraid to voice the shadows in his thoughts, Galahad halted and faced him. “But…?”

“It’s been four days now for Arthur.” Merlin swallowed, his words tight with emotion. “How many times have they used the weapon on him, do you think?”

The thought of Arthur subjected to such horrors left Galahad hollow, as if something vital had been drawn from him. “I don’t know, Merlin,” he replied, his voice barely above a whisper. “I dare not think what they’re doing to the king or what horrors we’ll find when we rescue him. But if Mordred and Dodd’s magic can thwart even the masters’ attempts to locate him...” The unspoken question burned between them—what chance did they truly have against such formidable power?

Chapter Text

Gwaine stood sentinel by a tapestried wall in Yaminah’s expansive quarters, tracking the servants as they gathered supplies for evening preparations, his muscles coiled from two days of constant vigilance. While the household dismissed his presence as readily as the chamber’s furnishings, he found his tension unwinding as he watched Yaminah direct her people with newfound poise—her magic manifesting now only by the gold in her eyes.

The aromas of their last regular meal blended with whispers of tomorrow’s sacred rituals—servants inventoried spice jars and measured aromatic oils, others tended the simmering supper that would sustain them before the Sabbath began. The constant stream of Arabic flowing around him felt like waves breaking against stone, leaving him adrift in a sea of foreign rhythms and customs. Servants swept past him—their glances skimming away whenever he tried to catch them—his presence an interruption to their holy preparations. Yaminah moved among them with confidence, meeting his watchful gaze occasionally, and only briefly, before returning to her duties.

He inhaled slowly—the hundredth time—unresolved conflicts still at odds within. Merlin’s chambers might have contained her magical outbursts, but they couldn’t confine her spirit. All those crystals and arcane relics had pushed against her power like chains. He hadn’t liked her returning so soon without proper guidance, but she’d refused to stay where foreign magic suffocated her newfound power and kept her from the hallowed commitments that bound her people together.

And he’d refused to leave her side. “I made my choice when that pendant shattered. I won’t leave you again.”

That pledge had sealed his vow, though Ishka’s glares still seared like desert sun on steel. He didn’t care. Two days of helpless vigil haunted him—diamond fragments frozen in air, Yaminah surfacing briefly between waves of raw magic, her form twisting as her screams burned through his memory. No amount of battlefield maneuvers had prepared him to counter this storm, no shield could deflect this tide of power.

Memories of other sickbeds where he’d stood helpless gnawed at his chest. His past losses had taught him the torturous pace of waiting—Yaminah’s struggle with magic mirrored those moments. And just as he had before, he could only clasp her hands and hope.

Magic. When paired with her name, the word meant more than mere ability—which he’d come to accept. It would reshape her entire existence, challenging the intricate customs and traditions that shaped her. Ishka’s earlier warnings about arrangements and obligations rang in his ears, reminding him how little he truly knew of their people’s shared, faithful path.

Shifting his stance, Gwaine’s hand found the hilt of his sword. Somewhere in Camelot, Arthur needed him too. His king, his friend, possibly in mortal danger. The choice should have split him in two, propelled him to join the search parties. Yet when he closed his eyes, all he saw was Yaminah’s face as her magic broke free, heard her desperate plea in his mind: “Make it stop!”

A sharp clatter drew his eye as a brass bowl spun off a table, struck by nothing but air. The servants froze, but Yaminah’s commanding presence and steady voice kept her people calm. His own step forward halted as Ishka’s hard glance reminded him of his place here: observer, not participant. The message in her demeanor rang clear as temple bells—some boundaries weren’t meant to be crossed. Gwaine met Ishka’s contempt with his own before turning to Yaminah.

“Al Shokr li-llah,” she said, her expression clearly conveying both gratitude and humility. The Arabic flowing from her lips remained foreign to him, but Yaminah’s commands carried authority that settled her household. Several servants nodded with restrained acceptance—their unease fading more quickly now than when they’d first witnessed gold eclipse the hazel of her eyes. The preparation resumed—her hands firm on the table’s edge. Only Gwaine noticed how her shoulders softened once attention had shifted away.

Throughout the day, like now, the sound of quiet chanting filled the chambers—prayers, he assumed, recognizing the word “Allah” woven through their melodic Arabic. But memories of past losses ambushed him during these times, ones he’d buried beneath years of indifference: fevered entreaties kneeling beside his older sister’s sickbed, desperate pleas for his father’s safe return from war, supplications that went unanswered as his mother faded away. Each death had stripped away his faith until only one truth remained: his devotions meant nothing to God, so God meant nothing to him.

Here lay the true battle, he now realized, fighting the urge to prowl as if sizing up an enemy. Not against her magic or his duty, but against centuries of traditions that he could never fully share with her. That his love, no matter how deep, branded him as the unbeliever who’d turned his back on everything she held dear, to a God he’d long since abandoned.

Ahmed, a young guardsman Gwaine had come to know during this vigil, emerged carrying a steaming bowl of fragrant broth. Navigating the household’s intricate patterns—movements Gwaine still struggled to comprehend after hours of observation—Ahmed’s lean frame displayed the same elegance that made him lethal with a crossbow. But unlike the others who treated Gwaine as if he were invisible, the Egyptian’s stare fixed directly on him. Under these circumstances, he might have welcomed the respite, but something in Ahmed’s look—a distressing blend of sympathy and enlightenment—made him tense.

“Sir Gwaine.” Ahmed kept his voice low, mindful of the holy chanting around them. “You’ve not eaten since before midday. Please. You must replenish your strength, my lord.” He extended his offering.

“I’m fine,” Gwaine refused, but Ahmed’s unwavering smile gave him pause and he accepted the bowl. “Thank you.” Unfamiliar spices wafted up—earthen and rich beneath the sharp tang of citrus. As he lifted it, chunks of tender meat and vegetables swirled in the golden liquid, releasing new aromatic whispers.

Scooping the spoon into his mouth, Gwaine studied Ahmed, acutely aware of the young Egyptian’s own discerning eyes sweeping over him. Ahmed stood a few inches shorter, straight dark hair framing an angular face. His traditional Alexandrian clothing—white tunic falling to his knees, colorful sash housing an ornate-sheathed with a curved dagger—paired with loose trousers that settled above leather sandals.

“You do not believe in God, in our sacred rituals and beliefs,” Ahmed commented, genuine curiosity lighting his features—regardless that each word landed like an arrow finding its mark.

Gwaine’s hand tightened instinctively on the bowl, its warmth anchoring him against an unwelcomed discussion and a painful past. He lowered his hands, assessing the young man before him. Despite the light dusting of facial hair that shadowed Ahmed’s jaw and upper lip, suggesting no more than twenty summers, could he detect the battlelines being drawn within Gwaine’s mind?

“I believe in myself, my sword, and those I trust with my life,” Gwaine replied, his statement nearly lost in a sudden burst of melodic chanting from the far side of the chamber. He softened his tone before continuing. “But I respect the customs of others. Who am I to judge?”

A thoughtful hum escaped Ahmed as he weighed Gwaine’s words. “Many men share your path, living for the cares of this earthly life, believing only in self, and gain, and pleasure. The honor of men, the nobility of their actions and purity of their intentions, is indeed crucial for the betterment of this world. It, too, is a light that guides us in the darkness of our earthly trials.”

As Ahmed spoke, Gwaine’s gaze found Yaminah seated at a low table across the chamber, her fingers gliding over prayer beads while she supervised nearby women at her feet. She glanced up, her smile warming him before returning to her task. When Gwaine finally turned back to Ahmed—catching only fragments about Christ being the true Light—that the guardsman unflinching stare held such certainty that Gwaine fought the impulse to look away.

“But sacred honor,” Ahmed continued, his expression warm with conviction, “the kind that transcends the fleeting breath of mortal life, is found in the submission of one’s soul to a higher purpose.” His features softened into a gentle smile. “It is in recognizing that our time here is but a whisper, a fragile thread in the grand tapestry of existence. The honor that matters most is not the praise of men, but the approval of our Creator. For when the veil of this mortal life is lifted, and we stand bare before our Lord, it is the purity of our faith and the sincerity of our devotion that will be our true victory, our eternal triumph.”

Gwaine lowered his spoon into the half-finished bowl, the young man’s wisdom and profound truths gripping his chest like an unseen hand. “I...” Words failed him, old whispers summoning him to listen. He swallowed, his thoughts retreating to childhood—hazy images of his family gathered at worship, his mother’s gentle voice guiding them through Christian rituals.

As a young boy, he’d harbored doubts, questioning a God who seemed impossibly distant. His sister’s death had weakened that fragile connection; his father’s had nearly severed it. When his mother finally passed, his faith had crumbled to dust, scattered by grief’s merciless winds. He studied the broth’s swirling surface, avoiding Ahmed’s perceptive regard.

In the years after, he’d drifted between taverns and kingdoms, participating in whatever celebrations crossed his path—Christian or pagan, it hardly mattered. He found temporary comfort in camaraderie, in drink, in women’s arms. But in quiet moments between revelries, in the silence before dawn, emptiness would find him—a hollow space earthly pleasures hadn’t quite filled.

It wasn’t until he’d met Yaminah that Gwaine confronted the emptiness he’d spent years denying. In her presence, his wanderer’s soul found meaning, a connection more profound than ale-soaked revelries or battlefield victories had ever provided. Ahmed’s certainties now pried at long-sealed doors in his mind. What existence extended beyond sword-edge and belonging? Had he, as a grief-stricken boy, abandoned too quickly the possibility of divine purpose—something that might outlast duty to king, brotherhood, and his heart’s deepest desire?

Ahmed glanced toward the inner chamber where servants began settling plates and cushions for their evening meal, enticing aromas drifting from covered dishes. “Fii amanillah, Sir Gwaine,” he said softly. “May God guide you to Al-Tariq, The Way, when you are ready to recognize your need of Him.”

He returned to help with the final preparations, leaving Gwaine humbled by his testimony and stunned by the Christian term’s familiar echo. The Way—words from his childhood faith now wielded by this young man—his unswerving faith and sincere beliefs splintering Gwaine’s long-maintained shield of certainty. He scrubbed his jaw, the back of his neck, before lifting his spoon of cooling broth, seeking comfort in the familiar act of eating.

Across the chamber, Yaminah arranged ceremonial foods on a silver platter, her gestures fluid yet deliberate. A braid with a gold band fell across her brow as she leaned forward, tucking it back absently without pausing her task. Watching her, questions emerged from corners of his mind he’d long avoided: If sword-arm failed and youth abandoned him, what remained? And what of the loyalty he valued in his brothers-in-arms—how could he build his life upon the faith of men who, like him, were bound by the same mortal limits and flaws?

The possibility that his understanding of the world might be incomplete unsettled him deeply. Yaminah, Percival, and multitudes seemed to anchor their faith through life’s tempests. Their belief in God, a life eternal, and meaning that outlasted this mortal existence—of a divine purpose that had comforted his sister and parents until their final breaths—raged against his fortress of denial. For an instant, Gwaine felt unmoored, his convictions dissolving like morning mist.

A knock at the door dispersed his thoughts, forced him to breath. Farouk crossed to open it, revealing Percival’s imposing frame in the threshold. Gwaine caught his friend’s gaze over the gathered servants, noting the tightness around his weary features, exposing frustration and exhaustion.

Setting aside the bowl of unfinished soup, Gwaine navigated the busy chamber as a familiar bitterness rose in his throat – thoughts of his last conversation in Percival’s office surfacing unbidden. His brother-in-arms had refused to replace him in the arrest of Al-Sayyid Badawi almost a fortnight ago, had stood firm when Gwaine begged to be relieved of the duty. “You chose to pursue her ignoring my warnings,” Percival had said then, his voice hard with disapproval. “Now face the consequences of that choice.”

The recollection still ate at Gwaine’s gut. Even before the pendant shattered, before magic entered the equation, Percival had seen the dangers in Gwaine’s attraction to the daughter of a suspected traitor. But Gwaine had ignored it all, drawn to her with an inevitability that defied reason, facing consequences both he and Yaminah should have foreseen.

“You received my request?” Gwaine asked, stepping into the hallway where torch shadows danced across the walls. He closed the chamber door behind him, traces of incense still curling beneath the frame.

“Seven days,” Percival replied, his chainmail whispering with each breath.

“Will it be a problem?”

“…Not for me—” His next words were measured, like chapel stone. “You, perhaps.”

Gwaine’s teeth cinched, eyes narrowing at Percival’s tone—the one his commander reserved for delicate matters. The inference penetrated deeper coming from him, who’d risen from common birth to First Knight on merit alone. Did he truly believe Gwaine unworthy of a noblewoman’s attention? That his love for Yaminah somehow diminished him before his fellow knights—especially now that her father stood condemned as a traitor?

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Gwaine asked.

“Rumors are spreading.” Percival leaned in as a servant hurried past. “She has magic, Gwaine.”

“So do a lot of people,” he snapped, cold fury threading his whispered remark. “So does the king.”

“A woman of faith now wielding sorcery.” Percival’s statement echoed traces of Al-Sayyid Badawi’s rhetoric—words that had put the lord in chains. “How it might corrupt what you admire in her?”

“You dare to judge her?” Gwaine took a step closer, weeks of accumulated strain turning his voice to gravel. “You don’t know her.”

“Do you?” Percival’s challenge cut sharp and clean. “How much time have you really spent with her? Gwaine, be reasonable.” His armor clinked with his shifting weight, each sound amplified by the narrow corridor.

Gwaine turned to face his friend fully, regarding the man who’d fought beside him during countless conflicts. The past weeks he’d lashed out at them all—Arthur, Merlin, now Percival. He should have anticipated this—the prayers, the wooden crosses, the small Bible tucked in his shirt. Of course he shared Badawi’s condemnations about sorcery even while serving alongside Merlin. But “reasonable”? How much time before you knew you’d sacrifice everything for someone? …The questions smoldered in his throat as clarity returned… This wasn’t his battle today. Not with Arthur missing.

“The king?” Gwaine asked, keeping his back to the chamber door, his clipped reply and rigid posture speaking more than concern for Arthur.

“No sign. No leads. Nothing.” Percival shook his head, his admission revealing the weight of two days’ fruitless searching. “The patrols found tracks heading north, but the trail goes cold at the Swenlin River. After four days, it could have been anyone’s….” With the report delivered, unspoken grievances stretched in the silence. Then, softer: “Gwaine… About Lord Badawi. I should have—”

“Forget it. “Gwaine’s eyes found the dragon tapestry across the hall, focusing on the threads that formed Camelot’s crest. He didn’t need Percival’s apology. There was only one thing he wanted right now, and it certainly wasn’t a confession. When he turned back to his silent friend, his anger ebbed away, leaving only raw exhaustion in its wake. “We both serve the crown. You did what duty demanded.”

“As did you.” Percival’s features fell with remorseful awareness – Gwaine following orders to arrest Yaminah’s father, only to be sent away from her immediately after. “We could use you out there, brother.”

The familial expression hollowed him out more than any rebuke. His king and friend was missing, yet here he stood, unable to leave Yaminah’s side. Two duties warred within him—one to his sworn brotherhood, another to the woman who’d become as vital as breathing.

“I can’t leave her, Percival.” Exhaustion and resolve bled through his words. “Not now. Not like this.”

“This path you’re choosing…”

“Is mine to take, brother.” Gwaine paced two sharp steps, anger winding into motion that begged for release. “Force the choice, Percival. Just do it—”

“Gwaine—?”

“As my commander, deny my request or push me to choose between duty and—”

“And love...?” Acquiescing with a sigh, Percival’s voice gentled. “I’ve extended your leave—against my better judgment.” His large hand settled on Gwaine’s shoulder as it had many times before. “I just hope you know what you’re doing.”

Gwaine exhaled sharply, his shoulders sagging with relief before guilt straightened them again. He knew he didn’t deserve such indulgences when Arthur remained missing. But Yaminah’s untamed magic sealed his course—she needed him now more than ever.

“Never been one for careful choices,” Gwaine replied, meeting his friend’s concerned gaze with a shadow of his usual swagger. “Why start now?”

“That’s what worries me. But I know better than to argue.” He squeezed Gwaine’s shoulder before his hand fell away, and stepped back. “I’ll have a soldier report any news of Arthur to you.”

“Right then. Percy—” Gwaine called as his friend turned to leave. “Thank you.”

As Percival’s footsteps faded into the evening stillness, Gwaine leaned his head against the wooden door, regret seeping in. He hadn’t meant to contend with Percival—his friend remained loyal, despite their disagreements. Fatigue was no excuse for turning his blade-edge tongue on the people who mattered most.

Straightening, he turned and pressed his palm against the chamber door’s weathered oak. Behind this barrier lay another world—one of ancient customs and sacred rhythms that were far from his grasp. Every gesture, every whispered word pushed against his presence, marking him unworthy.

He reached for the door handle, but it opened from the inside, flooding the corridor with warm light and the scent of exotic spices and incense. Yaminah stood there, her solemn expression making his heart sink. She stepped into the corridor, closing the door behind her.

“Gwaine… Habibi, I thank you for all you have done. I know this has been difficult for you.”

“I’ll do it a thousand times over,” he replied, yearning to reach for her, but unsure if his embrace would violate a custom.

“Even now, your concern touches me.” Yaminah lifted her hand toward him, then pulled back when her eyes swirled in liquid gold. His breath caught at their shared hesitation—his fear of breaching her customs, her fear of magic she couldn’t fully control. “Our rituals, the preparations for the Sabbath—they’re sanctified. Your presence here, however well-intentioned...” She drew a deep breath. “I cannot ask you to stand guard over these ceremonies.”

“You don’t have to ask. I’m choosing.” He stepped closer, drawn by the scent of jasmine in her hair, by the sight of the faint tremor in her hands. “Habibti,” he said, the Arabic endearment falling from his lips before he could stop himself, “I’m staying.” For all this knight of Camelot could offer was his sword and his devotion.

“Gwaine.” His name held such gentleness and affection, but he heard all the sorrow beneath it, each assertion that followed striking deeper than the last. “How little you comprehend our sacraments. These next days are not just about prayer and preparation. They are the path to purification, our journey toward worthiness before God, our time of divine communion. Everyone here has spent the week preparing their hearts, their spirits. My servants—those who do not share our faith—know to keep their distance during these consecrated hours.”

“And what of your magic?” His fingertips brushed her arm, fleeting as shadow at twilight. “Who will watch over you if—”

“If I lose control?” Her smile held both pride and pain. “Perhaps that’s part of my trial. To learn control with faith, not...” Her eyes transformed—they both looked at her hands, threads of white light dancing between her fingers. “Not through whatever this is. Nevertheless, I grow stronger by the hour.”

“So I’m to stand idle while you risk yourself for tradition?” he asked, frustration roughening his question as she lowered her hands into fists. He couldn’t stop the words: “Walk away when you need me most?”

“Need you?” Defiance burned alongside fierce independence in her bearing. “Is that what you think? That I’m some helpless maiden requiring rescue from her own nature?” She straightened, refusing to bow to its cost. “I am Al-Sayyidah Yaminah Zahir, anointed by God, appointed Al-Jalila. My people look to me for strength, for guidance… I will lead them. I will learn to master this power.”

“Yaminah…” he uttered, humbled by the chasm between his presumption and her reality. While he’d seen only the woman who needed protection, she carried the fate of a thousand souls.

“Please.” Her kohl-lined stare held the steel of command. “Go. Rest. Search for King Arthur. But whatever you choose, do your duty as I must do mine.”

Gwaine stood rooted. She’d spoken with the authority he’d heard her use with her household, shattering his foolish hope of staying. In the torchlight, he saw the proud tilt of her chin, her rigid stance and unyielding shoulders, the way she fought to keep her hands steady.

“I’ve never known anyone as strong as you,” he said, sincerity softening his defeat, his chest tightening with a familiar ache. “Or as stubborn.”

“Two days,” she whispered, a promise and a plea—his Yaminah again. “Just give me these two days, habibi.”

Habibi, a reassuring—no, comforting—word, but he couldn’t forget those moments in Merlin’s chambers when she’d been vulnerable, afraid, refusing to break. Now all she wanted was his tolerance, not his protection.

“Two days,” he echoed. “But I’ll be close. If anything happens—”

“I know.” She smiled then, yet it trembled at the edges, revealing her own grief. “Ma’a as-salama, Gwaine. Go with peace.”

Before she could step back, impulse moved him forward. He cupped her face with infinite care, and as her magic sparked at his touch, he pressed his lips to hers—softly, reverently, tasting salt, sweetness, and something new—like honey warmed by desert sun. “Yaminah,” he breathed against her mouth, her name holding all the certainty his heart had sought.

“Gwaine,” she sighed in return, the sound undoing him completely. For a heartbeat, she leaned into him, then she drew away, leaving only the ghost of her warmth against his lips.

The door closed between them with a soft finality. Gwaine’s fingers traced the grain of the wood, remembering diamond shards. His choice then hadn’t just been about staying—it had been about accepting everything she was, everything she might become. Let others warn of dangers, of differences too vast to bridge. He would remain at her side during each trial, each transformation, even if that meant separation during sacred obligations.

His boots scraped against stone as he made his way to the knights’ quarters, each step heavier than the last as two days of vigilance finally claimed their due. Tomorrow and the following day, he would put this time toward research and learning. Ishka’s declaration about his ignorance of their culture had struck true. The castle must have texts about the Coptic Christians of Egypt somewhere in its library – writings he’d never thought to seek out before. Now such knowledge seemed essential.

Because love wasn’t about changing someone to fit your world—it was about expanding your domain to embrace theirs. And he had chosen Yaminah, with all her complexities of magic and faith and duty. Whatever barriers lay between them, his path was clear. For now, his path led to his bed and the first real sleep he’d had since her pendant shattered, but tomorrow it would lead him to the library, to wisdom, to her.

Al Shokr li-llah - Thanks be to God

Chapter Text

Elyan headed east through the deepening dusk with a knight’s stealth, following the forest’s overgrown path once used by Camelot soldiers – and a hundred years later – by two stubborn children repeatedly warned to avoid it by their father. Each step brought a fresh wave of memories – racing with Gwen up these same slopes, pretending to be legendary warriors as they chased each other through the trees. Now those innocent games felt like shards of broken glass in his mind, tearing through as he recalled how thoroughly he’d severed their bond.

His destination loomed ahead – the ruins of a relic from Camelot’s distant past. The watchtower stood like a forgotten sentinel, its weathered stones holding memories of an era when their borders ended at this very spot. Once a vital part of Camelot’s defenses, the tower had long since fallen into disrepair, its purpose diminishing as the kingdom expanded and new fortifications were built.

He’d arrived early, intending to position himself on the eastern side of the parapet where he could monitor the path from Camelot. As he approached, the circular structure rose from a base of moss-covered boulders, tree roots snaking between the stones like grasping fingers, though its walls remained thick and sturdy, unyielding to the cracks that webbed their surface. Narrow windows, little more than arrow slits, punctuated the tower at regular intervals, offering glimpses of the surrounding landscape. The door – oak reinforced with iron bands – sagged on corroded hinges, forcing Elyan to shoulder it open. He entered, the familiar mustiness of the tower’s interior hitting him – cool stone sweating in the summer heat and the mineral tang of old mortar – so different from the clean, oiled-leather scent of the knights’ quarters he’d left behind.

Reaching into the satchel strapped across his shoulder, Elyan retrieved flint and tinder. He struck sparks toward a rusted sconce he knew by memory, lighting the ancient torch still secured there. Flames leapt to life, forming shadows that splintered along the walls like reflections of his divided loyalties. As he turned, the torch illuminated the garrison chamber, sparse and hollow, the ghosts of men with purpose wisping amongst furnishings decayed by time and nature. Along the inner wall, the spiral staircase coiled upwards, its rusted ironworks beckoning in the light.

He moved about the rooms, forgotten contents long since removed or claimed by the elements. As he wandered, memories surfaced of hiding from Gwen in these very chambers, crouching behind disintegrated and dusty tapestries, stifling sneezes and giggles as she called his name, her voice echoing against stone walls that had witnessed their innocence. Now, part of him bristled at the subterfuge—of using this place—of the need to meet his own sister in secret. But he was a traitor. After all that had transpired between them, the angry words and broken trust, he knew an open reunion at the castle was impossible. At least for now.

Climbing the spiral steps, his torch revealed gouges and scratches where countless boots had passed before. At each turn, another memory surfaced – Gwen’s triumphant laugh when she’d reach the top first, the way she’d help him up those last few steps – ever the protective sister. Arriving at the parapet entrance, he paused to light a rusted sconce fixed beside the doorway, ensuring a flame for his return.

The parapet still offered its commanding view: Camelot rising proud to the west, the Darkling Woods stretching beyond it. Villages scattered the landscape like fallen leaves, farmlands and cottages stitching together the kingdom’s patchwork terrain. In the distance, newer watchtowers stood at attention along expanded borders, their solid silhouettes unmarred by time, their efficiency a silent reproach to this crumbling relic. He extinguished his torch, avoiding the chance of drawing their attention. But the sights no longer filled him with childish wonder. Instead, each familiar landmark stood as a boundary between the brother he’d been and the man he’d become.

The setting sun hung low, its dying light bathing the sky in amber as dusk approached. He navigated the debris as he moved toward the battlement overlooking the path from Camelot, his vision adjusting to the shifting light. A sudden chill careened up his spine.

Arthur’s abduction had cracked his armor of righteousness, his yearning to see his sister driving him here, a brotherly instinct to offer what comfort he could. For all his bitter words about magic’s corruption, the image of Gwen facing this crisis without him gnawed like the memory of abandoned vows.

He paced the parapet, scanning the paths below, eyes trained on the winding road that cut through the edge of the Forest of Escetir. Each shadow that lengthened across the treeline, the forest floor, parapet stones, drew his attention. As twilight deepened, he strained to see through the growing darkness. She would need a torch soon.

Movement caught his eye – a lone torch weaving through the trees along the expected path. Gwen was always punctual – even as children – and right on time, she appeared. His chest tightened at this gesture of trust, her honoring his request to come alone. Yet concern for her safety followed immediately. Traveling these woods unescorted was reckless, especially for a woman, more so for a queen. His fault – he shouldn’t have demanded this.

“Why didn’t I bring a crossbow?” he muttered, cursing his oversight. From this height, he could have provided protection across the entire approach. He kept vigilant watch as she navigated the stretch of path, his hand never straying far from his useless sword. Only when the bobbing torchlight reached the clearing before the tower did he finally move from his concealed position.

He scooped up his torch, cold in his hand, and slipped through the crumbling archway. Lighting it from the sconce he’d ignited upon his arrival, he descended the stairs, shielding the flame with care. Then he caught it, a whisper of fabric from below, stopping him mid-stride as he neared the bottom. His hand rested on his sword hilt with old instinct, knowing that it couldn’t possibly be Gwen already.

Two familiar figures emerged from the shadows below. Percival aimed his sword at him while Merlin’s palms faced outward, ready, both men shifting to opposite sides of him.

“What is this?’ The words scraped from Elyan’s throat as he took those last steps to reach the solid ground, sweat breaking across his brow. His fingers tightened around his weapon still in its scabbard.

“The consequence of your actions.” Gwen emerged from the shadows near the door. In the flickering torchlight, her silent judgment chilled the space between them, her stance that of a queen facing an enemy rather than a sister greeting her brother.

The knight in him recognized the tactic – the torch he’d spotted approaching had been a decoy. Gwen had been hiding all along, waiting for him, watching to see if he’d honor her request to come alone. The decoy gave them enough time to enter the building and secure their positions within. The thought pricked at his pride, yet he couldn’t fault her caution. After all, hadn’t Arthur trained her in the arts of strategy himself?

Gwen advanced, each step purposeful. “You’ve betrayed your king, your fellow knights, and your own blood. Did you truly expect no reckoning?” The queen in her face eclipsed any trace of sister. “Arrest him, Sir Percival.”

“Wait. Listen.” Elyan glanced at his once-friends, pulse quickening as he assessed forces, scrambled for leverage. His hand twitched on his sword, but he knew it was futile. He was outmatched and outmaneuvered, trapped like a fox in a snare. “If you arrest me, remove me from the city, my followers—”

“Your followers?” The words fell between them, laden with contempt, disbelief widening her eyes. “So you are responsible for spreading fear across the city.”

“I am,” he replied unflinchingly, reading every hard line in his sister’s glare – they were both beyond the point of denial. “My friends will see this as provocation and rise up. The civil war you fear will become reality. Is that what you want?”

Gwen’s jaw tightened. She glanced at Merlin, whose features hardened with hostility.

“He may be right,” Percival said. “Between Arthur’s disappearance and the anti-magic sentiment, the towns teeter on the edge, my queen.”

My queen. Elyan bristled at Percival’s tone, the honorific somehow grating despite the knight’s consistent use of Gwen’s title, even in private. He stepped forward, forcing Percival and Merlin to adjust their stance.

“My followers won’t stop at words,” he said, voice dropping, the torchlight in his hand revealing the growing tension in their faces. “They’ve targeted the druids, Gwen. I’ve held them back, but remove me, and you’ll be responsible for what could follow.”

“What?” Merlin surged forward, fury clear on his features, but Gwen raised a hand, restraining him.

“Why did you summon me here.” Her words carried no warmth of kinship, only the measured tone of a monarch addressing a potential threat. “Speak.”

Elyan fought to keep his voice steady under her scrutiny, unable to discern his big sister from the queen – both had a way of putting him in his place. “I had to see you—I heard about Arthur. I’m so sorry, Gwen. Is there any news?”

Given their estranged relations and his actions since his departure, he wondered if Gwen would reveal such diplomatic details to a traitor and instigator. She studied him with that same deliberate consideration he’d seen her use in court when citizens brought their disputes before her, balancing each party’s claims before rendering a decision.

“Many search for him,” she replied, the brevity itself a warning.

Yes, Elyan thought. There she was – the queen.

“But we both know you didn’t risk meeting me in secret just to offer condolences.”

“That’s part of it,” he admitted. “I am concerned.” A step toward her, his grip tight on the torch. His eyes flicked to Percival’s sword lifting slightly in response, and Merlin’s fingers tensing, before returning to his sister’s. “I know things between us are strained, but you’re still my sister, and Arthur is family. I mean it –my love for you has never changed—you must know that.”

“Love?” Her voice turned brittle. “You speak of love after what you’ve done? Your leaflets are spreading fear throughout our city, besmirching our king and his purpose.” She drew herself up, shaking her head. “But the venom you hurl is also aimed at me. Why? Why this?”

All he’d seen was the crown when he started this crusade, and at the time, both she and Arthur were in his sights. As much as it pained him, it was too late to separate them now. “People need to see the dangers of sorcery, Gwen.”

“They know, Elyan—we all know.” The first words of gentleness since their confrontation. “Who in this kingdom hasn’t been touched by magic?” She pressed a hand against her belly as she seemed to wrestle with herself before making a decision. “Despite everything, you’re still my blood. Still Arthur’s family.”

“Gwen, don’t,” Merlin interjected. “We can’t trust him.”

Gwen considered Merlin’s warning, taking a moment to search the eyes of her men. “He’s my brother and has a right to know.” She looked at Elyan. “I’ll share what little we’ve learned about Arthur in the strictest confidence. Do I have your word that what I’m about to say will remain in this room? That some fragment of honor remains in you?”

Elyan hesitated, conflict churning, his duty to his cause struggling against what remained of fraternal loyalty. A word given to Gwen had once been unbreakable between them—before magic had carved this chasm. This information would be invaluable to his followers, a weapon for their mission. A silent breath caught as he gave the slightest movement of his head, the gesture so minimal it could be interpreted however she wished.

Gwen lifted her chin. “We know rumors are spreading about sorcerers’ involvement in Arthur’s abduction, though our efforts to contain them seemed to have failed. But it’s true. Mordred and a sorcerer named Dodd have taken him. There’s been no ransom, no leads, and only God knows what they may be doing to him… if he still lives.”

Incredulity flashed across Elyan’s face, followed swiftly by anger.

“Dodd was a follower of Morgana,” Gwen continued, her voice dropping as she revealed the sensitive intelligence. “And Mordred had attempted to free her during her execution. We believe he sees this as retribution for dethroning and attempting to exact justice upon her. If Arthur’s capture is the beginning of something larger, we don’t know.”

“Don’t you see?” he exclaimed, feeling vindicated. “This proves everything I’ve warned against. The people will rise up—”

“You gave your word,” Gwen cut in, closing the distance between them until she stood in front of him.

“I made no promises,” he responded, knowing his non-committal nod had left him open to options.

He expected her to strike him—it wouldn’t be the first time—for his dishonor quite deserved her retaliation. Instead, Gwen’s breathing quickened, her mouth clamped in a thin line. “You mustn’t reveal this information. It could spark revolution. Is that what you want?”

He turned from that penetrating stare – the same look she’d used since childhood, now sharpened by a queen’s authority and more painful that a blow across the cheek. His hand dragged across his brow as he faced the tower wall.

“Elyan.” Her voice softened but lost none of its authority. He turned to her, feeling all the more the younger brother about to be schooled on his own folly. “My husband – your king – is in danger. We don’t need reminders of evil’s existence. Your words sow discord and fear, not truth or justice. Do not think me blind to magic’s dangers, to how the corrupted twists its power for harm.”

Wisdom he wasn’t ready to hear nor errors that needn’t be laid bare. Elyan shook his head. “I’m sorry, Gwen. The people deserve to know of this real threat to Arthur. I won’t—”

“What of the sorcerers who’ve defended Camelot?” she asked. “The ones who do so now?”

“I only champion truth, sister. Someone must stand against this madness before—”

“Before what? Before peace has a chance? Before understanding can grow?”

Elyan paced a tight circle, torch held low, its flame painting erratic patterns against the tower’s weathered stones. “You don’t see it, Gwen. You’re too close to Arthur, to Merlin—to all of it. The throne has wrapped you in its politics until you can’t see the danger anymore.” A flicker of regret crossed his face as Gwen’s regal composure faltered for the first time, pain briefly surfacing above her royal mask.

He glanced away, moistening his lips, knowing that he hadn’t truly answered her question—that he’d never apologized for his actions. “How far away is peace for any of us, Gwen? Growth requires pain—yours from Arthur’s absence, mine from the nathair’s bite. Some lessons can only be learned through suffering – I stand by my beliefs.” He moved to her, his shadow falling over her. “But I’ve realized that I allowed my emotions to cloud my judgment. Causing you pain was never my intent.”

Gwen was silent, haunting like shadows caught in the razor’s edge between memory and forgetting. The tower’s ancient stones seemed to exhale with her, her fingers tracing an absent pattern against her stomach—a gesture he wasn’t used to seeing her do. Indeed, she’d press her hand there occasionally when contemplating, but now it seemed to mean something more – somehow protective.

“Despite our differences,” she said, her voice worn smooth as river stone, “I never thought I’d see the day when my own brother would turn against me so viciously, discarding everything we hold dear. How could you, Elyan? How could you betray me like this?”

Shame scraped raw inside him, a wound reopened by her words. The fury that had once blazed between them now smoldered to embers, leaving only the ashen taste of regret. “I felt betrayed from the moment we learned of Merlin’s and Arthur’s magic, and you became the target of my... rage at that unfortunate moment. I wasn’t ready to hear your side then. But now I am. Help me understand, Gwen. Why do you trust magic when we were raised to fear it?”

His sister waited, taking more time to reflect as she watched him, her hands once again pressing against her stomach. A soft sigh, then quietly, she began. As she recounted magic saving Arthur’s life, Elyan glanced at Merlin, whose usually cheerful face remained grave, his eyes never leaving Elyan’s. When she spoke of sorcerers proving themselves allies, Percival’s solemn nod confirmed the truth of her words.

She continued with her own encounters—times when magic had also protected rather than threatened, healed rather than harmed, each reminder hitting its mark. He’d known about most of her trials but had chosen to forget, letting bitterness blind him. Now, witnessing the conviction in his sister’s bearing and the silent affirmation from men he’d once called brothers, doubt crept in like rising floodwater. Had he been wrong? Was there more complexity to this than his anger had allowed him to see?

“Think about what I’ve shared with you,” Gwen said, her voice gentler. “Question if there’s another way. Your silence could save Arthur’s life. Your rhetoric could end it.”

Elyan bowed his head, her solemn declaration dawning on him slowly, confusing him now, forcing him to examine his own decisions and beliefs. “I must go,” he said hoarsely, unable to truly look at any of them. “I must think. But I promise you, Gwen, I will do my best to understand your viewpoint, even if I may not ultimately agree with it. I love Camelot—I don’t want to see it suffer. Or Arthur, if that means anything to you.”

The ancient door creaked open and Fredrick entered, sword in one hand, torch in the other. The decoy, Elyan recalled with a bitter scoff. The torch he’d spotted from the parapet—the bait that had kept him upstairs while they positioned themselves here to corner him. Fredrick moved to Gwen’s side, his weathered face impassive as he lowered his torch to a sconce.

“Your orders, Gwen?” Percival’s voice carried years of authority despite his recent appointment. “We can’t just let him go and keep poisoning minds against us.”

The condemnation in Percival’s tone struck deep, Elyan clearly hearing “traitor” in his former comrade’s words. He remembered that same judgment earned when he’d abandoned Gwen to face exile alone after the Lancelot affair. Percival, with his bedrock faith in family bonds, had eventually forgiven that betrayal. Now here they stood again, with Elyan turning from his sister in another crisis.

He pushed down the taste of “enemy” on his tongue and met Percival’s stare. “You have no choice,” he said, voice taut. “Unless you plan to raid every home in the towns to find my friends and stop their push forward – and I know you won’t do that, Gwen.”

Her glare sent him rocking back on his heels. Again, he faced the queen of Camelot, not his gentle, older sister. This was a sovereign who had maintained her authority throughout their encounter, revealing information not from weakness but from calculated strategy that he’d thwarted. He knew challenging her further was futile. He lifted his palms in a submissive gesture, the torch clattering to the ground, his glance shifting between the men who surrounded him.

“I can offer something. I won’t stop—” He steadied himself. “I may not stop the flow of our pen, but I can ease its bite.”

“Your half-measures are not enough to undo this damage,” she snapped. “I expect more from you, Elyan.”

“That’s all I have.” His words landed like stones. “The best I can do.”

Gwen turned away, his rejection conveyed in the set of her shoulders.

“There are many who believe as I do,” he continued, determination hardening his expression. “I can’t fail them now.”

Merlin stepped forward, his voice cold and severe. “Spreading fear and threatening innocent people isn’t noble, Elyan. It’s destruction. What you’re doing is wrong.”

Elyan’s jaw clenched. “The danger is real, Merlin. Magic has destroyed as much as it’s built. My methods may seem harsh, but someone must stand vigilant.”

“You speak of danger,” Percival said, his voice filling the chamber. “I’ve seen both sides of this coin. We both have.”

Elyan turned to face his former brother-in-arms, their shared history wrapped around them both like a serpent awakened.

“My faith—our faith—teaches caution, yes,” Percival continued, lowering his sword slightly. Elyan scowled at the presumption, but he didn’t interrupt. “I spoke truthfully concerning a woman of magic just hours ago, tempting her man to anger. I wasn’t judging her as he’d thought—I was merely voicing the conflict that her choices presented. Elyan… it isn’t my place to condemn sorcerers.” His demeanor softened. “Just as it’s not my place to judge Merlin.”

Though Percival protected the identity of the woman and man well, Elyan knew he spoke of Gwaine and Lady Yaminah Zahir, the noble he’d fallen in love with. Fresh rumors about her had already reached him – that she, too, was sorcerer coming into her power.

“How can a man of principle stand beside sorcery?” Elyan challenged, fearing more of their kind would be revealed in the coming days, months ahead, poisoning Camelot’s legacy with their magics, no matter their social position or religious faith.

“I stand with a man whose deeds I’ve witnessed firsthand.” Percival took a step closer, this time lowering his weapon. “You’ve been friends with him longer than I. Has he ever given you reason to doubt his character?”

Elyan’s gaze found Merlin, their experiences as friends running through his mind. His words about magic not being evil – that it’s the heart of the man who wields, rang clear, being true yet also justified his means.

“I know that magic doesn’t corrupt them all,” he said finally, though this conviction made his voice waver. He looked at his sister. “But these exceptions blind you to the real threat. For every Merlin, how many others plot in shadow? You’re being misled—allowing the corrupt ones to freely spin their magic in the darkness. I fear for what they’ve already done to Arthur.”

The moments stretched, the shadow of grief in her expression. “What of Arthur?” she asked. “What will you do with what I’ve told you?”

He stared at her – knew his word meant nothing to her now. “I can’t guarantee silence… I’m sorry.”

Gwen’s glower was sharp and unforgiving, as if she were trying to cut through the stranger she saw before her and find the brother she once knew. Her eyes weighed his words, his character, his very place in her world before she nodded. “I see. You may go. But know this – when this crisis has passed, you’ll have the full weight of the crown upon you. Do you understand?”

Elyan swallowed the dread creeping up his throat, his voice barely above a whisper as he replied, “I understand.”

With a final, warning glare, Gwen turned and strode out of the tower, Fredrick’s heavy tread following close behind. Percival and Merlin lingered, raking him over with cold scrutiny.

Percival came closer, looming like a mountain, his massive frame blocking any retreat. “Don’t make us regret this,” he cautioned, his blue eyes a storm of disapproval.

Merlin didn’t move, yet his quiet voice carried unmistakable power. “From the moment you found out about my magic, you’ve made it clear how you felt about me. I don’t care about that, Elyan. But if you or your followers hurt Gwen, you’ll have to deal with me.”

A cold sweat broke out on Elyan’s brow as he looked at Merlin, whose intensity seemed to burn straight through him. Then they too, were gone, leaving him alone in the shadows.

The stillness engulfed him, pressing against his ears until he could hear nothing but his own ragged breathing. Elyan slid down the wall, his legs no longer willing to support him. Relief at his escape pierced with a hollowness where family should be, a familiar ache of isolation settling in his chest. Whatever remained of his bond with Gwen departed with her, her condemnation, and the men loyal to her.

He’d begun this campaign against magic with such certainty. But now, with his sister’s anguish laid bare and his former brothers’ intimidations ringing through the empty tower, doubt crept in like the roots undermining this outpost’s walls. Abandoned again—first by his father’s execution, now by his own choices. Why had he allowed terror and rage to guide his hand when reason and family should have instead?

The nathair’s bite flared at his neck—that pain still real, still justifying everything he’d done… Yet Gwen’s own experiences kept returning: she too had suffered at magic’s hand and hadn’t surrendered to fear. Was he a weak coward?

Elyan realized he was shivering, though whether from the tower’s damp chill or the aftermath of confrontation, he couldn’t tell. His mouth had gone dry, thoughts scattered like leaves in a windstorm as he tried to focus. He dragged a trembling hand across his face, feeling the cold sweat that had gathered there.

Only after several deep breaths did he banish these doubts. To falter now would betray not only those who followed him, but the truth he couldn’t deny. He’d felt magic’s corruption firsthand—it had nearly destroyed him and now threatened Camelot like a gathering tempest, whether his sister could see it or not. With this conviction renewed, he pushed himself to his feet, scooping up his fallen torch in the rise. Whatever the cost, he would continue.

Chapter Text

Merlin stood atop the crumbling parapet walk of Castle of the Ancient Kings, his gaze sweeping across the verdant expanse of Forest of Brechfa. This was one of the few opportunities he’d had to join the search in several days, his assignment bringing him to the ruins situated nearly three leagues from Camelot. His team – led by Sir Bors – scoured the castle’s remains, looking for recent habitation, hidden passages, magical concealments – any evidence of Arthur. For him, this place brought back memories of another dark time, when Arthur himself had brightened it with the blade of his sword, anointing four commoners to knighthood.

Five days since Arthur’s disappearance—days filled with mounting threats both within and beyond Camelot’s walls. Even as Elyan’s anti-magic movement threatened to fracture the kingdom in this vulnerable time, more pressing were the warnings from Masters Iseldir and Alator. Their grim explanation of the combined artifacts’ power was inescapable, consuming Merlin’s mind and heart. The weapon Dodd and Mordred may be using against Arthur could force him to relive the deaths of others repeatedly, trapping him in cycles of unimaginable mental suffering until his spirit broke or his body failed. They’d rattled Merlin to the core so deeply that he and Galahad had not found the courage to tell Gwen of the weapon’s true potential and Arthur’s predicted fate.

Merlin’s fears painted shadows across every landscape he searched. Surveying his surroundings, he felt as if the forest was watching him, guarding secrets with a silent vigilance that set his nerves on edge. The ancient trees crowded the ruins, their branches stretching overhead like a canopy of judgment, while their roots breached the courtyard stones like grasping fingers. Mist clung to the lower grounds, transforming paths into uncertain territory and lending the landscape an otherworldly quality. Castle of Ancient Kings—once a sanctuary—now felt like another entity conspiring against their search. Was Arthur hidden somewhere within its keep?

Footsteps advanced from behind him, offering respite from his spiraling thoughts. Merlin turned to see Sir Bors approaching, a map rolled tight in his hand, concern shadowing his features. Of Arthur’s knights, Bors was known for his steadfast nature and unwavering moral compass. He was neither as flamboyant as Gwaine nor as stoic as Percival, but his quiet devotion to king and code had earned him respect throughout Camelot.

“The men have almost finished their search of these ruins,” Bors reported, unfolding the map across a flat section of wall. His voice carried the calm assurance that had guided many through battle—now repurposed for search and rescue. “Nothing in the eastern chambers or the underground passages.” His finger traced their covered territory with meticulous care, mapping each search area with the precision of a military campaign. “You’ve been standing here a while.” He looked at Merlin. “Did you sense something with your… abilities that might guide our search?”

“I was hoping to,” Merlin admitted, appreciating Bors’ straightforward question. Unlike other knights who danced around mentions of magic, Bors faced it directly—assessing it on merit rather than prejudice. “This place holds power—Arthur’s legacy truly began here. He knighted Gwaine, Percival, Elyan and Lancelot in these very halls. This is where he first showed Camelot could be different, that rank of birth needn’t determine a person’s worth. I thought perhaps...”

“That it might reveal something to you?” Bors completed the thought, his voice free of judgment. “We need every advantage we can find. I’ve come to appreciate the skills you... sorcerers have provided in this endeavor—the things you’ve helped us see that we otherwise would have missed with our... ordinary senses. And yet, even with every available knight and volunteer sweeping across these lands, we’re covering ground too slowly.”

“Too slowly,” Merlin agreed, his gaze returning to the forest that had invaded the castle grounds. A gnawing question returned, and he reached into his pocket—as he had countless times these past days—and withdrew a small, ornate talisman on a gold chain, its metal catching the scattered sunlight.

Bors leaned closer, professional interest overcoming courtly distance. “What manner of device is that?”

“The Wayfinder’s Dial,” Merlin replied, turning the intricate instrument in his palm. “A gift from Master Ngakaukawa, a high priest of the Old Religion. It’s said to guide the user to their heart’s true desire. The needle would illuminate the path through even the darkest of times.” His thumb traced the delicate workmanship of the dial, a fusion of ancient symbols and precise metalwork. “I’ve been reluctant to use it until now.”

“Why?” Bors asked, studying the talisman with newfound respect.

“I wasn’t certain...” Merlin worried his bottom lip, choosing his words carefully. “Sometimes desires can lead us astray. But now, I have no desire stronger than finding Arthur.”

Holding the dial aloft, Merlin focused his magic on the delicate needle. “Arthur Pendragon,” he whispered, his voice trembling, the tingling sensation in his eyes beginning to swirl in gold liquid. “Show me the way to Arthur.”

The sensation behind his lids fleetingly intensified to a cooling flash, his magic melding with the device and illuminating it with a golden glow. For a moment, nothing happened. The needle remained still, as if the dial itself was uncertain. Then, with a sudden jolt, the needle began to spin, faster and faster, a wild, erratic dance that seemed to defy understanding. Ancient power surged through the talisman, the whispers of fate and destiny spiraling around him like an invisible tempest.

“What… what does this mean?” Merlin whispered, his voice barely audible even to himself, his eyes darting to match the needle’s the furious path. “Why can’t it focus?”

A knot formed in Merlin’s throat as he watched the needle’s chaotic movement, dismay spreading from the Wayfinder into his trembling hand and through his body as certainty bled from his expression. What if Arthur was beyond the reach of even the most powerful magic? Or was there some unknown force interfering, something that even the spellcraft of the masters could not penetrate?

“Well?” Bors asked expectation and hope in his voice.

“Nothing,” Merlin replied, the word scraping harshly against his throat. “It’s as if the earth itself swallowed him, Bors. I don’t understand it.”

The knight’s expression darkened, but he remained silent, allowing a moment of quiet. As they stared at the device, a sudden thought struck Merlin, hollowing his chest until his exhale emerged jagged and uneven. What if the Wayfinder’s confusion meant that Arthur was... No—He refused to entertain such a thought. Arthur was alive. He had to be. Merlin would know if his friend, his king, his destiny had fallen. He would feel that severed connection in his very soul.

Merlin....

The familiar voice jarred through his mind, causing him to stiffen. Even though he’d expected word from Kilgharrah concerning a suitable new location for Morgana these past days, the dragon’s timing to reach out now grated more than ever.

Merlin, I am aware of your burdens, and I am sorry, but this is urgent.

He sighed, a deep groan catching in his throat. One moment, Kilgharrah. Please. Merlin turned to Bors. “I need to check something. Alone.”

Bors nodded, his expression showing neither surprise nor suspicion. “I’ll gather the men for the next sector. Join us when you can.” He descended the crumbling steps, leaving Merlin to his silent communion.

What is it? he asked, his mental voice edged with more impatience than he’d intended. Have you found accommodations for Morgana?

The search continues, the dragon replied. Yet even with the hope of improving her living conditions, Morgana is insistent on contacting the dragons of Evanescen once more. It has been a mere three days since you brought her from the brink of death, yet she believes this is more important.

Merlin’s vision blurred momentarily before he surrendered to darkness, allowing his eyes to close as he struggled to reconcile the competing demands for his attention. While Evanescen conjured vivid memories of the brief but powerful link that Morgana and Aithusa had established with the lost dragons, also touching his mind from across the aether, he could understand her desire to try again. The voice of the female dragon – just a few words – still made his skin tingle. What would he glimpse this time if she succeed? What would it mean for Kilgharrah and Aithusa?

When he’d visited Morgana just a day after healing her infection, she’d shown rare enthusiasm about the possibility of a new confinement—somewhere with natural hot springs for warmth, fresh water, and abundant game. A place where her imprisonment might feel less harsh, and one he could reach without Kilgharrah’s assistance. Perhaps with magical barriers that would allow her more freedom to move while still keeping her safe, yet contained as the Triple Goddess demanded. Now those plans languished while her focus shifted entirely to reconnecting with the lost dragons, regardless of the risk to her fragile health.

She should rest, Merlin argued, his mental voice as strained as his conflicting responsibilities. A few more days, at least. It’s too soon for her to attempt such a feat again.

I agree, Kilgharrah replied, but she perseveres with her request. Merlin…Unusual silence from the dragon made the hairs on Merlin’s arms rise. No amount of mortal peril or formidable adversaries gave this ancient and reticent dragon pause.

What is it, Kilgharrah? Merlin asked, wary as a falcon sensing a storm’s approach.

 I had hoped to reach a compromise – that you might accompany us in the aether, where the connection would be strongest for us all. Assist her if her health fails.

Merlin’s shoulders tensed, pressures mounting, bearing down on him. He couldn’t abandon the search for Arthur, guilt gnawing over how few searches he’d actually been a part. But the thought of Morgana pushing herself too soon, risking her health once more...

Kilgharrah... he began, his mental voice trailing off as he struggled to find the right words. He’d felt something stir between him and Morgana during his recent encounters with her – an old connection that hadn’t crossed his mind in many years. The way her eyes had held a vulnerability that disarmed him completely. Or had he merely projected his own confused emotions? His unexpected longing for... what exactly? Her forgiveness? Something more? Merlin shook his head, pushing these unsettling thoughts aside.

I can’t leave the search. Not now. Not when we’ve sought so long without any sign of him. He must be found soon. The weapon Dodd and Mordred are using against Arthur could kill him or leave him in an even more unspeakable condition. I can’t let that happen.

Merlin, Kilgharrah’s voice was filled with that patient wisdom Merlin had heard throughout their years together. He braced himself for the gentle rebuke to come. I know your heart is heavy with the uncertainty of finding Arthur, as is mine. But there is more at stake here, I have come to realize.

Merlin frowned, his mind still fixated on the search for his friend, but the ominous quality of Kilgharrah’s words deepened his concern. What do you mean?

The link Morgana and Aithusa forged with the other dragons is a fragile, yet precious thing, Kilgharrah explained. But you saw for yourself the toll it took on Morgana, the lengths she is willing to go to make that bond. She believes in this, Merlin, as do I.

Merlin absorbed Kilgharrah’s revelation, his thoughts drifting back to that night in the cave – to the way Morgana had gazed at him, the flicker of warmth and vulnerability in her eyes that he hadn’t seen in years. Of how warm and compassionate she had been with the youngling… of their own special connection.

What I don’t understand, he began, uncertainty threading through his mental voice as heat bloomed across his cheeks, is that she was able to make this connection at all. Shouldn’t I forge this bond myself—without her? Why is Morgana so crucial to this?

Kilgharrah hummed thoughtfully, his deep voice vibrating through their mental link like distant thunder. Your power as a dragonlord is indeed great, Merlin. But Morgana’s magic is ancient also. Perhaps, in this instance, for this purpose, it is not a matter of power, but of balance.

Merlin’s forehead creased with concentration. Balance?

You are a child of the earth, young warlock, Kilgharrah said, the source elemental that binds all magic. Your power is vast and deep, connecting you to the very fabric of the world. Morgana, as a priestess of the ancient ways, wields a magic of the Old Religion, perhaps even the forces of nature. And Aithusa, young and untouched by the scars of the past, represents the promise of the future, a blank slate upon which the destiny of dragonkind may be written.

Kilgharrah’s words hung in Merlin’s mind like suspended lightning, barely absorbed before the dragon continued. Together, the three of you form a triad of magic that may be the key to unlocking the secrets of the lost dragons. Your powers, when combined, have the potential to bridge the gap between the past, present, and future, and to restore the balance that has been lost since the time of the Great Purge.

The ancient magic within Merlin hummed in truth, sudden understanding coursing through him. We all have a role to play in this. We need each other to make this work.

Indeed, Kilgharrah confirmed. The path ahead will not be easy, and the challenges you face will test the limits of your strength and resolve. But if you can learn to work together, to trust in each other and in the power that binds you, then perhaps we will succeed.

Between Merlin’s eyes, a sharp pain lanced without warning, forcing him to brace against the crumbling wall. He massaged his temple with unsteady fingers, the dragon’s words splitting his focus like sunlight through a prism—each beam pointing toward a different, urgent duty.

But he couldn’t deny the truth in Kilgharrah’s words, though building trust between him and Morgana would take time. As the pain subsided to a dull throb, clarity emerged through the haze. This joining of their powers represented more than just a magical experiment—it was an opportunity for him to demonstrate a trust that could reunite the dragons and shape the future of magic itself. And Morgana, despite their troubled history, was willing to risk her life to bring this about too… Merlin clicked his teeth. He had to go for her. She would need protection from her own determination to make contact, and without him, she could put herself at risk once more.

I will come, he said at last, his voice rough with resigned conflict. For Morgana, for the dragons, and for the balance of magic itself.

Anther pause, and Merlin could almost hear the dragon’s sigh in his mind’s eye. This must also be for yourself, Merlin, Kilgharrah said. In the heart of every great journey lies the occasion for self-discovery and transformation. As you seek to restore balance to the world of magic, do not forget to find balance within yourself. For it is only when we are whole and at peace that we can truly effect change in the world around us. Remember that, young warlock…. We’ll meet you at Dragon Mount shortly.

As Kilgharrah’s presence faded from his mind, Merlin retrieved the Wayfinder from his pocket, his fingers brushing against the cool, smooth surface of the enchanted metal. Balance within himself? The needle still spun madly, unable to find its mark. A small, traitorous part of his mind wondered if perhaps the device’s behavior was a sign of something else entirely. A sign that his heart’s true desire lay not with Arthur, but with someone else entirely, someone inaccessible.

Someone like Morgana.

The admission dropped into his consciousness like a stone into a sacred well, sending ripples of alarm through his entire being. He clamped the device, its weight suddenly heavier in his palm. The castle ruins around him seemed to shift, crumbling battlements bearing silent witness to his conflicted heart. His priorities had been so clear just moments ago—find Arthur at any cost. Now, with this unsettling revelation, even his magic seemed to waver, responding to the turmoil within. He tucked the Wayfinder away, as if hiding the evidence of desires he wasn’t ready to confront.

Merlin descended the moldering staircase, each step carrying him further from his troubled musings and closer to the immediate decisions that had to be made. Finding Bors in the castle’s central courtyard, the knight stood organizing their group for the next search sector as the men moved with purpose, gathering supplies and rechecking their maps.

“Sir Bors,” Merlin called, approaching with a composure he didn’t entirely feel.

Bors turned, brow furrowed. “Have you found something after all?”

“No,” Merlin replied, lowering his voice. “I’ve been summoned elsewhere on urgent business. Court Sorcerer matters that cannot wait.”

“Summoned?” Bors glanced around the ruins. “How did word reach you here?”

“Some messages don’t require couriers,” Merlin replied, his eyes drifting momentarily to the map in Bors’ hands, marking territories yet unsearched.

“Of course. Magic,” he said simply, understanding dawning quickly. “Will you return to us today?”

“I cannot say for certain. Continue without me—the king needs every available set of eyes searching.”

Bors nodded, his disappointment visible but his respect for Merlin’s position evident. “We’ll cover the southwestern quadrant as planned. May your other duties bear fruit.”

“May yours as well, my friend.”

Merlin made his way through the castle gates, seeking privacy beyond the ruins. Despite the acceptance of magic in Camelot, he knew his method of transportation might unnerve some of the men, their comfort with sorcery still a work in progress. Once clear, he closed his eyes, focusing his mind on the task at hand. And if his thoughts strayed—now and then—to a pair of haunting blue eyes and a crown of raven hair, to a woman he had once called friend and now called enemy... well, that was a secret he would keep, buried deep within the labyrinthine depths of his own heart.

Drawing upon his magic, Merlin pictured the familiar contours of their rocky meeting place in his mind’s eye. Whispering “Bedyrne ús. Astýre ús þanonweard tó Draca Beorg,” he felt the power surge through him, the world around him fading away as he surrendered himself to the rush of magical teleportation.

By the time Merlin landed securely on Dragon Mount, he spotted the dragons in the mid-morning sky, growing larger as they neared him. Then he marked the rider – Morgana perched behind one of Kilgharrah’s great horns. His pulse quickened, his heart now pounding in his ears as he took in the sight of her. She appeared both achingly familiar and disquietingly foreign – the woman he had once known merged with the woman she was now.

“It’s just Morgana, Merlin,” he whispered. “The enemy…” He scoffed, the sound catching in his throat as he shook his head. He didn’t believe those words anymore – hadn’t in some time. He remembered their exchanges during her recovery, the unguarded moments between them. Had he imagined the softness in her gaze? The current of connection that passed between them? Swallowing hard, he scratched the back of his head and shuffled his feet, suddenly aware of his own nervousness.

When Kilgharrah settled and then lowered his head, Merlin scampered up his neck, grabbing onto the rough, cool scales and tucking his boots between them to lift himself upwards. At the top, he found himself face to face with Morgana, her sparkling blue eyes reflecting the light like the surface of a clear, still lake. He watched her, frozen like a startled buck.

“Fair day, Merlin.” Her gaze swept over him, satisfaction lifting the corners of her mouth.

“Fair day, Morgana,” he croaked, forcing his legs to move, hands to grasp, and slowly eased in behind her, the closeness of her sending a shiver down his spine.

Time seemed to stall as his gaze was drawn to the graceful contours of her waist, the way her dark, wavy hair curled against the nape of her slender neck, exposing the pale skin beneath. She seemed diminutive atop the massive dragon, yet he knew the formidable will that resided within her slight frame, the resilience that had carried her through darkness, even with her magic bound by the silver bracelet that encircled her wrist.

Morgana turned her head sideways, a playful glint in her eyes. “I won’t bite,” she said. Her voice was like honey, sweet and smooth, with just a hint of mischief lurking beneath the surface.

His mouth gone dry, Merlin cautiously encircled her with his arms, the warmth of her body seeping into his own despite the layers of clothing between them. Her shorter hair brushed against his cheek, the strands now untamed from her time in captivity, so different from the silken locks he remembered from their days in Camelot. Still, the cut suited her, accentuating her features instead of diminishing them.

“How—how are you, Morgana?” he managed, his voice rough and unsteady, his heart hammering against his ribs as he struggled to maintain his composure. There was something undeniably compelling about the way she felt in his arms, her slender frame fitting perfectly against his own.

She twisted in his arms, turning to face him fully, her eyes searching his face with an intensity that sent a current of awareness through his entire body. “Thanks to you, I’m fine now,” she said softly, her gaze warm and sincere. Her skin was like ivory, smooth and unblemished, and her lips were the pale pink of a wild rose, slightly parted as if in invitation.

Merlin felt as though the ground had fallen away beneath him, his pulse racing as he took in the sight of her, so close he could feel the whisper of her breath against his cheek. He coughed suddenly, his face flushing with heat, and looked away, unable to meet her gaze. Morgana chuckled, the sound musical and light, and turned back around, settling into his arms with a contented sigh.

A soft trill caught Merlin’s attention, and he glanced to the side to see Aithusa now perched on Kilgharrah, her white scales gleaming in the sunlight. The young dragon cocked her head, her eyes sparkling with what Merlin could have sworn was amusement.

“What are you looking at?” he muttered, feeling a rush of warmth flooding his chest.

Aithusa chirped, a sound that was suspiciously close to a giggle. Morgana joined in with a soft laugh, and Merlin couldn’t help but feel that they were sharing some private joke at his expense.

“Are you three finished?” Kilgharrah asked, his voice rumbling with impatience. “We have important matters to attend, if you recall.”

Morgana smirked as Merlin cleared his throat, trying to regain his composure. “Yes, of course. Sorry, Kilgharrah.” He tightened his hold on her waist, determinedly ignoring the flutter in his chest at the contact, and nodded to the great dragon. “We’re ready.”

Kilgharrah snorted, a puff of smoke rising from his nostrils. “Very well. Hold on tight, you two. The journey to the aether is not for the faint of heart.”

With a mighty flap of his wings, Kilgharrah lifted off from the cliff, Aithusa soaring alongside them. As they rose higher into the sky, Merlin resigned to this strange turn his life had taken – instead of searching for his king and friend, here he was, holding onto Morgana, his once-enemy, as they set off on a quest to connect to the lost dragons, and perhaps, restore balance to the world of magic.

Chapter Text

Rarely did Merlin remain in the aether for any length of time, nearly a blink from one destination to the other. Golden tendrils flashed around them now, pulsing with a primeval rhythm throughout the boundless void. The space throbbed like a living, breathing entity, pressing against the very essence of Merlin’s being. Navigating it required great focus and control, lest one become lost in its fathomless expanse.

Holding Morgana close as they sat behind one of Kilgharrah’s great horns, Merlin was acutely aware of her presence in this ethereal realm. He could feel her heart beating in sync with his own, a sensation that was both comforting and unnerving. The intimacy of their position, with her body pressed against his and her warmth seeping into his skin, stirred a tangle of emotions within him—a blend of old, familiar affection, lingering uncertainty, and a growing sense of connection that he couldn’t quite define—or perhaps dared not examine too closely.

Aithusa soared alongside them, her white scales gleaming in the golden glow cast by the shimmering tendrils of energy. Merlin noticed a distinct change in her demeanor. The young dragon’s eyes sparkled with unbridled joy, her movements more playful and exuberant than usual. Despite the perilous nature of the void surrounding them. She dipped and twirled in the aether, her tail whipping behind her in a display of pure delight. Merlin marveled at how the magical currents of the aether seemed to awaken something primal in the young dragon, as if she recognized this realm from some ancestral memory.

Aithusa’s joyful response to the aether as a favorable omen to Merlin, deciding the moment had come to attempt the connection. He leaned closer to Morgana, his lips nearly brushing her ear as he spoke. “Morgana,” he said softly, his breath stirring the fine hairs at the nape of her neck. “Reach out to Aithusa.” She nodded, her eyes wide with wonder as she gazed upon the magical currents swirling around them and the young dragon flying gracefully beside Kilgharrah. “But don’t go too deep. I’m here now and will help strengthen your connection.”

“All right,” she breathed, her fingers tightening slightly on Kilgharrah’s scales A tremor passed through her body, mirroring the flutter in Merlin’s chest—that mingled surge of exhilaration and trepidation coursing through them both.

Inhaling deeply, he opened his mind to Aithusa, extending an invitation for the young dragon to join their connection. At first—surprisingly—he felt only the gentle brush of Morgana’s consciousness against his own, her presence like cool water flowing into hidden caverns, illuminating corners of his mind he rarely exposed to others.

Morgana? his voice whispered in his mind, a gentle summons on the edges of his perception, though sensing how great her magic amplified the connection, even with it subdued by Hades’ Grip. This shouldn’t be possible and yet... Kilgharrah was right. Can you feel how your presence strengthens the bond?

Yes, she replied, her thoughts intertwining with his, reaching outward together to the young dragon. Aithusa, we’re here.

Only silence – a vast expanse of nothingness that stretched out before them.

Aithusa, Merlin called gently. Show us what you see.

Gradually, a third presence began to emerge, a bright spark of curiosity and wonder that could only be Aithusa. Like a sunrise breaking through the clouds, an image began to take shape in their shared consciousness. Merlin’s mind floated, untethered from worldly concerns, his thoughts spreading like a blanket of lavender as tension melted away. A peaceful surrender consumed him before his consciousness coalesced into brilliant auroras.

Morgana gasped, laughing with joy, the sound like a sparkle piercing through the ethereal dreamscape of their shared vision. Good, Aithusa, she said, her inner voice trembling with excitement. Now reach out to Kilgharrah.

Tremors rippled through Morgana’s frame against him, her body betraying the intensity of emotions surging between them all. Merlin’s arms instinctively tightened around her waist, drawing her closer until her back pressed firmly against his chest. The protective gesture offered his warmth and steadiness as an anchor amid the swirling cosmic connection they navigated together, even as her presence against him returned that same comfort—their mutual strength flowing between them like water through connected vessels, each sustaining the other.

Extending his dragonlord gift outward, Merlin cast his call like a beacon in the vast expanse of the aether. Kilgharrah, he called, his mental voice carrying the timeless command of his bloodline. We’re ready. Focus your thoughts on the lost ones. Reach out to them, let them feel our presence and our purpose.

Kilgharrah’s acknowledgment vibrated beneath them as he surged forward. The great dragon’s might pulsed through their mental link like a tidal wave, parting the very fabric of the aether as if in deference to Kilgharrah’s presence. His majestic form carved through the expanse, leaving rippling waves of golden energy in his wake.

Merlin then turned his awareness inward, tapping the wellspring that resided within him, a gift from his dragonlord heritage. Energy thrummed through his veins, pulsing in time with the beat of his heart. With a deep breath, he gathered this power and propelled it outward, projecting his consciousness like tendrils of silver lightning across the vastness of the aether, seeking the distant sparks of dragon magic scattered across realms.

The golden tendrils of the aether suddenly coiled around Merlin’s consciousness, tightening like living vines, both foreign and familiar to his dragonlord senses. His temples throbbed with building pressure as silence enveloped them, broken only by the soft whisper of Morgana’s breathing and the gentle rustling of the dragons’ wings. Then, like stars blinking into existence in a night sky, Merlin felt them – the lost dragons – their minds touching his own, cautious yet curious, their presence a glimmering tapestry of primeval wisdom and untold secrets.

Who calls to us? a female voice spoke, ancient and powerful.

Anouilh, Merlin hailed in the timeless dragon-tongue. I am Emrys, last of the dragonlords. I come with Kilgharrah, the Great Dragon of Camelot; Aithusa, our youngling, and Lady Morgana, a high priestess of the Old Religion. We seek to bring our kin back to the world they once called home.

Then came a ripple of emotions surging through his mind and body, causing him to flinch – surprise, fear… and a spark of hope. The world of men is not kind to our kind, the voice said. We have found safety in Evanescen, a sanctuary where we have healed and thrived.

We understand, Merlin said, his heart aching for the pain the dragons had endured. But times are changing. Magic has returned to the realm, and there are many who would welcome you back to our skies.

A pause, a considering silence. Then, a thread of iridescent silver manifested before them, pulsing with its own inner heartbeat unlike the swirling gold of the aether. It cut through the surrounding magic like a river of moonlight through darkness. Follow this path, the voice said. It will bring you to the portal of Evanescen. There, we will speak more, but do not hold to hope, Emrys.

Beneath them, Kilgharrah released a triumphant roar, his powerful voice reverberating through the aether. Aithusa trilled in response, her young eyes wide with wonder and anticipation. The two dragons flew forward, following the shimmering trail through the aether, their wings stirring the golden tendrils that danced around them.

Merlin’s heart thundered in his chest as the magnitude of what they’d accomplished crashed over him. A path to the lost dragons—something no dragonlord had achieved in centuries. “By the gods,” he whispered, his voice breaking with emotion, “we’ve done what my father could only have dreamed of.” His arms instinctively tightened around Morgana, overwhelmed by the need to anchor himself to something real in this moment of impossible wonder. “They’ve shown us the way to their sanctuary... after all this time.”

Morgana let out a delighted laugh, her head falling back to lean against his shoulder. She twisted sideways, her eyes alight with wonder, meeting his gaze with a wordless understanding that transcended their complicated history. In this moment of discovery, they were simply two souls united in awe at the impossible.

The sight of her transformed by pure joy stole the air from his lungs, but the aether surrounding them began to fracture and reform. The golden threads dissolved into ribbons of color—cobalt bleeding into crimson, emerald spiraling through violet—reality itself surrendering to ancient magic. The boundaries between worlds thinned, grew transparent, then vanished entirely.

In a heartbeat of blinding brilliance, they emerged into Evanescen. The otherworldly sanctuary stretched before them—a realm crafted from dreams and magic. The air vibrated with sounds that Merlin felt before he fully comprehended – deep, resonant bellows that shook his very bones, and high, piercing trills that seemed to shatter the air like crystal. A symphony of draconic voices surrounded them, a chorus speaking of power and wonder.

Dragons!

Everywhere. Their magnificent forms filled the skies of Evanescen, creatures of every size and hue soaring above a landscape of unearthly beauty. Their scales caught the ethereal light, transforming each beast into a living mosaic of jewel-like colors. Some rode the thermals with wings fully extended, embodiments of perfect freedom. Others perched regally upon obsidian cliffs, tails curled around their massive bodies as they basked in the glow of the dancing auroras.

Merlin’s breath abandoned him, his vision taking in the magnificence around them. Crystalline pools reflected impossibly perfect skies where lavender heavens pulsed with ghostly auroras. Jagged obsidian spires rose like sentinels, their glossy surfaces capturing and transforming light. The landscape breathed with life unknown to mortal realms—flora that seemed to whisper as they passed, their unique forms adorned with droplets of liquid silver, ethereal willows bending in winds that carried the scent of magic itself.

He’d known only Kilgharrah and then Aithusa. Never had he imagined such numbers, such variety, such overwhelming majesty. This wasn’t merely a refuge – it was a kingdom of dragons, preserved beyond human reach.

In his embrace, Morgana trembled, her fingertips pressed against her lips as if to contain emotions too vast for words. “All this time,” she finally managed, her voice a reverent hush, “they were here, thriving while we thought them lost forever.” Her eyes glistened with unshed tears as she reached toward the sky in an unconscious gesture of longing.

Merlin wet his lips, released a long, slow breath. “Yeah. I’d better find more dragonlords… and soon.”

Several dragons veered toward them, curiosity evident in their graceful approach. As they soared alongside, Merlin noticed Aithusa’s entire demeanor transform—her neck extended, wings beating with newfound vigor, her small form practically vibrating with excitement as she exchanged rapid bursts of dragon-speech with their escorts. She seemed to understand their calls intuitively, despite never having known her own kind. Short, melodic exchanges guided their small party toward a valley that defied description in its strange and wondrous splendor.

In the heart of the valley, an expansive onyx sand stretched out before them, its dark, glittering surface broken by the occasional crystal pool, each emitting a soft, ethereal glow. Jagged obsidian formations rose from the sand like ancient monoliths, their surfaces carved with intricate patterns that seemed to dance and shift in the shimmering light of the auroras above.

Around the perimeter of the valley, strange, twisted trees loomed, their bark glistening with an eerie, silver sheen. Delicate, luminous flowers bloomed along their branches, pulsing softly in mesmerizing shades of violet and indigo. The air filled with the gentle tinkling of crystalline leaves, their music intertwining with the symphony of dragon voices across the landscape.

Kilgharrah circled once, his massive wings causing ripples in the pools below before he descended in a graceful spiral. Aithusa followed, her smaller form darting with the exuberance of youth. As they touched down upon the onyx sand, it yielded beneath their weight like velvet before settling once more. Merlin and Morgana dismounted on shaky legs, their feet sinking into the warm, responsive surface. From this vantage point, the true scale of the dragon sanctuary revealed itself—dozens of magnificent creatures gathered throughout the valley. Some lazed contentedly in the shade of towering obsidian formations, while others splashed playfully in the crystal pools, their scales transforming the liquid into dancing prisms of light. An ineffable sense of harmony pervaded everything, as though this realm existed in perfect balance, crafted by ancient magic as a haven where dragons could exist in their purest form, untouched by the scars of human conflict.

Welcome to Evanescen, the ancient voice spoke once more. Merlin’s gaze swept upward to behold a magnificent dragon circling above, her scales the color of burnished gold. The last sanctuary of our kind.

A hush fell over the gathered dragons as she descended. Her wings, spanning wider than Kilgharrah’s, cast rippling shadows across the landscape as she glided down with breathtaking precision. Each movement embodied grace that belied her immense size. Her golden scales captured and amplified the aurora light, transforming her into a living sun against the lavender sky, her radiance commanding reverence from all who beheld her.

Merlin and Morgana stood transfixed as she settled her massive form onto the onyx sand beside Kilgharrah. The ground trembled beneath their feet, small waves rippling outward through the black grains. The air around them changed—grew charged with her presence—carrying the crisp, clean scent of untouched wilderness, a reminder of the primordial nature of this sacred place.

The female dragon inclined her head in a regal gesture of greeting, her eyes pools of unfathomable wisdom. As her gaze fell upon Aithusa, however, a flicker of surprise and something else – fear perhaps, or awe – crossed her features. Her large blue eyes then found him and Morgana, tiny humans in the midst of might and splendor.

Then, she spoke, her voice infused with both authority and warmth. “I am Vyransa, elder of the dragons. Welcome, Emrys, last of the dragonlords.”

Merlin bowed low in return, suddenly aware of his humanity in this realm of dragons. “I am honored beyond words to stand in your presence, Vyransa,” he said, his voice remaining steady despite the tremor in his hands. “This is Kilgharrah, the Great Dragon, who endured the darkest days of the purge when so many others fell, held captive and alone for over 20 years.”

Merlin watched as Kilgharrah lowered his massive head before Vyransa, a gesture he had witnessed only in the most profound moments—when Merlin had first claimed his dragonlord birthright, and later when meeting King Arthur. Something profound passed between the two great creatures—recognition, perhaps, or memories shared through dragon-magic that transcended words. Merlin sensed the weight of history in their locked gaze, feeling like an intruder witnessing something deeply personal.

“To survive the reign of Uther Dragonbane is an achievement few can claim,” she said, her tone softening. “Many who escaped the Pendragon’s wrath sought refuge in our realm—some still speak your name with reverence, Kilgharrah. But others...” Her voice faltered. “Many arrived with wounds too grievous for even our healing pools to mend, their spirits as broken as their bodies.”

“Uther Dragonbane is dead,” Kilgharrah roared across the valley.

The proclamation sent ripples through the gathered dragons. Some reared their heads, unleashing jets of flame that pierced the lavender sky. Others stamped their massive feet, causing the onyx sand to shift and dance beneath them. The younger ones trilled and clicked, the sound spreading through the sanctuary like wildfire. Merlin felt their collective response in his bones—relief, vindication, and an undercurrent of lingering grief for all they had lost.

As the commotion settled, Kilgharrah’s posture relaxed. He drew a deep breath, his voice now controlled but no less intense, his gaze sweeping across the assembled dragons. “For twenty years I hung chained beneath Camelot, the last of my kind—or so I believed. Each day I called out with my mind, searching for any echo of our brethren. Only silence answered. Hope forsook me.” Kilgharrah’s voice was unlike anything Merlin had ever heard from him—stripped of its usual cryptic detachment, raw with long-buried grief. “To stand here now, to know they did not all perish... Vyransa, you have given me back a piece of my soul I thought forever lost.”

The naked emotion in Kilgharrah’s words caused Merlin to look toward Morgana. In her unexpected tears, Merlin saw his own conflicting thoughts reflected—the pain of isolation and the sting of betrayal, loss endured and happiness gained.

Vyransa lowered her massive head until her eyes were level with Kilgharrah’s. “Your suffering honors us all, Great One,” she said, her voice gentle yet carrying to every corner of the gathering. “Your endurance ensured our kind’s wisdom survived in the mortal realm when we feared it lost.” A murmur of agreement rippled through the assembled dragons, their bodies swaying in a gesture of respect.

After a reverent pause, Merlin gathered himself and swept an arm towards Morgana, his expression solemn with reverence for what was unfolding before them. “This is the Lady Morgana Pendragon, High Priestess of the Old Religion. Servant of the Triple Goddess.”

At the name “Pendragon,” a ripple of agitation swept through the gathered dragons. Wings rustled and tails lashed against the onyx sand. Several of the younger dragons hissed, their eyes narrowing to suspicious slits. Even Vyransa’s posture stiffened, her massive form rising slightly as if preparing to defend.

Morgana curtsied gracefully, unflinching before their collective wariness. “It is an honor, Vyransa. I’m humbled to be in the presence of such wisdom.”

“Pendragon?” The dragon’s voice carried centuries of distrust. “And a High Priestess of the Old Religion? These paths rarely converge.”

“Uther Dragonbane was my father “ Morgana acknowledged, her chin lifting with quiet defiance. “I opposed him from the moment I could understand his hatred of my kin. I am not he.” Her hand moved unconsciously to Aithusa, a gesture that spoke more eloquently than words of her allegiance.

The tense atmosphere lingered for a moment before Vyransa’s posture relaxed, her keen eyes assessing Morgana with new understanding.

“A Pendragon who embraces the Old Religion,” Vyransa mused. “Then we welcome you, Lady Morgana. It has been many years since our two kinds walked amongst each other. Your presence here, alongside the dragonlord and the Great Dragon, speaks of a great purpose that draws you to Evanescen.”

“Indeed, Vyransa,” Merlin said. “We come seeking to forge new bonds between the world of men and the realm of dragons, to heal the wounds of the past and build a brighter future for all magical beings. We hope to invite your kin back to the skies they once ruled.”

Vyransa’s eyes narrowed slightly, studying Merlin with the penetrating gaze of one who has witnessed centuries unfold. She seemed to be looking beyond his words, weighing the truth that lay in his heart. “It is a noble vision,” she said at last, “but not one easily realized. Our history with humans is written in fire and sorrow. The memory of betrayal runs deep in our kind, and trust, once broken, requires more than promises to restore.”

Merlin nodded, his resolve unwavering. “The wounds run deep—this we acknowledge,” he said, glancing at Morgana, Kilgharrah, and Aithusa in turn, drawing strength from their unified presence. “We don’t come with empty words or hasty assurances. We come to listen first, to learn, and to build understanding before trust. Whatever path leads to reconciliation—however difficult—we are prepared to walk it. Together.”

Vyransa’s eyes gleamed with approval before gaze then drifted to Aithusa, who had been watching the exchange with wide, curious eyes. “And this young one,” she said with unexpected tenderness. “What do you call her?”

“Her name is Aithusa.”

Vyransa inhaled sharply, her massive form going completely still. “‘Light of the sun,’” she whispered, the words carrying reverence. “A white dragon, born in the midst of darkness and strife. She carries a great destiny upon her wings, though what that destiny may be, even I cannot say with certainty.”

Merlin exchanged a meaningful glance with Morgana before looking at Aithusa, who seemed transformed by the attention—her posture straightened, her eyes bright with a pride he’d never witnessed in her before. He recalled Kilgharrah’s cryptic words at her hatching, that she portended well for Albion. The Great Dragon had never elaborated, and Merlin had accepted his vague prophecy without question. Now, seeing Vyransa’s reaction, a chill rippled down his spine. What ancient knowledge did these dragons possess about Aithusa that even Kilgharrah had not fully disclosed?

“Come, Kilgharrah,” Vyransa said, her voice ringing out across the valley and cutting into Merlin’s thoughts. “The Council of Elders should hear your proposal directly. The implications of returning to the realm of men must be carefully weighed, for the risks of either choice will shape the fate of dragonkind for centuries to come.”

With a powerful thrust of her wings, Vyransa took flight. Kilgharrah followed, leaving Merlin, Morgana, and Aithusa momentarily alone on the onyx sand as the gathered dragons dispersed to make way for the Council meeting. The eyes of countless dragons remained fixed on them from a distance, their gazes curious and cautious. Merlin exhaled slowly, turning to Morgana with raised eyebrows.

“Well, that went better than expected,” Morgana said. “At least no one tried to incinerate us for having the Pendragon name.”

Laughter erupted from Merlin as Morgana chuckled, tension ebbing from his shoulders. “I think they were close.” He relaxed as a chorus of distant dragon calls rose across the valley – some deep and resonant, others high and keening – the varied voices of the vast draconic population that called this realm home

He almost reached for her, the urge to pull her into his arms overwhelming his usual caution when suddenly, a group of young dragons, their scales shimmering in hues of sapphire, emerald, and amethyst, swooped down from the sky, circling around Aithusa with playful chirps and trills. The white dragon’s eyes widened with delight, and she glanced back at Merlin and Morgana, a silent plea in her gaze.

Merlin’s eyes crinkled at the corners as he watched Aithusa’s wings quiver with barely contained excitement. “Go on,” he said, nodding toward the waiting young dragons. “Explore this new realm. But stay close, and be careful.”

Aithusa let out a joyful cry and launched herself into the air, her wings shimmering as she joined the other young dragons in their aerial dance. They soared and twirled, their laughter echoing across the valley like the chiming of silver bells.

Morgana’s gaze followed them skyward, a wistful smile softening her features. “She looks so happy,” she murmured. “She belongs with her own kind.”

Merlin studied Morgana’s profile as she gazed skyward. Her wistful smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, which shimmered with conflicting emotions. For months, Aithusa had curled beside Morgana in her captivity, their bond forged in shared isolation. Now as the young dragon soared among her own kind, her joyful freedom crystallized between them like a bittersweet gem—unspoken possibility and unacknowledged loss.

He didn’t know what any of this meant for Morgana. Neither what it would mean if Aithusa choose her dragon kin over her human companion. If the dragons chose to return, would Kilgharrah lead them with no time to watch over Morgana? If given the choice, would both dragons leave Morgana behind to soar the auroras of Evanescen with their kin?

The questions weighed on Merlin as he observed the subtle shift in Morgana’s posture—shoulders slightly hunched, fingers unconsciously reaching toward where Aithusa had been. His own familiar loneliness pressed against his chest. Morgana needed to belong somewhere too, he realized. His hand slipped into his pocket, fingers closing around the Wayfinder’s dial. Its cool metal against his skin reminded him of choices and paths, of finding what truly mattered.

“I won’t leave you behind, Morgana. No matter what happens,” he said gently, the words escaping before he could reconsider them. Morgana pulled her gaze from the younglings and looked at him, her cheeks blossoming with color. She held his gaze for a heartbeat before dropping her eyes and glancing away, the vulnerability in her expression startling in its rawness. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

A small smile came to her lips as she raised her eyes to his again, something unguarded and genuine in her expression that he’d seen the past weeks. “I know. You can’t imagine how much it means – after all that I’ve done…” Her fingers twisted together as she spoke. “The Triple Goddess put me where I needed to be. But… thank you, Merlin.”

Merlin’s heart thundered against his ribs as he studied her face – the softness that had replaced her once guardedness, the warmth in her eyes that drew him in with irresistible force. The air between them seemed to pulse with unspoken possibilities, charged like the moments before lightning strikes. His hand slipped from his pocket, the Wayfinder’s dial forgotten as he took a half-step closer, diminishing the space between them.

The boundary they’d erected—years of enmity, betrayal, and cautious alliance—seemed gossamer-thin in this moment. With the strange beauty of Evanescen surrounding them and Aithusa’s joyful flight overhead, something inside him shifted irrevocably. He reached for her hand, his fingers tentatively entwining with hers, each movement deliberate, as if giving her time to pull away.

Morgana didn’t. Instead, she lifted her chin, her eyes meeting his with a question and invitation mingled together. The slight tremble in her fingers betrayed her nervousness, but she moved closer, not away. Merlin lifted his other hand to gently brush a strand of dark hair from her temple, the simple gesture more intimate than any words. He leaned in, his heart pounding so loudly he was sure she could hear it, his breath mingling with hers as he closed the distance between them.

Their lips brushed together, a fleeting moment of connection before a piercing cry rent the air, shattering the moment like a hammer through glass. Merlin’s head snapped towards the sound, his body stiffening as ice flooded his veins. His eyes locked onto Aithusa—her slender form contorting mid-flight, wings flailing erratically as she struggled against some invisible adversary, her cries of distress echoing across the valley.

The tender moment evaporated instantly. Merlin’s hand fell away from Morgana, fingers curling into helpless fists as he watched Aithusa thrashing against nothing, her shrieks escalating to a pitch that made his skin crawl. His mind raced through possibilities—an attack from another dragon? Some property of this realm rejecting her?

“Aithusa!” Morgana screamed, her voice raw with fear and desperation.

Before either could react, the young dragon’s struggles ceased abruptly. She hung suspended for one terrible moment before plummeting toward the ground, her white scales flickering like a dying star. Dragons of all sizes, including several of the young dragons who had been playing with her, dove toward Aithusa, their wings beating frantically as they tried to intercept her fall. Yet as they approached, the same invisible barrier that had seized her pushed them back, sending them tumbling through the air with confused cries.

“Aithusa!” Morgana cried again, her voice breaking as she reached skyward in a futile gesture. “Hold on! Merlin, do something!”

Merlin thrust his hand forward, summoning his magic to catch her, to create some cushion against the impact, but the strange energy of Evanescen seemed to recognize his power as foreign—repelling his spell at the boundary of whatever force now claimed Aithusa. His magic, powerful in the mortal realm, proved useless here against this ancient might.

With a sickening thud, Aithusa crashed into the lush greenery not too far from them, the impact shuddering through the ground beneath their feet. The foliage closed around her pale form like a hungry maw, leaving no trace of the young dragon. For a moment, nothing existed but stunned silence, punctuated only by Morgana’s ragged breathing.

“No!” Morgana bolted forward without hesitation, her feet kicking up sprays of onyx sand as she raced toward the spot where Aithusa had disappeared.

Merlin surged after Morgana, calling her name as branches and strange flora whipped against his face. The vegetation grew denser with each step, unworldly plants with translucent stems and crystalline leaves clawing at their clothes and skin. Above them, Kilgharrah’s thunderous roar split the air—a sound Merlin hadn’t heard since the dragon’s captivity. Through their mental bond, Merlin felt the great dragon’s fear pulsing like a wounded heartbeat.

What’s happened? Kilgharrah demanded, his voice booming through Merlin’s mind. What has taken Aithusa?

I don’t know, Merlin replied, his thoughts jumbled and frantic as he pushed through the twisted vines and alien blooms. But we have to find her. We have to save her.

Forgive us, Vyransa said as he and Morgana plunged deeper into the heart of Evanesce. The magic of Evanescen is powerful and unpredictable and we did not know it would cause harm to your youngling. But she is the first white dragon we have ever seen and we have long awaited her.

Why? Merlin challenged, pushing through the dense foliage. What do you mean, Vyransa? What’s happening to Aithusa?

I do not know nor did I expect this kind of reaction, she replied, her tone sorrowful. She… was a promised gift.

A promise? For Evanescen?

Before Vyransa could respond, a column of blinding light erupted from the spot where Aithusa had fallen, piercing the lavender sky and bathing the entire valley in a dazzling radiance. The light pulsed with ancient power, sending waves of energy rippling through the air. Merlin and Morgana stumbled to a halt, throwing their arms up to shield their eyes from the overwhelming brilliance. Above them, Kilgharrah, Vyransa and many other dragons circling frantically, were forced back by an invisible barrier, their massive forms seeming small against the pillar of light that now connected earth and sky.

The very air vibrated with magic—not the familiar warmth of Merlin’s power or even the wild energy of the Old Religion, but something older, something that seemed woven into the fabric of Evanescen itself. For a breathless moment, everything in the realm seemed to pause, suspended in that impossible light.

When the radiance finally receded, ebbing away like a tide returning to the sea, Merlin and Morgana found themselves standing at the edge of a perfect clearing, as if the undergrowth had been gently pushed back to form a sacred circle. In the center, where Aithusa had fallen just before, stood a magnificent dragon unlike any they had ever seen—a majestic creature nearly half Kilgharrah’s size. Her scales gleamed like polished alabaster in the ethereal light, each one shimmering with an iridescent sheen that captured and reflected every hue of the aurora above. Her wings, now fully grown and stretching to an impressive span, were translucent and delicate, the thin membranes between the bones pulsing with their own inner luminescence.

“Aithusa?” Morgana whispered, wonder colliding with disbelief in her voice. Her hand reached out, searching for his without looking away from the transformed dragon. Merlin felt her fingers tremble against his palm as he grasped them, drawing her closer instinctively. The warmth of their connection steadied him as his mind struggled to comprehend the impossible transformation they were witnessing.

In response, the white dragon drew herself to her full height, her elegant neck arching as her jaws parted to reveal rows of crystalline teeth that caught the light like diamonds. A deep, resonant rumble built within her chest, vibrating outward until the very air seemed to tremble with anticipation. Then, with a thunderous roar that shook the ground beneath their feet, she unleashed a torrential blast of icy breath—a swirling tempest of frost and snow that engulfed the clearing in a dazzling display of her newfound power.

The ice crystals danced and swirled in the air, catching the light of the auroras above and refracting it into a rainbow of colors that painted the landscape in an otherworldly glow. The luminous flowers and crystalline leaves froze in an instant, their delicate petals and branches transformed into intricate sculptures of pure, gleaming ice.

As the icy gale subsided, she lowered her head and stared at them, her eyes shimmering with pride and excitement, wisdom and power. Her pupils were now elongated and slitted like those of a cat, mysterious and alluring. She spread her wings once more, the movement sending a gentle gust of wind rippling through the clearing, stirring the frozen flowers and setting the icy leaves tinkling like wind chimes.

“Yes, Morgana,” she spoke, her voice no longer the chirp of a youngling but a melodious cascade that carried both wisdom and power. Each word resonated through the clearing with an ancient cadence that seemed woven into the very fabric of Evanescen. “It is I – Aithusa.”

Chapter Text

The sturdy oak chair creaked beneath Gwaine as he hunched over the massive table in the royal library’s eastern wing. Scarcely an hour since leaving the training field, he’d traded the reassuring heft of his sword for unfamiliar territory—ancient scrolls and leather-bound volumes fanned before him like uncharted terrain. His calloused fingers, more accustomed to steel than scholarly texts, carefully turned pages filled with accounts of Alexandria and the Coptic traditions.

Gwaine had barely expressed his need to research the Zahir’s past before Geoffrey directed him to writings about the Sabbath. The text spoke of divine rest, of prayers that marked time like heartbeats through the day and night. He paused, his finger tracing a passage about the day of preparation that preceded the Sabbath.

“The twenty-four hours before sunset marks a sacred time of readying both home and spirit,” he read, each detail uncovering layers of meaning he’d never considered—how the preparation of food before sunset carried symbolic weight. How even the smallest tasks became acts of devotion. Suddenly, Yaminah’s dismissal carried new meaning – she hadn’t rejected his presence but had honored her people’s most holy preparations. What he’d perceived as a door closing between them was actually the threshold of a rituals older than Camelot itself.

“The Sabbath begins at sunset on Saturday,” he murmured, committing the words to memory. “A time of peace, of contemplation.” His hand turned the page describing how families gathered to break bread together, how communities united in prayer, customs that had sustained Yaminah’s people through centuries of upheaval.

“You might find these of particular interest, Sir Gwaine.” The rustle of robes announced Geoffrey before he emerged from between the shelves, head bowed over a slim leather folio. “These are the diplomatic codices chronicling Alexandria’s transition to Arab governance in the year of our Lord, 646. The Zahir lineage served as principal stewards of the grain annona under Byzantine imperial authority—most esteemed positions within the Eastern domains.”

Gwaine straightened, his attention snagged by the mention of Yaminah’s lineage, though his brow furrowed at “annona” until the context made its meaning clear enough—the grain supply that had sustained empires. He reached for the folio, his pulse quickening with the awareness that within these official pages lay keys to unraveling the woman who had consumed his mind and heart. The documents inside bore imperial seals and Arabic annotations, marking them as official correspondence between Byzantine officials and the new Arab authorities. As he began to read, the library’s peaceful atmosphere receded, replaced by the chronicles of Yaminah’s ancestral roots.

The first letter, bearing the seal of the Byzantine governor, detailed the Zahir family’s administration of Alexandria’s vital grain supply. Their compound near the harbor had overseen the measurement, storage, and distribution of grain that fed both the city and Rome itself. Additional correspondence disclosed their substantial wealth and influence—a private fleet of ships and connections to imperial nobility.

“Note the cartouche here,” Geoffrey said, pointing to the emblem with a thick finger. “Such heraldic devices were granted only to families of considerable standing within the imperial registries. The crossed sigillum indicates their authority was recognized across both ecclesiastical and civil domains—a rare distinction indeed.”

Gwaine nodded, though “cartouche” meant nothing to him—it was clearly a seal of nobility. He stared at the impression in the wax—a stylized cross surrounded by stalks of wheat—recognition dawning as he recalled the same emblem emblazoned on silverware and tapestries in Yaminah’s chambers. The symbol of a dynasty many dismissed as merely foreign now conveyed centuries of power and influence. He found himself imagining Badawi Zahir as a young boy running through those grand halls, inheriting centuries of cultural rituals before circumstances forced their migration northward.

He shifted on the hard chair, absorbed by each discovery. Another historical record chronicled the long conflict—years of Arab armies pressing against Byzantine defenses, the siege of Alexandria, and the gradual crumbling of resistance. After the city finally fell in 646, the diplomatic records described the ultimatum presented to prominent Coptic families – convert to Islam, maintain their positions while paying the faith tax for practicing Christianity, or abandon their homeland.

“The jizya,” Gwaine read aloud, his finger tracing the foreign word. “Or exile.” The choice pierced Gwaine with its simplicity and its cruelty. Faith or home—an impossible decision that exposed his own untested convictions. Nothing in his wandering life had demanded such sacrifice.

A faded Alexandrian port authority letter chronicled how many administrative families, refusing to pay tribute for practicing their Christianity, joined the exodus northwest. The Zahir family was listed among the displaced, taking much of their portable wealth with them, though their fleet of ships was not listed as an asset.

“They chose their faith,” Gwaine whispered, a newfound respect warming his chest. For Yaminah’s family, Geoffrey’s collection revealed, their expertise in grain management became the family’s greatest asset. The documents tracked their journey—imperial letters of introduction that opened doors in Constantinople first, then royal decrees granting them administrative positions in other Christian kingdoms as they gradually moved toward the northern territories.

The parchment felt momentous in his hands as he set it down. Here lay the roots of her fierce devotion – her ancestors had sacrificed everything – their authority over the granaries that fed thousands, their political influence, their ancestral compound with its marble-columned courtyard – rather than abandon their beliefs.

Gwaine rose from his chair, stretching cramped muscles as he stepped into a shaft of light from the nearby window, his mind still half-caught in the harbors of Alexandria. The illumination fell across the documents, highlighting truths he’d never considered before, when a more recent document with the Camelot seal caught his eye. He picked it up, scanning it as he paced the library.

It was barely three decades old and recorded the appointment of Al-Sayyid Iskander Zahir, Yaminah’s grandfather, as administrator of the Northern Plains by King Uther, citing the family’s long history of overseeing grain distribution across multiple kingdoms. Gwaine raked his fingers through his hair, his breath stolen. This parchment explained the authority she now wielded over Camelot’s crucial food supply—a responsibility inherited through generations of expertise.

He returned to his seat and lifted a quill, intent on capturing these revelations. As he wrote, he reflected that each generation of Zahirs had passed down not just their wealth and positions, but their knowledge of sustaining communities through times of plenty and want. For the Zahirs, this experience had earned them the trust of Camelot’s crown – and the responsibility for one of the kingdom’s most crucial granaries.

The quill stopped mid-stroke as a thought occurred, a dark bead of ink swelling and then seeping into the parchment as realization pierced through his concentrated study. The governance in the Northern Plains now rested with Yaminah and her future bloodline—children who would carry forward this centuries-old tradition. Gwaine stared at his unfinished sentence, the quill forgotten in his grip, suddenly aware of his potential role—or absence—in this unfolding legacy. What could a wandering knight—a Catholic who’d abandoned his faith, no less—be placed in a dynasty built on unwavering religious devotion and ancient ceremony? He found himself measuring the distance between their worlds not in leagues, but in generations of diverging beliefs.

The soft shuffle of leather-soled shoes announced Geoffrey’s return—how long ago had Gwaine heard that cadence? “Still at it, Sir Gwaine? The hour grows late, though I must say, your dedication to Lady Yaminah’s heritage is commendable.”

Gwaine rubbed the bridge of his nose and looked up, his mind still entangled in questions about his uncertain future. “Could explain why my stomach feels hollow—as a war drum.” Gwaine’s throat constricted as he spoke, voice emerging with a rasp, his mouth as dry as a tavern flagon. “An ale or three sounds about right too.”

“A scholar’s pursuit often neglects the mortal vessel,” Geoffrey remarked with a chuckle, adjusting several scrolls on the table. “The ancients believed that true illumination of the texts requires both bodily abstinence and mental fortitude.” Gwaine quirked an eyebrow, translating in his mind: So scholars forget to eat because they’re too busy reading. That explains a few things about Merlin.

Gwaine laid a hand on the historical documents respectfully. “Some truths endure longer than stone walls, don’t they?” He closed the folio with careful hands. “Thank you for your guidance, Geoffrey. I’m learning what truly matters, though I confess, each revelation leads to more questions.”

“As it should. True insight rarely comes quickly.” Geoffrey’s eyes crinkled with approval. “Your interest in historical records is refreshing, Sir Gwaine. We see too few knights in these halls.”

“If we’re not patrolling,” he offered with a fleeting smile, his eyes wandering over his research, fingers continuing to turn several pages, “knights divide their hours between family duties, binding wounds, or claiming tavern benches. Academic pursuits seldom find a place among a warrior’s obligations.”

Geoffrey’s chuckle rumbled in his chest, an almost paternal air that softened the scholarly reserve about him. “Taverns brew gossip as readily as ale, I fear, and whispers travel like autumn leaves on the wind, Sir Gwaine. The disturbances from Lord Merlin’s chambers these past days have turned Lady Yaminah’s condition into a matter of rather intense speculation, you must know.”

Gwaine’s hand stilled mid-turn on the brittle parchment, seizing like a bowstring at full draw. Of course the castle would talk – two days of arcane disturbances from the Court Sorcerer’s chambers could hardly go unnoticed. He lifted his eyes to Geoffrey, measuring the librarian’s expression while guarding his own.

“I imagine she finds solace in these sacred observations,” Geoffrey continued, his weathered hand brushing the texts about the Sabbath with the reverence of one who recognized the power of preserved wisdom. “Such practices often steady us when life turns uncertain.”

“You speak as one who understands such matters,” Gwaine said quietly, noting how the librarian’s words carried no judgment, only consideration.

“I’ve spent my life studying how people and societies weather change. Those who endure do so by embracing it rather than fearing it.” Geoffrey moved to the shelves, returning several volumes to their proper places. Gwaine worried the inside of his lip, the librarian’s perception striking parallels between Yaminah’s situation with her magic and Gwaine’s own struggle with their cultural differences. “Might I suggest you continue your scholarly pilgrimage on the morrow? The royal chartulary contains numerous ecclesiastical chronicles and canonical treatises on the Coptic observances that would greatly illuminate your understanding. Most edifying material, particularly the theological disputations from the Council of Chalcedon, held nearly two and a half centuries past.”

Tomorrow. Geoffrey’s elaborate invitation to simply come back settled in Gwaine’s chest like an untested blade against armor. Sunday’s sun would set, marking the end of Yaminah’s sacred observance, but until then these texts would be his only connection to her, his only glimpse into the traditions that now claimed her hours.

“I would,” he answered, beginning to organize his notes with particular attention to passages about the Sabbath. “Since it’s necessary to...” The words faltered as the memory of Yaminah’s chamber door closing between them surfaced, her earnest appeal for sacred space for two days.

“Honor her request for these holy hours,” Geoffrey finished gently. “These manuscripts shall remain in their appointed repository until your return, Sir Gwaine. True sagacity, not unlike the finest distillation of the vintner’s craft, requires proper temperance and contemplation to reveal its divine essence. The monastic scribes who preserved these texts understood that wisdom cannot be hastily extracted from the parchment.”

As the historian shuffled away between the shelves, Gwaine dragged calloused fingers across his stubbled jawline, then kneaded the tight cords at the back of his neck where hours of reading had left them knotted. The sun had shifted, he noticed, dark shadows from shelving now spilling across his research materials. Beyond the castle’s windows, evening heralded another Sabbath’s arrival, and Yaminah would be preparing for her prayers, rituals her family had preserved through exile and loss.

His fingers again found the flowing script describing the fall of Alexandria. The Zahirs had faced impossible choices then – accept subjugation or abandon their ancestral home. Now, after five decades, Yaminah confronted her own crucible. Would her people accept these supernatural powers in their Al-Sayyida Al-Jalila? Would they see it as divine gift or corruption? The questions branched outward like tributaries from a river, each current pulling his thoughts toward deeper waters he couldn’t yet navigate.

Where do I fit? The question surfaced unbidden. What place could a knight who’d forsaken his noble heritage—however favored by Arthur—claim beside a woman whose decisions affected Camelot’s very survival? Her family’s control of the northern granaries made her position more vital to the kingdom than many titled nobles.

Gwaine leaned back stiffly in his chair, his eyes burning from hours of reading. A flagon of ale would ease the ache in body and heart, he thought, though Geoffrey’s scrolls would demand clearer wits than most tavern visits left him with.

The library’s hushed atmosphere closed in around him. Rising from the table, Gwaine gathered his notes, his thoughts returning to Yaminah’s current trials. What elements of her faith might help her navigate these uncharted waters? But he stopped himself, recognizing the arrogance in the thought. Was it his place to speak on such matters with her? Did a few hours with scrolls qualify him expert on matters her family had managed for centuries? Learning of her customs was one thing; advising a noble administrator on diplomatic and economic affairs was quite another, no matter how sincere his intentions.

With notes in hand, Gwaine navigated through the castle’s corridors, his newfound knowledge shifting his perspective and respect for Yaminah with each step. Yet with each passing hallway, the atmosphere chilled, a tightness coiling around his ribs as whispers followed in his wake. News of the disturbances from Merlin’s chambers had indeed spread quickly. Knights, servants, and courtiers alike nodded respectfully as he passed, though several conversations hushed as he approached, only to resume in hurried murmurs as he continued on. The words “sorcery” and “the Zahir woman” reached his ears more than once, reminders that despite her family’s generations of service to Camelot, many still viewed Yaminah through the lens of her Egyptian ancestry.

These whispers ignited fresh concerns as Gwaine’s historical findings collided with present reality. If Camelot’s people already gossiped about Yaminah’s mystical abilities, how would her own community in the Northern Plains respond? His research suggested Coptic Christians had survived by adapting to change while preserving their essential beliefs. Even now, her personal household continued their sacred Sabbath preparations despite the magical disturbances, yet uncertainty lingered. Accepting unholy powers in their midst—particularly in their Al-Sayyida Al-Jalila—presented a test unlike any they’d faced before. Would observances that had endured exile and persecution bend far enough to embrace a leader whose very nature challenged their fundamental understanding of divine order?

Gwaine paused at the grand staircase, his gaze drawn upward to where Yaminah’s chambers lay several floors above. In the two days he’d sat beside her bed, her awakened gifts had forged something between them that transcended ordinary bonds – each surge of power that passed through their joined hands had left an invisible mark, a connection that made this enforced separation ache in his chest. Now, reality more painful, he wondered if that connection only meant he was uniquely suited to withstand her power, not to share her life.

Gwaine realized his teeth were grinding, his jaws tense. Tomorrow evening, the sun would set on her sacred observations. Until then, he decided, he’d continue his studies, building bridges piece by piece, because loving Yaminah meant more than accepting her transformed nature. It meant honoring the boundaries that had shaped her long before power sparked beneath her skin.

Even if honoring those boundaries ultimately meant stepping back from them.

Turning away, Gwaine headed toward the knights’ quarters, his empty stomach reminding him the common hall would have evening fare by now. Sunday would bring its own challenges, including speculation about her sorcery, their relationship, and his place in her life spreading through the castle. He would respect her sacred hours, adding knowledge to his devotion, seeking paths across the spaces between their worlds. Yet even as he walked, the doubts no longer whispered but spoke clearly – some gulfs of faith, tradition, and duty might prove impossible to cross.

As twilight fell, mist clung to Camelot’s stones in the square as Gwaine descended the steps, his thoughts churning like a tempest. The day’s revelations had stripped away the illusions, leaving him with a clarity that felt both liberating and devastating. Every stride across the cobblestones carried him further from the man who had stood guard outside Yaminah’s chambers yesterday—that man, convinced of love’s simple power, now seemed naïve. Yesterday, he was a different man.

After leaving Yaminah last night, he’d found himself outside Percival’s office, drawn there by instinct while his mind still grappled with her unexpected dismissal, despite his body screaming for rest. His discourse with his friend had remained focused on Arthur, Gwen, and how much else had changed in two weeks’ time – new appointments, shifting alliances, and dangers both internal and external that risked fracturing Camelot’s peace. Each update had landed like another stone in his stomach, particularly the revelation about Elyan’s seditious activities against them. Such devastating news, combined with four days without ale—a rare stretch of sobriety brought on by his vigil at Yaminah’s side—had left a hollow craving in his throat that matched the void in his chest.

Again in Percival’s office—a short detour Gwaine had decided to make before returning to his quarters—their discourse circled with unspoken questions about Yaminah’s magic, neither man willing to voice what they both knew was at stake. Gwaine shared with him instead of his whereabouts today, and even Percival, for all his fairness, couldn’t fully hide his unease about Gwaine’s devotion to a noblewoman whose newfound powers challenged the beliefs many knights still privately harbored.

Seated across from him, Gwaine lifted an unfinished leg of lamb from Percival’s half-empty plate, the savory meat awakening hunger he’d ignored since morning.

“You look starved,” Percival said, pushing his plate toward Gwaine before uncorking a flask from his desk drawer. “When did you last eat?”

Gwaine had merely shrugged, fingers already reaching for bread while Percival called for a squire. “Bring Sir Gwaine a proper meal,” he’d ordered, pouring wine into a goblet and sliding it across the desk. “Strong enough for two days of little rest.”

Taking a healthy swallow, Gwaine recognize that Percival’s stance regarding Yaminah at least had been direct. From the beginning when Gwaine had first noticed her during Gwen’s coronation feast, Percival had warned against such an… entanglement, yet left Gwaine to make his own choices—and mistakes. And then yesterday outside Yaminah’s chambers, granting him seven days’ leave to be with her despite his obvious disapproval. That cautious support, given against his commander’s better judgment from the start, made Gwaine’s jaw slack knowing the truth of his friend’s words.

With statuses updated and his stomach satisfied, Gwaine rose and nodded his thanks to Percival before departing. He returned to his quarters, securing his research notes before restlessness drove him toward the lower town. The day’s revelations demanded solitude and reflection, yet the ache of Yaminah’s absence—and the widening gulf between their worlds—tightened his shoulders and quickened his pace.

The Rising Sun’s warm glow beckoned through the gathering dark, promising a few hours’ respite from his thoughts. But as he approached, familiar voices spilled from the doorway, bringing to mind the brief encounters in the castle and barracks since last night. His fellow knights’ reactions had been clear since his return—awkward silences, sidelong glances, the subtle shifting away when he passed—all speaking of judgments unvoiced but plain to see.

Gwaine’s hand settled on the tavern door, torn between desire for the numbing embrace of ale and the certainty that crossing this threshold meant confronting brothers-in-arms whose whispers about Yaminah had grown less guarded with ale and loose tongues. His fingers tightened on the handle, red haze filling his vision, battle-readiness building in his chest. Let them speak their minds openly if they dared, rather than hide behind murmurs and averted eyes.

One hand on the hilt of his sword, Gwaine pushed the tavern door open, but froze as a shifting shadow near merchant carts caught his eye – someone using the evening crowd’s patterns too deliberately, timing their movements with the calculation Gwaine recognized from years of training. Even without armor, he knew Elyan’s distinctive gait. The former knight wove through clusters of townspeople, checking over his shoulder as he navigated the quieter paths of the lower town.

Thirst forgotten, anger redirected, Gwaine followed, keeping to the shadows cast by the stalls and people as the pieces aligned in his mind: Elyan’s desertion of his post, then the inflammatory leaflets throughout the city in the days that followed. He’d confessed to his actions, Percival had said, yet Gwen allowed him to remain free—a strategic decision to prevent his followers from acting more boldly. But now, watching Elyan skulk through the streets like a common criminal, fury coursed through Gwaine, eclipsing even the persistent call of soothing ale.

When his mark turned down a narrow alley near the tanner’s district, Gwaine seized his opportunity. Three quick strides closed the distance. “Bit far from your usual haunts, isn’t it?” he called.

Elyan spun, hand going to the sword at his hip.

Gwaine emerged into the light, face hardening. “Thought you favored the Red Lion these days.”

Recognition flickered across Elyan’s features, followed by wariness as he inserted the scroll in his other hand into inside pocket of his jacket. “Gwaine.”

“That’s ‘Sir Gwaine’ to you now, isn’t it?” Gwaine advanced with deliberate intent, noting how Elyan tensed. “Since you gave up the right to that title yourself.”

“I gave up nothing.” Elyan’s chin lifted, eyes flashing. “I stood by my principles while the rest of you bent to accommodate abomination.”

“Abomination?” The word scraped through Gwaine’s throat as he closed the distance between them. “Is that what you see when you look at your king? At Merlin? These men who’ve saved your life more times than you can count?”

“You know of whom I speak.” Elyan’s mouth twisted. “But why not include them too. Magic corrupts. You’ve seen it yourself – how it twists people, changes them.”

Gwaine’s jaw tightened. Yes. He knew Elyan’s insult was aimed at Yaminah, only the thought of Arthur still missing stayed his hand, though his protectiveness toward her simmered just beneath the surface. “Not all—you know this.” He advanced forward, forcing Elyan closer to the rough stone wall. “I’ve seen fear corrupt. Prejudice twist. Ignorance that changes good men into cowards.” He gestured toward the scroll. “You’re so busy defending what you think is right, you’ve forgotten to look at who you’re hurting. These are our friends.”

“Like your new friend? That witch from the Northern Plains?” Elyan said, revulsion tinging his voice. “The whole castle’s talking about the chaos from Merlin’s chambers. Another noble corrupted by—”

Before conscious thought intervened, Gwaine’s fist connected with Elyan’s jaw with a sharp crack that echoed in the narrow alley. Elyan stumbled back, his shoulder striking the wall as he caught himself.

“Her name is Yaminah,” Gwaine rasped, clenching Elyan’s tunic and pressing his weight into him. “And she’s shown more courage facing her magic than you’ve shown confronting your own fear.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping. “You want to talk about corruption? Look how it’s hollowed you out. Made you desert your post. Betray your sister. Spread poison through the streets against people who’ve done nothing but exist.”

“You’ve been bewitched,” Elyan muttered through clenched teeth.

Gwaine released him with a violent shove. “Bewitched? Yeah, I suppose I am taken by her. Her strength of will. Her righteous heart. Her beauty.” His voice softened momentarily. “Right now, Yaminah observes her Sabbath in prayer, seeking to reconcile her faith with abilities she never asked for. She faces what terrifies her while you spread lies from the shadows.” He withdrew to arm’s length, studying the man who’d once been his brother-in-arms. “Your leaflets, your whispers – they’re not about protecting anyone. They’re about justifying your own cowardice.”

Elyan straightened against the wall, defiance masking something raw beneath. “And what of your cowardice, Gwaine? Following that woman rather than joining the search for Arthur?”

Elyan’s words against his character were just as effective as a hammer hitting its mark, Gwaine recoiling in shock. For a moment, he could only stare, his fists curling as Elyan pressed his advantage.

“A shadow of restraint, yet still quick to anger,” Elyan continued, a bitter smile twisting his features. “At least some things haven’t changed much.”

Gwaine inhaled deeply, forcing several paces between them. “Yaminah Zahir holds my heart and my sword,” he declared, the words stripped of pretense. “Percival has the entire knights’ corps searching. My absence won’t decide Arthur’s fate. My duty lies elsewhere.”

“Duty?” Elyan’s laugh held no humor. “Is that what you’re calling it? Hours in her chambers? Alone with her for days unchaperoned while in Merlin’s quarters?”

“That’s a lie.” The words ground between Gwaine’s teeth, the insinuation against Yaminah’s virtue cutting deeper than any insult to himself.

Elyan’s eyes gleamed with malicious satisfaction in the dim light. As they stood measuring each other, Gwaine’s anger receded, that look thrusting his memory further back into their shared history—beyond the vehemence behind the leaflets, the desertion after Arthur freed magic, Morgana and the nathair. All of it traced back to one defining loss that he’d learned of from Elyan himself and the people who had been there.

“This isn’t just about Yaminah or our friends, is it?” Gwaine said quietly, his voice shifting from condemnation to insight. “I think you’re lashing out because of your father, and how sorcery cost him his life.”

Elyan’s face contorted, grief flashing raw before his fist shot out, but Gwaine caught the punch mid-swing, using momentum to spin Elyan against the wall. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

“Release me,” Elyan grunted, straining against Gwaine’s grip.

“You need to hear this.” Gwaine pinned him firmly, his gaze catching on two distinct puncture marks at Elyan’s neck—the nathair’s signature—revealed as the man struggled against his hold. The sight briefly softened his grip, memories of their shared captivity surfacing. “Your father sought a sorcerer to better Gwen’s life even knowing the risks. That was one man’s betrayal – and now you condemn everyone with these abilities?”

“One man’s betrayal?” Elyan’s voice cracked with bitterness. “That sorcerer led him down a path that killed him. I wasn’t there—to… try and talk reason to him.” Naked pain broke through his anger. “Do you know what it was like, finding out how your father was killed? That because of sorcery and his attempt to escape, that he died with dishonor? To learn your sister was in love with one of his killers? I guess deep down, I’ve never really forgiven her for that.”

“And now she serves a king who wields magic himself.” Gwaine released him slowly, understanding seeping into place. “Must burn, that. Seeing her stand beside Arthur, accepting the very thing that took your father from you.”

“How dare you speak of my grief—” Elyan began, chest heaving.

Gwaine pressed his finger into Elyan’s chest, cutting him off. “Grief? Like what you’re doing with those leaflets you’re spreading? They don’t just hurt strangers. They wound people we know. People we’ve fought beside.” His voice vibrated conviction. “People we love.”

“You’re truly blinded, Gwaine,” Elyan whispered, voice caught between accusation and disappointment. “When your lady turns dark, what will you do then? When it corrupts her like that sorcerer who led my father to his death?”

A slow breath escaped Gwaine, relaxing the tension that had coiled his muscles like rope. “Magic doesn’t corrupt, Elyan. People are responsible for that.” He spoke quietly but firmly. “Your father reached for a solution out of love for his family. But that’s not about the mystics – not really. It’s about human nature. Master Thomas died trying to provide for Gwen, for a better future. Uther executed him believing he was protecting the kingdom, though we know now his fear blinded him to true justice.” Gwaine shifted his stance, though he remained alert. “Your father’s association with sorcery doesn’t erase his love, Elyan. Just like Arthur’s magic doesn’t diminish his loyalty to Camelot. Or Merlin’s power doesn’t change his friendship. Or Yaminah’s abilities altering her faith.”

Elyan’s laugh rang harsh in the night air. “What does a man like you know of faith?”

Confidence steadied Gwaine’s reply. “More than I did yesterday,” he replied, drawing on memories of aged scrolls and weathered texts, chronicles of a people’s endurance. “I’ve spent today learning that you can survive persecution, exile, loss if you hold fast to your beliefs and adapt to change, not fight it.” He met Elyan’s gaze. “Real faith bends, brother. It doesn’t break.”

“Don’t call me brother.” The heat had drained from Elyan’s words, leaving only hollow resignation. “You’ve chosen your side.”

“There shouldn’t be sides. That’s what you’re not seeing.” Gwaine gestured to the scroll hidden beneath Elyan’s cloak. “Every person you condemn with that – they’re someone’s sister, someone’s father, someone’s child. They’re individuals wrestling with gifts they didn’t choose, fighting to remain true to themselves despite powers they never asked for.”

Between them lay an absence of words that neither man hurried to bridge, while life continued its evening cadence beyond their conflict. Finally, Elyan spoke, his voice roughened with something deeper than mere anger.

“And what of Gwen? Has she sent you to drag me back to the castle?”

“Your sister grieves for you.” Gwaine softened his tone. “Not because you question the law, but because you’ve let fear turn you into someone she doesn’t recognize. Someone your father wouldn’t recognize.”

Gwaine’s mention of Thomas continued to pierced Elyan’s defenses, steel melting to water as his shoulders stiffened then collapsed inward. “My father trusted too easily,” he said quietly. “Always believed the best of people, even when they proved him wrong.”

“Like Gwen does?” Gwaine kept his voice neutral, though the parallel was meant to cut deep. “She sees the best in people – in Arthur, in Merlin, in you. Even now.”

“She’s blinded by love, too.” Elyan’s fingers brushed unconsciously against his sword hilt, a warrior’s habit when unsure. “Arthur’s magic—it’s changed everything. The laws, the kingdom, everything our father taught us to believe—”

“Your father taught you to care for others. To help those in need.” Gwaine raked his fingers through his hair, a habit that surfaced whenever his patience wore thin. “Tell me, how do those leaflets of yours help anyone? How does spreading fear protect the innocent?”

“It’s not that simple,” Elyan insisted, his words carrying the sharp edge of betrayal..

“It is,” Gwaine countered with conviction. “Look at what your fear is building – division, suspicion, hatred. Is that what your father would want? Is that what Gwen deserves from her brother?”

Elyan’s jaw worked silently before he replied, the moonlight revealing a muscle twitching near his temple. “My father believed in protecting people, Gwaine. He made tools and armor, remember? That’s what I’m doing with a different kind of tool – arming people before more families are destroyed by sorcery’s influence.”

“Even if those warnings destroy your own family?” Gwaine watched a shadow flicker across Elyan’s features – not quite doubt, but perhaps memory. “Gwen needs her brother, not another voice feeding the city’s fears.”

“Gwen made her choice.” Elyan’s words landed with cold finality. “She chose to stand beside a king who embraces what killed our father. Arthur chose to change laws that kept us safe for decades.” His hand drifted to his tunic where the scroll lay concealed, fingers pressing against it as if drawing strength. “Someone has to speak for those who remember why those laws existed.”

“Your leaflets don’t speak truth, Elyan. They speak vengeance.”

“That is so.” Elyan straightened, his expression hardening with renewed conviction. “I haven’t forgotten who I am. What I believe. Some lines need to be crossed.” He moved to pass Gwaine, pausing just beside him. “Tell my sister I’m beyond her prayers. And your lady? Even her precious faith won’t shield her evil forever.”

In a blink, Gwaine gripped Elyan’s arm, applying pressure meant to be noticed. “Threaten Al-Sayyidah Zahir again,” he said, his voice pitched low, “and brother knight or not, we’ll have more than words between us.”

For a moment, they stood frozen in the moonlight, the ghost of their former brotherhood hanging between them like mist. Gwaine’s duty as a knight demanded action despite Gwen’s decree. His threat against a high-ranking noble warranted arrest, potentially threatening the kingdom's very sustenance in these already unstable times. The patrol route would bring guards through the lower street within minutes. His sword arm could easily subdue Elyan before they arrived.

But memories surfaced without warning – Elyan steadfast beside him in battle, sharing victory’s wine, guiding young squires’ hands on sword hilts. Brotherhood, once forged, left marks too deep for even betrayal to erase completely.

Elyan pulled free, melting into the lower town’s shadows. Gwaine watched him go, failure coating his tongue like old copper. Perhaps this too was a kind of cowardice – allowing sentiment to override duty, just as he’d accused Elyan of letting fear override honor. Yet as he stood in the quiet alley, he questioned whether some bonds, even when broken, deserved one last mercy.

Gwaine retreated and made his way toward the Rising Sun, the tug of ale and temporary solace returning to his senses. But he turned away, his steps leading him back toward the castle. Elyan’s warnings had carried truth beneath their hatred – some lines couldn’t be uncrossed. Some beliefs ran too deep for reason to touch.

The question shadowed his return to the castle – which beliefs would endure: those born of fear, or those forged in love?

Chapter Text

Killian’s consciousness surged once again within Dodd as he approached Mordred’s alcove, forcing him to halt mid-stride. Pain lanced through his temples as another mind fought for control, clouding his vision momentarily. Their shared thirst for vengeance upon Pendragon fueled Killian’s attempt to surface, but Dodd pushed back with an angry whispered spell.

“My turn,” he muttered through clenched teeth, regaining dominance as the golden heat in his eyes subsided.

His boots struck the uneven stone as he resumed his path through the winding passages. Along jagged limestone walls, water traced glistening trails that captured the sparse torchlight. Pale fungal growths marked familiar routes from their perch in the dampest corners, luminescent in the surrounding gloom. Earth and ancient decay flavored the stale, mineral-laden air coating his tongue—a taste only food and ale could overwhelm.

Dodd let his footfalls ring through the tunnels, ensuring Mordred would hear the unmistakable signal of his imminent arrival. The boy’s resolve had faltered during their latest sessions of royal retribution, retreating into shadows, his features often ashen with fear. Perhaps partnering with one so young had been unwise, yet the boy possessed magical prowess, though limited to druid spells and the few they had taught him since then.

The sound of movement interrupted Dodd’s contemplation. Mordred emerged from his alcove, stepping directly into the tunnel, his expression tense with defiance, his thin frame rigid. “It’s time,” he declared.

The corner of Dodd’s mouth curled upward as he nodded, surprised at Mordred’s attempt at readiness. He hummed, then pivoted, heading for Pendragon’s alcove, the boy’s footsteps falling out of rhythm with his own.

Mordred’s feigned resolve amused him—like watching a child don ill-fitting armor, pretending at courage while fear leaked from every seam. With three to four sessions of their righteous judgment throughout each day, he’d begun to question if so many were necessary – even suggesting they might savor greater gratification by extending the intervals between torments. Perhaps his argument contained a kernel of logic, but to them, it seemed more a means to ease his conscience and trepidation than any genuine desire to enhance their pleasure through anticipation.

A few more turns brought them to Pendragon’s holding niche, torchlight dimming as they descended deeper into the network of caves. The king was already struggling to stand—much as he had done since what Dodd savored as his divine reckoning began—though the effort proceeded at a considerably slower pace than previous days. Dodd deftly unlocked the cage with a wave of his hand, his whispered spell culminating in a cool flash of gold across his eyes. The lock clicked open before they reached it.

King Arthur appeared exceptionally weary, dark rings circling unfocused blue eyes, his posture stripped of its former defiance, a faint tremor evident as he steadied himself on an iron bar. Once-golden hair lay disheveled and dull against his brow, matted with beads of sweat glistening along his hairline. A brief, suppressed cough shook his frame before he mastered it, though the rasp in his breathing remained. Despite his deterioration, Pendragon managed to glare at them, though his resistance to being handled had noticeably diminished.

Mordred stepped inside the cage and clasped the king’s arm, guiding him to the stone altar – Pendragon’s death bed. Ancient runes Dodd had etched into its surface had darkened from days of absorbing the king’s blood and sweat.

As they approached, Arthur’s defiant eyes flicked briefly toward the braided copper and gold circlet laid nearby, a momentary flash of resignation crossing his features. Dodd’s smile widened at Pendragon’s reaction to their prized creation. The Reacher’s opal extracted memories like teeth from gums, the Soul Chest’s jet manifested suffering in flesh, and the Destiny Stone’s tourmaline forced him to experience every moment of torment firsthand—all working in cruel harmony.

For five endless days, they’d forced the once-mighty king to relive the agonizing deaths of his and Uther’s countless victims. Burned, drowned, beheaded—Pendragon had endured them. Yet his spirit remained frustratingly intact as day six began, a resilience that both impressed and infuriated Dodd. It was only when the circlet touched Arthur’s brow and the suffering began anew that his resolve would crumble—those precious moments of weakness providing Dodd with pleasure—though fleeting, never quite enough to sate his hunger for vengeance.

With Mordred’s aid, Pendragon reclined on the cold surface. A grimace crossed his face as his back—still raw and bloodied from previous sessions—met the unforgiving stone. Mordred stilled, flinching at the king’s anguish, his gaze darting away as if seeking escape from what his hands helped create.

“Bind him,” Dodd commanded, his tone sharpening.

Mordred shot him a glance, then his expression turned inward for a moment. Arms rising and outstretched, he invoked, “Stáncostunga béo gefæstnod” as his eyes filled with magic.

Amber light seeped into the ancient rock slab, the limestone softening, lengthening, and molding around Pendragon’s wrists and ankles, hardening almost instantly when stone rejoined with stone. Again, the king winced, a barely audible hiss escaping through clenched teeth as fresh pressure aggravated old wounds, sending a rush of satisfaction through Dodd.

Despite this, a glimmer of respect flickered within him as he studied Pendragon, noting the flush across the king’s cheeks. “You’ve done remarkably well, King Arthur,” he said, circling the altar like a collector admiring a rare acquisition. “Your endurance. Your defiance… Your screams. Refreshing each time.”

Pendragon’s gaze drifted to him, revulsion in his eyes, jaw muscles tightening beneath a thickening beard. Contempt passed across his features before he looked away, fixing his gaze on the ceiling once more—the only rebellion left to him. A throaty chuckle spilled from Dodd’s lips, the king’s disdain fueling his cruel delight.

“Do you know how long you’ve been here? Six days, your highness, yet your defiant countenance persists.” He drew a breath, eyes roaming Pendragon’s tattered and foul attire. “Perhaps we should allow a sovereign some decency, Mordred, hm? Fresh tunic and trousers, though in the end, it won’t matter.”

His mocking words earned Pendragon’s contain fury, their wills clashing in silent combat as they glared at each other. Dodd hardened his expression. He would break Arthur, no matter how long it took.

“Mordred, retrieve the circlet and place it upon the king’s head.” Pendragon didn’t recoil, only resumed his vigil of the stalagmites above.

Mordred stepped to the table against the wall and lifted the circlet, its gemstones glinting in the candlelight. Returning to the altar, he carefully positioned the device atop Pendragon’s head, ensuring the opal rested centered on his brow. Arthur ground his teeth, lips pressing into a terse line as they prepared the engine of his torment.

Dodd watched Mordred’s hesitant movements, seeing in them a chance to test the limits of the boy’s loyalty. “Perform the spell,” he commanded, voice edged with challenge.

Mordred froze mid-motion, his fingers still lingering near the circlet.

So, Dodd thought, a contest of nerve and obedience. “Why else have we been training you, Mordred? Now’s the time to gauge your… talent.” His words carried a frigid weight, his lips thinning to a merciless slash—the gauntlet thrown. Now pick it up, boy.

Mordred swallowed thickly, taking half a step back from the altar. “I—I’m not sure I can invoke the spell properly. It’s… it’s very complicated.”

“Do it, Mordred; and don’t lie to me again.”

“I—I…” he stammered, his hands trembling slightly, eyes wide and glassy. “I mean, which…?”

“Which death for our king?” Dodd’s voice cut like winter frost. “Take your pick.”

The boy hesitates—a liability, as Killian would say. They’d have to reevaluate how much they could trust Mordred, his days, perhaps, even proving shorter than Arthur’s. Dodd circled the stone slab, each purposeful step toward Mordred an unspoken threat. The boy timidly raised a hand above Pendragon’s head just as Dodd towered beside him.

“Ic ábede þone éarendel–” Mordred began, then lowered his arm. “I can’t remember the words. I’m not ready. I’ve–tried…”

Unlike Killian’s approach of physical intimidation, Dodd merely leaned closer, his eyes narrowing to slits as they fixed on Mordred. The air between them seemed to chill, causing the boy’s shoulders to hunch instinctively.

“You will do this. Now begin again and finish the incantation.”

“Don’t listen to him, Mordred,” Pendragon intervened, his voice a raw whisper, yet carried unexpected authority. “You don’t have to do this. There’s still a choice.”

Dodd froze at the king’s unanticipated appeal, his jaw tightening as he gestured Mordred to step aside with a demanding flick of his wrist. Glare seizing Pendragon as he glided closer, Dodd struck the king across the face, the sound cracking through the chamber. Mordred gasped behind him. “You have no voice here,” he snarled.

The king worked his jaw, refusing to look away, the welts blossoming on his cheek not enough to cool Dodd’s ire. “Yet still you fear my words,” he whispered, a ghost of his royal strength flickering in his eyes. “Even bound and defenseless, you dread what I might say to him. You’re no different than Killian.”

No different? Pendragon’s words needled beneath his skin, and somewhere deep within, Killian’s consciousness stirred. He sees right through your facade. Cold fury coiled at the base of Dodd’s skull as he forced Killian’s presence back into dormancy, his breathing measured and even, masking the battles waging within.

“Words,” he replied to Arthur, his voice falling smooth as silk despite his hands curled into fists, “will be the last remnants to abandon you, lingering even as your mind fractures into nonsense and madness.” He straightened, realizing that he’d leaned over Pendragon in their confrontation. So close he could feel heat radiating from the king’s skin, minute tremors running through his frame.

Fever, not fear, Dodd thought. He turned back to Mordred, stepping aside. “Begin. Now.”

Face pale as burial shrouds, Mordred edged closer to the king and began the spell once more. His fingers traced ancient symbols in the air, first the Old Tongue, then transitioning to the eastern incantation Dodd had drilled into him for days:

“Ic ábede þone éarendel, Ming-zhi, þá sweartan ágælstnyde Yīng-po, þone wyrdstán Lumīn-shu...” He paused, drawing that centering breath as he’d been instructed, before continuing with the eastern phrases that followed, “to áræran hiora mihta!”

Mordred moistened his lips before the commanding words—ones Dodd knew were more complex for the boy—spilled effortlessly from his mouth: “Bring forth those killed on the gallows trees! Through his mind, through his body, through your power let him suffer their deaths!”

As the final syllable died on the air, Dodd grunted at Mordred’s choice of execution: a quick and simple death, though still nourishing enough. The boy’s shoulders sagged slightly as he lowered his arm – as though the cost of what he’d summoned also pressed upon him.

The opal’s verdant glow filled the room, pulsing with ancient power as Pendragon’s eyes rolled back, a gasp tearing from his lips. The king’s head lolled against the stone, his breaths rapid and shallow. A fine mist formed above his brow, twisting into spectral nooses as the spell took hold, before its glow dissipated.

“There, you see?” Dodd said, his voice softening with pleasure, ignoring the remorse evident on Mordred’s face. He leaned closer to observe Pendragon’s convulsing throat, fingers hovering just above the king’s neck as if tracing the path of the invisible noose. “Now watch him strangle.”

Arthur’s body convulsed violently, his breathing transforming into desperate, shallow gasps, each one more frantic than the last. Mordred watched, transfixed in horror as Pendragon’s face contorted in agony, his eyes staring at horrors only he could see, struggling against pain only he could feel. The king’s hands clawed futilely against the rock-cuff bindings, his body writhing, and throat straining against invisible nooses.

A strangled gurgling – the faint, wet sound of congestion – issued from Pendragon’s throat, and Dodd tilted forward, studying his reactions with scholarly interest. “He sees them now,” he murmured. “The hanged. Their ropes tighten around his royal neck.”

“Why?” Mordred asked with sudden reproach, his voice echoing through the alcove. Dodd stilled momentarily, then raised an eyebrow in cold amusement. “I never wanted to kill him—not like this.”

“Of course you did, you foolish boy.” Dodd narrowed his eyes to dangerous slits. “And you’ll do it again – until I order you to stop. Until his spirit is utterly broken or he is truly dead.” His attention returned to Arthur, dismissing Mordred’s protest as inconsequential. They’ll determine what to do with him later.

Pendragon’s thrashing slowed, his face purpling. His eyes bulged, bloodshot and desperate, the invisible noose finishing its work. With a sickening gasp and final shudder, he went limp against the stone. His features smoothed, momentarily claimed by death’s embrace. Dodd tsked in mock disappointment.

In that precise moment, the three gems in the circlet flared with blinding intensity, throwing eerie shadows across the cavern walls. The flames of every torch dimmed to mere embers before surging back to life with unnatural blue-tinged fire. A chill swept through the alcove like winter’s first frost, disturbing their hair and clothing and other loose objects.

Mordred stumbled back, eyes wide, arms folding around himself. Dodd retreated a step, his fingers twitching at his sides—a rare tell in his otherwise controlled demeanor.

“What was that?” Mordred asked.

Dodd frowned, a memory surfacing with disturbing clarity as he straightened his hair and robes back into place. He’d witnessed identical signs only once before, when present at the fulfillment of a prophecy decades ago—the otherworldly lights, the unnatural flames, the sudden chill and gust of wind. His gaze shifted to Pendragon’s still form, then to Mordred, a strange unease settling in his chest.

“Nothing,” he said, though uncertainty colored his voice. “A reaction of the gems from continuous use—nothing more.” He stepped away from Arthur’s unconscious form, circling the slab despite the disquiet gnawing at his certainty.

“Your execution of the king was sufficient, I suppose. Now revive him,” Dodd ordered, breaking their pattern of allowing the king a few hours respite between torments. His snared Mordred’s eyes with his own, expectant and unforgiving. “And call for something more protracted and excruciating. Summon those consumed by flame at the pyre. Mordred… don’t falter again.”

The druid swallowed hard, his spine going rigid as the circlet’s jewels pulsed with ancient power. The boy’s hands quivered, dread lurking behind his downcast eyes. The tension across his shoulders revealed his inner conflict, yet Dodd knew the outcome was inevitable. There would be no defiance, no clemency granted. Only capitulation to his commands and Pendragon’s eternal suffering.

In that same moment of Arthur’s surrender – finally forced to yield – Master Iseldir halted mid-stride during his morning prayers, the ceremonial bowl of water he carried slipping from his fingers, shattering against the new stone altar. He stared into the distance, his features contorting as if an invisible blade struck him. His breath caught, shoulders sagging. No blade – terrible knowledge instead.

Madoc and Gethin rushed forward from their places at the edge of the circle. Madoc, his weathered face tightened with concern, grasped one of Iseldir’s arms. “What is it?”

“It—it… is done,” Iseldir whispered, his voice carrying through the suddenly still grove where dozens of druids had gathered for morning prayers and were now observing them.

“You sensed something in the currents of magic?” Gethin asked, his skeptical nature momentarily replaced by dread. He gripped Iseldir’s other arm.

Iseldir nodded once, the solemn movement claiming more of his strength. “The sword has fallen.” Knees buckling, their hold on him tightened, both elders guiding him toward the ancient oak near the edge of the grove, away from the gathered congregation and more elders rushing forward. “Destiny’s hand has struck.”

“Is it… Mordred?” Madoc asked once they were beyond earshot of the others.

“The prophecy of Emrys and the Once and Future King stands upon a terrible precipice.” Iseldir closed his eyes, fragments of vision seizing him like a fever chill—a king bound to stone, a circlet of ancient power, a young druid with trembling hands performing dark magic. “The wheel turns as it must.”

“But how can you be certain?” Gethin pressed, ever the doubter, nervously tracing the runic patterns in the air with his staff, his other hand still firmly supporting Iseldir.

Madoc stopped him with a raised hand. “Mae’r tywyddwr yn gwybod,” he murmured. “The prophet knows.”

With Emrys silent since yesterday, neither word nor thought, Iseldir felt a hollow absence where their magical connection should pulse. Such was the burden of his position—to stand alone as witness when ancient prophecies fulfilled themselves, a solemn responsibility the goddess placed on no other druid, not even his trusted seconds. His gaze drifted toward Camelot’s distant towers, the spires void of flags and fanfare.

“Gather the elders,” he said quietly. “We must prepare for what is to come.”

Stáncostunga béo gefæstnod - Let stone bonds be fastened

Ic ábede þone éarendel Ming-zhi, þá sweartan ágælstnyde Yīng-po, þone wyrdstán Lumīn-shu to áræran hiora mihta! – I call upon the guiding light Ming-zhi, the dark soul-catcher Yīng-po, the fate-stone Lumīn-shu to raise their powers!

Gebrengen þá ácwealdun galgtréowum! – Bring forth those killed on the gallows trees! Through his mind, through his body, through your power let him suffer their deaths!

Chapter Text

A blinding flash of light forced Morgana to halt mid-stride through the dense foliage, shielding her eyes with a hand, the unexpected brilliance burning even behind closed lids. Around her, dragons scattered with startled screeches and bellows, their cries vibrating through her body.

When the glare finally faded, Morgana lowered her arm, blinking away dancing spots. The air crackled with energy—simultaneously icy against her skin yet warming her very core. There, in the center of the clearing where Aithusa had fallen, a magnificent dragon stood. Morgana drew in a sharp inhale, unable to release it. Merlin came beside her, his shoulder brushing against hers, he too transfixed.

Wisps of silvery steam rose from the white dragon’s transformed body, curling around her like spirits paying homage. This creature towered half as tall as Kilgharrah himself, her ivory form crowned with graceful, pulsing wings that spanned wider than a lookout tower.

Morgana stared at the dragon, her lips parting in silent wonder. The creature’s body seemed to shimmer with every subtle movement, the auroral glow of Evanescen illuminating each glistening scale, changing them into a living canvas that reflected the vibrant hues around them.

“Aithusa?” Morgana uttered, her voice trembling with awe and disbelief as she reached for Merlin’s hand. He grasped it instantly, his grip comforting and firm, their fingers entwining instinctively.

A tremor ran through her when Aithusa reared back her head, revealing rows of dagger-like teeth and releasing an earth-shaking roar. She unleashed a torrential blast of icy vapor, her crystalline breath sweeping across the clearing like the sound of breaking glass. Every plant and flower it touched became delicate sculptures of frost, nearby leaves suspending mid-flutter, frozen in time.

Merlin’s fingers tightened around hers as a chill traced its path along her spine, not from fear but from witnessing raw magic manifest before her eyes. For long moments, they remained motionless, words failing from the wonder of Aithusa and the verdant clearing she’d transformed into a wintry, ethereal dreamscape, impossible and breathtaking.

When at last the dragon turned her slit-pupiled gaze upon them, Morgana gasped. This was no hatchling. The young brimmed with newfound wisdom and power – the living essence of this mystical realm made flesh. “Yes, Morgana,” she spoke, her voice melodious and resonant. “It is I – Aithusa. Evanescen’s very magic now courses through my veins, granting me knowledge and abilities far beyond my years.”

Aithusa unfurled translucent wings, the delicate membranes pulsing with a soft, inner glow that projected shadows across the frost-covered ground. A gentle breeze stirred, the air bearing the scent of winter—clean and sharp—causing the icy leaves to chime like crystal bells, creating a haunting melody that embodied the very essence of Evanescen.

A disbelieving laugh escaped Morgana as she tilted her head back to take in the full majesty of Aithusa's new form. Her fingers—still entwined with Merlin's—tingled with mystical energy radiating from this extraordinary moment. “I can understand you,” she breathed, shaking her head in wonder. “You’re... beautiful. Magnificent.” This was something she could scarcely comprehend, even after all she had seen.

Morgana moved from Merlin's side, releasing their grip and extending an arm outward as if drawn by an invisible thread. Aithusa lowered her elegant head, permitting her trembling fingers to alight on cool, hardened scales. The surface felt smoother than polished marble yet retained a subtle texture like finely worked metal. Pure exhilaration coursed through her as she looked into Aithusa’s brilliant, fathomless orbs – the same yet not. In those endless emerald depths, Morgana sensed untold ancient wisdom and cosmic power incarnate. She released another breathless laugh, equal parts awe and euphoria.

“Hello, Aithusa,” Merlin said with a smile. He stepped forward, his boots crunching on the frosted earth, each step releasing puffs of crystalline dust that swirled around his ankles. He tenderly laid a hand upon her snout, and for a moment, time itself seemed frozen as dragonlord and dragon bonded through thought and touch.

Against the pristine white landscape, his obsidian cloak and fitted tunic absorbed the light rather than reflected it, creating a striking figure of shadow amid the brilliance. The silver clasps bearing the mark of the Old Religion caught the ethereal light, glinting like stars against the darkness of his attire. As he caressed one of Aithusa's horns—now gleaming solid ivory and nearly as tall as Merlin himself—a warm smile softened his usually solemn features.

Morgana's breath faltered at the sight. This was not the fumbling servant boy she'd once known in Camelot's halls. Before her stood a sorcerer in his full power, his magic visibly threading through every gesture, every breath—unrestrained and unapologetic. An unexpected reverence blossomed within her chest, intertwining with a bewildering sense of possibility that quickened her pulse. This Merlin moved with a confidence that both captivated and disarmed her, like witnessing storm clouds massing on the horizon—magnificent in its brewing might, yet concealing forces that could strike without warning.

Kilgharrah landed beside them with a rush of displaced air that sent Morgana's hair whipping across her face, his massive claws carving furrows in the frozen ground. “This is unprecedented,” he rumbled, his voice vibrating through the earth as his gaze fixed on Aithusa. Vyransa alit beside him, her large pupils dilated with wonder. “Never before has a dragon grown in such a manner.”

“It’s Evanescen,” Merlin said after a moment, still caressing Aithusa. Merlin’s evolution seemed as complete as Aithusa's, though achieved through different means. Both had become what they were always meant to be, and the parallel left Morgana contemplating her own path—what she might yet become when freed from the shadows of her past.

“Yes,” Vyransa replied, her voice suffused with reverence. “The magic of our realm has responded to her presence. Evanescen recognized her – accelerated her development and awakened dormant abilities. Legends speak of a white dragon of untold ancient power who would be reborn in a new form – her rebirth the fulfillment of an ancient prophecy long-awaited.”

Kilgharrah's rough scales rasped against one another as he shifted his bulk, producing a sound akin to stone grinding upon stone. He turned his ancient gaze toward Vyransa, his nostrils flaring. Merlin exchanged questioning glances with Vyransa and the great dragon. While Aithusa’s metamorphosis surprised Morgana, the existence of a foretelling did not. Events of this magnitude always tied to ancient predictions, the threads of destiny weaving patterns long before they revealed themselves.

“Could this be what you also spoke of, Kilgharrah?” Merlin asked. “That Aithusa was the key to bringing balance to the realms of magic?” The younglings Aithusa had played with earlier darted back into view, their brilliant colors streaking through the air as they twittered excitedly around her. Morgana's lips curved upward as Aithusa, despite her newfound majesty, patiently allowed the small dragons to nip and flutter about her.

“Indeed,” Vyransa affirmed as other dragons began to circle overhead and gather around them, their wingbeats creating rhythmic currents that stirred the frozen foliage around them. “The legends foretold that her emergence could only happen through the unlikely convergence of a dragonlord, priestess of the old religion, and a white dragon. And you are here. Your arrival heralds a bridge between our worlds, for the white one carries within her the power to…”

Vyransa’s voice trailed off as a flash of crimson streaked across the skies above, a swift shadow sweeping over the clearing. Morgana’s focus was drawn upwards by the persistent flap of mighty wings, each beat pulsing through her chest like a battle drum's call to arms. She couldn’t breathe, the air thickened around her. The temperature rose with the newcomer’s approach, melting the frost into tiny rivulets.

A powerfully-built dragon easily twice Aithusa’s size came into view, descending towards them. His scales shone with the intensity of polished rubies, refracting the medley of colors from the ethereal aurora into a shimmering crimson halo. As he swept his wingspan forward to decelerate, the force pressed against Morgana's body like an invisible hand, nearly causing her to step backward.

With a final, earth-shaking thud, the dragon’s clawed feet struck the frozen earth beside the Kilgharrah, sending fissures sprawling like spiderwebs through the frost-covered ground. Crystal shards leapt upward, capturing light before settling again. Though smaller than Kilgharrah, he emanated an aura of raw, primordial power, charging the air and raising the hairs along Morgana’s arms and neck.

The fearsome dragon fixed them with a piercing blue stare, his ridged brow jutting like ancient battlements over his eyes. He angled his arrowhead skull toward them, each scale along his facial contours capturing the light individually. Morgana’s breath caught in her throat beneath that ancient, appraising stare, nodding respectfully to Vyransa to receive a subtle tilt of the female dragon’s head in acknowledgement.

A memory stirred deep within Morgana's mind—illustrations in ancient texts she'd studied during her priestess training with Morgause, a chill of recognition coursing through her veins. "I know this dragon," she whispered to herself.

“Nazares?” Kilgharrah gasped, his voice uncharacteristically fragile as recognition and affection fractured his normally stoic demeanor. “Nazares! You survived! How?”

“As did you, old friend,” he intoned in a voice that seemed to reverberate through Morgana’s very bones. "When my dragonlord fell beneath Uther's blade, I fought until my wings were torn and my scales pierced by a dozen spears. I fled into the aether, each breath agony, until the veil between worlds thinned and I, like many others, was welcomed in this sanctuary." His massive head lowered slightly, ancient grief momentarily visible in his piercing gaze. "Evanescen healed what mortal weapons had broken, but could not restore what was truly lost. Many of us carry such wounds, Kilgharrah. But let us speak more of our trials later, for I yearn to hear how you endured in the world of men.”

Nazares turned his attention upon Aithusa, his nostrils flaring as he inhaled her scent, emitting a sound like wind through mountain passes. He studied her with an intensity that seemed to penetrated beyond the physical, before he bowed his great head in reverence, the gesture fluid despite his imposing form.

“Now, we must all grasp the true significance of what unfolds before us," he said, his tone brooking no argument. “Vyransa, for ages you have spoken of this day, and though it has finally arrived, many among us remain shadowed by doubt where you see only promise.”

“That is so,” Vyransa replied. “This convergence sunders the tethers that have bound both our realms for centuries. It heralds a new era—one where dragonkind could at last return to the realm of men without facing fear or hatred. An era that might restore the primordial balance to all domains of magic.”

Morgana unexpectedly shivered, a foreboding sensation seizing her like the premonitions that once haunted her dreams. Dread trickled through her as she watched Nazares' gaze returning repeatedly to Aithusa, studying her with keen interest.

Ancient lore surfaced in Morgana’s mind—a prophecy of a red dragon and a white locked in ceaseless combat until one emerged victorious. She cast a furtive glance at Merlin, seeking in his face any recognition of this ominous portent, but found only wonder as he observed the new arrival. Kilgharrah remained spellbound, his expression still revealing rare amazement. Her gaze traveled across the assembled dragons. Could she alone perceive the shadow of conflict looming over this momentous occasion?

The opposing positions where Aithusa and Nazares stood made Morgana tremble. From their first meeting, she'd seen only a trusting, vulnerable soul in Aithusa. Now, this young dragon’s radiant form seemed to embody the magic of Evanescen itself, power and wisdom emanating from her in waves that made the very air crackle with energy. But what future did Aithusa have if Nazares was destined to be her adversary—perhaps even her executioner?

When her fingers had connected with Aithusa’s cool scales, an ancient consciousness brushed against her mind—vast and unfathomable as the night sky. Fleeting images had cascaded through her thoughts: countless dragons soaring through the heavens across millennia, wisdom accumulated through eons beyond mortal comprehension. Abilities long dormant had awakened in Aithusa, unleashing profound forces that could reshape the very foundations of their worlds.

As discourse continued between the dragons, Morgana reached out with her thoughts, focusing only on Aithusa to prevent her mental voice from reaching others. The familiar path to the young dragon’s mind now felt strangely altered—like walking a known trail suddenly transformed by snowfall. She wondered what new abilities might have awakened alongside Aithusa's physical appearance. Aithusa, can you hear me?

Melodic laughter streamed through Morgana’s head, not the simple chirps of before, but a symphony of harmonious notes that cascaded through her consciousness, drawing an unbidden smile to her lips. Yes, Aithusa replied, her mental voice rich and textured. You and I share a special bond, Morgana. I shall forever be in your debt for the compassion and love you have shown me.

Morgana's vision blurred as tears gathered, Aithusa's words reaching into forgotten chambers of her heart she'd long sealed away. For so long, she'd clutched at mere fragments—fleeting images and impressions from the youngling's mind. Each connection had served as a precious lifeline during her isolation. Now, hearing Aithusa's voice, articulate and affectionate, flowing through her thoughts, fulfilled a yearning she’d never dared acknowledge even to herself.

It is I who must thank you, Aithusa, Morgana replied gently. Without you being there, I know I would have died of loneliness. For that, I am grateful.

Aithusa’s warm laughter echoed through Morgana’s mind once more, rippling like sunlight on water. You give me far too much credit, my dear friend. I was merely a hatchling finding joy in the simplest of things—chasing butterflies, soaring on the wind, lying beside you.

Morgana struggled against the tightness in her throat as memories flooded her thoughts—nights when Aithusa's warmth had softened the cave's unyielding stone, long days when Kilgharrah had left the youngling in search of the lost dragons, rare moments in sunshine when they dozed by a lake under the great dragon’s watchful eye. Those precious instances amid their mutual confinement now belonged to another lifetime—delicate treasures from a simpler past.

The young dragon let out an amused snort, tendrils of frost crystallizing in the air before her muzzle, forming delicate patterns that hung suspended for a heartbeat before dissolving. Though I must admit, those days of innocent bliss seem ages ago now. She gave an elegant stretch of her wings, the translucent membranes shimmering like cosmic dust in the ethereal light. Morgana's breath caught, conflicting sensations of warmth and cold cascading through her.

As puffs of mist escaped Morgana's lips in chilled air, fleeting visions of pathways between worlds briefly manifested in her magical awareness. Images at the edges of her perception flickered: gateways suspended in the aether, passages between realms that neither existed nor didn't exist. Was this what Vyransa had hinted at? Aithusa’s power forging new connections between separated domains?

Oh my, Aithusa continued, tucking her wings, gracefully stretching her long, elegant neck from side to side, how quickly one matures when infused with the ancient magic of the dragons! But, Morgana, let us rejoin the others before they wonder if we've strayed too deeply into our private thoughts.”

She fixed Morgana first with an impish look, green depths glittering with bemusement, then extended that same mischievous glint outward, sweeping over the gathered dragons watching them with open curiosity. After all, Aithusa projected teasingly into Morgana's mind, it seems our private conversation has become the subject of quite a captive audience.

Morgana glanced around, cheeks warming as she realized the other draconic presences had indeed turned their full attention towards her and Aithusa’s silent exchange. Merlin’s expression held a knowing look, a broad smile lighting his features.

She gave Aithusa an exaggerated roll of her eyes, a gesture laced with fond amusement rather than irritation. In that playful moment, she marveled at how quickly she'd adapted to this new Aithusa—still recognizable in spirit despite her transformed form. The young dragon's humor, once expressed through playful chirps and head tilts, now manifested in this more sophisticated teasing.

Merlin stepped forward as he scanned the growing assembly of dragons. He bowed his head deeply in reverence, a gesture that transcended species and conveyed profound respect. After a moment, he straightened, his gaze rising to meet theirs, a palm extended. His entire bearing shifted as Morgana witnessed the dragonlord within him emerge—not merely Merlin the man, but Emrys, inheritor of an ancient lineage that he alone was destined to bear.

“Great dragons of Evanescen,” he called out, his voice strong and unwavering. The frozen flowers and crystalline leaves, sculpted by Aithusa’s icy breath, glittered like diamonds in the ethereal light, generating a medley of colors across the ancient beings. Omens loomed once more in Morgana's mind—but for now, they had dragons to persuade. “A great prophecy has been fulfilled by our arrival. Aithusa’s splendor heralds good fortune for you and for Camelot, for we come to you as allies seeking to mend the bonds that have been broken far too long.”

A low rumble traversed the assembly of dragons, their scales glinting like faceted jewels in the ethereal light. The vibration passed through Morgana's body as she moved to stand beside Merlin, her heart quickening and her resolve solidifying. She offered Merlin a reassuring smile, which he returned with a warmth that stirred a quiet yearning—the gentleness in his features still unfamiliar territory after their years of enmity, yet increasingly welcome.

“We understand your fear and mistrust,” he continued, his words reaching to every corner of the clearing as he slowly turned to address the entire gathering. “The time has come for us to look beyond the past. We offer you a chance to reclaim your rightful place in the world of men, where you may live in harmony with those who once sought to destroy you.”

Aithusa lifted her head, frost glinting along the ridges of her neck as she drew herself to her full height. Her cat-like pupils gleamed with determination, scanning the assembled group. “We have the power to shape the future, my brothers and sisters,” she said, her mellifluous voice clear as a clarion call, each word crystallizing in the cool air. “Come with us. Return to your home – where you truly belong. Evanescen will forever be here if later you choose to return.”

Kilgharrah and Vyransa both nodded their approval at the young dragon’s words as the other dragons stirred around them, wings rustling and tails shifting, their movements causing the ground to tremble beneath their feet.

"If there is only one dragonlord who walks among men," called a voice from the assembly, “how can we return?” The question was echoed by murmurs throughout the gathering.

Before Merlin could answer, Nazares’ voice rolled like distant thunder. “That mystical bond serves as our anchor in the human realm. Without a dragonlord's guidance, our instincts might overwhelm reason, our primal natures unleashing devastation upon the very lands we seek to rejoin.”

“Through me, the sacred connection can be reforged,” Merlin declared, the silver clasps on his obsidian cloak glowing in the ethereal light, power radiating from him in invisible waves. “I will bear the honor and responsibility as your guardian and protector.”

Kilgharrah dipped his great head in solemn agreement. “The dragonlords of old kept the balance, an eternal partnership of magic and dominion. We have reason to believe there are many survivors lost just as you were. We will find them as well. For now, with Merlin at our side, we can still walk that path once more, ensuring your return heralds a new era of harmony between our kindreds rather than sparking fear and chaos.”

“They speak truly,” Vyransa’s voice rumbled, her tone pensive. “This is what many of you have yearned for across the endless cycles. What reason is there to linger in self-imposed exile any longer when the path home now stands open before you?”

A weighty silence fell over the clearing as the dragons seemed to consider Vyransa’s words. Morgana observed their reactions shift—narrowed eyes and tensed muscles gradually yielding to thoughtful tilts of massive heads, their scales rippling with subtle movements that exposed inner conflict. Some exhaled plumes of steam that coiled upward through the frigid air, while others exchanged glances with kin they had known since before Uther's Purge began.

Aithusa unfurled her majestic wings, her head lifted high. Frost shimmered along the edges of her wings, catching light in hypnotic patterns. “The old ways can be rekindled,” she said, her dulcet tones carrying wisdom beyond her years. “But first, you must open your hearts to trust again, shed the shackles of the past. Only then can we truly begin to mend what was once shattered.”

After Aithusa’s impassioned plea, silence blanketed the clearing, broken only by the occasional leathery rustle of adjusting wings and the delicate chiming of frost-covered branches stirred by a gentle breeze. Morgana held her breath, acutely aware of standing at the precipice of history as the dragons regarded one another. Their thoughts flowed between them in an impenetrable current—a communal meditation from which she remained excluded.

Merlin, having joined the dragons in their private exchange, turned to Morgana, his destiny visibly settling upon his shoulders like a mantle. Between them passed a shared understanding of the immense responsibility they both would carry. She gave him the faintest nod, her expression blending pride with newfound allegiance—former enemies now united by a shared purpose.

Finally, Vyransa spoke once more, dissolving their intimate moment. "We must deliberate among ourselves," the ancient dragon stated, her tone solemn. "This decision to remain in our domain cannot be made lightly. We must consider all the advantages.”

“And the consequences that await if we abandon Evanescen,” Nazares added, his challenge rumbling forth like approaching thunder, blue eyes narrowed with ancient caution.

Morgana understood their hesitation, sympathized with the pain and suffering of their past. Yet to shed decades of deeply-ingrained mistrust and rejoin a world that had once hunted them to the edge of oblivion would take time to reconcile. After all, hadn't she herself nurtured resentments for far less? Patience was essential now.

With a respectful dip of his head, Merlin replied, “We shall withdraw and allow you to confer freely. However, I urge you not to tarry overlong.” His expression grew troubled as he glanced skyward. “Much has happened in the world beyond these shores. I must soon return.”

Watching shadows of concern cross his features, Morgana realized how far his thoughts had strayed from Evanescen. Arthur's disappearance, Camelot's vulnerability, Gwen's solitary rule—all weighed upon him even in this mystical realm. Every moment they lingered was another moment Camelot faced its trials without its most powerful defender.

As if sensing the growing urgency, Aithusa rustled her wings and moved to stand beside Morgana and Merlin. Morgana felt an unexpected surge of possessiveness as the magnificent dragon turned away from her kin, followed quickly by a flicker of guilt. Aithusa had found her true people, yet chose to stand with humans. This choice belonged to her alone, Morgana reminded herself, though she couldn't deny the warmth that spread like a reassuring blanket around her at her friend’s loyalty.

They made their way through the frozen glade, their footsteps crunching through frost-covered ground while crystalline branches tinkled like wind chimes around them. Only when they reached the tree line where frost had touched it did Morgana speak.

“How long do you think they’ll take?” she murmured, casting a glance back over her shoulder. In the clearing, the dragons had begun to disperse, taking to the air or slinking into the shadowed tree lines. They didn’t have to congregate to communicate their opinions. Perhaps by dispersing to familiar ground rather than conversing in Aithusa’s icy landscape, they could better share their feelings and thoughts.

Merlin shook his head, his expression inscrutable. “However long it takes for them to overcome a lifetime of fear and betrayal.” He drew a hand across his brow. “We may be here awhile.”

Morgana's stomach rumbled then, reminding her it had been hours since their last meal. “Well, I don’t know about you,” she began wryly, “but all this diplomatic speechmaking has left me famished. Perhaps we could forage for something edible while we await their decision?”

Merlin nodded, placing a reassuring hand on her back as they ventured further into the crystalline forest. His touch sent warmth cascading down her spine, her shoulders loosening momentarily, though her mind remained alert to the ominous portent the crimson dragon represented.

They foraged in silence, Morgana discovering vine berries that glittered like jewels on one side where frost had touched them, while finding plump, fresh ones just beyond the frost line. She hesitantly placed one of the unfrozen berries on her tongue, eyes widening as flavor burst across her palate—sweeter and more complex than any fruit she'd encountered in Camelot, with notes of honey and spice that seemed almost otherworldly. The juice stained her fingertips a deep azure as she gathered more.

As she collected the fruit, Morgana contemplated revealing her fears about Nazares. The dragons' reaction would be unpredictable—some might rally to protect Aithusa while others might defend their long-lost kin against a human's accusations. A prophecy from a High Priestess would not be easily dismissed, but neither would centuries of dragon loyalty.

Her gaze drifted to Merlin's profile as he examined a cluster of berries. Perhaps he should hear her concerns first, before they potentially fractured this delicate diplomatic effort with ancient prophecies of conflict. In recent months, he had shown her nothing but kindness—even when she'd severely rebuffed him. Now it was her turn to demonstrate trust. This prophecy might be nothing, but if it threatened Aithusa or their fragile peace, Merlin deserved to know. This sharing of vital information felt like another step toward the warmer alliance forming between them.

“Merlin...” she began hesitantly, a mix of frozen and ripe berries in her hand as she drifted closer to him. “There’s something I must tell you. About an ancient prophecy I cannot help but recall.” Her focus strayed back towards Aithusa, who was delicately selecting berries with the tip of her snout, her reactions—like Morgana's—showing delight in flavors she'd never before tasted. “Have you sensed nothing… foreboding about the course we've begun?”

Merlin paused mid-bite, azure juice glistening on his fingertips. His brow furrowed as he turned to face her fully, curiosity in his eyes. "Portents? What do you mean? This place is… magic. Look what it’s done for Aithusa. She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. She thrives in Evanescen with this rebirth...” His voice trailed with genuine wonder as he glanced toward their white dragon.

“It’s about returning to Camelot.” Morgana touched his wrist lightly, drawing Merlin's attention from Aithusa as she moistened her lips. “I too, am mesmerized by the magic of Evanescen, and I could never have imagined the possibility of Aithusa’s sudden growth and innate abilities. I’m happy for her, but I feel there’s a danger, Merlin. Another prophecy has resurfaced—one I didn’t recall until I saw Nazares.”

Merlin moved closer, lowering his voice. His eyes, moments ago filled with wonder, now darkened with apprehension as he searched her face. “What prophecy? What have you remembered about him?"

“By the goddess,” she exhaled, her breath trembling, her fingers crushing berries, the juice running like blood between her knuckles. “Merlin, there’s an ancient prophecy about a white dragon and a crimson one waging an eternal struggle.” Morgana shook her head slowly, frost-dusted strands of hair brushing against her cheeks. “I was certain Kilgharrah knew, yet he remained… entranced by his friend’s survival...”

Merlin's creased brow and narrowed eyes revealed both his disquiet and his unfamiliarity with the prophecy. He stepped closer to her as if physical proximity might help him grasp the severity of her words. “What does it say?” he asked, his body radiating heat against the cool air surrounding them. “This prophecy?”

Morgana’s throat tightened as she summoned her courage and haltingly recited the ominous verses, each word forming visible puffs in the cold air:

“The time of the blood-red ruin is nigh,

When two dragons, pale and crimson, take wing and fly.

Only joined as one can the realms be free,

Or all shall fall to eternal enmity.”

Merlin’s hand fell slack, his forgotten berries tumbling to the frosty ground with soft impacts, bleeding pools of deep blue into the white crystals. The ominous words of the prophecy hung suspended in the stillness. "How could this be?" he asked, his voice tight with dawning apprehension, pulse visibly quickening at his throat. He repeated the third line as if testing its meaning: “‘Only joined as one can the realms be free...’ “

Morgana flinched at the terrible truth between them, her eyelids stinging with unspent tears. “One dragon must fall for the other to reign supreme,” she translated, heart-broken realization in her voice. “If Aithusa is the ‘pale’ dragon...” Her voice faltered, the remaining words too painful to voice, as if speaking them might make them real.

“If she falls,” Merlin added solemnly, his words settling like frost between them, “then so does Albion.”

The statement landed between them with a terrible finality, the harsh revelation settling with merciless clarity. If the prophesied red ruin defeated Aithusa, the living embodiment of the old magic, it wouldn’t just mean the permanent severance of the dragon’s connection to this realm. It would be nothing less than the death knell for Albion itself—the dream of ushering in the golden age of unity between the old ways and the new world. All that Arthur and Merlin had sought, fought, and sacrificed would dissolve into ash and memory.

Morgana reached for Merlin’s hand, an instinctive gesture in the face of such dire revelation. As his fingers entwined with hers, their shared warmth defying the frozen landscape surrounding them, she saw the same questions reflected in his eyes, the same haunting awareness:

To save the dragons, had they unwittingly set into motion a series of events too vast for even the powers of the last dragonlord and the last High Priestess to control? Or was there still a destiny interwoven in the fabric of this ancient struggle that could guide them to salvation?

"What can we do?" she whispered.

Merlin drew her closer, his arm sliding around her waist. The commanding presence that had addressed the dragons moments ago now enveloped her like a shield against the uncertainty ahead. His obsidian cloak billowed slightly to encompass them both as he gazed toward the clearing where the dragons had been.

"I don't know," he admitted, pulling her into an unexpected, yet comforting embrace, his voice low and steady against her hair. "Right now, we just wait.” But the set of his jaw as he gazed toward the empty clearing revealed the quiet resolve beneath his uncertainty.

Morgana nodded against his shoulder, her own determination rising to meet his despite the chill of foreboding future that lay ahead.

Chapter Text

Sir Leon stood beside Sir Galahad in the transformed great hall, their fingers tracing routes across the map spread between them. Two hours into the day and the war room pulsed with action—servants, nobles, and sorcerers moved between tables with determined expressions, each contributing to the search for their king. George and Jacinth arranged provisions nearby, their careful attention to detail rivaling the commanders’ focus on strategy.

Gwen sat on a cushioned bench near the balcony’s opened doors, her eyes following each interaction, questions multiplying like shadows at dusk. Fredrick stood sentinel behind her, arms folded across his chest, the occasional clink of metal marking his subtle shifts in stance.

“Seven days,” she murmured, her gaze following the activity around them while the hollow ache of Arthur’s absence persisted through each passing hour. Leadership dictated that she bury her fear and uncertainty around others, but Arthur accompanied her every thought—where he might be, what he might be enduring, whether he still drew breath. “Seven days, and still no sign of him.”

Fredrick’s sigh carried the burden of shared concern. The familiar sound transported her briefly to those long months of exile—nights when his steady presence patrolled the wilderness or at her cottage door in Longstead had been a shield against despair. Even now, his devotion provided a comfort she hadn’t known since losing her father, a thought that occasionally brought both gratitude and a flicker of guilt. “The search parties press on with unflagging dedication. We’ll find him, Gwen.”

“And Merlin?” Gwen asked, her voice barely audible, grateful for Fredrick’s solid presence at her side. Sometime during her banishment, he’d evolved from guard to advisor to something more, offering wisdom without judgment when she needed it. She’d come to depend on his counsel as she once had depended on her father’s—not a replacement, but a continuation of that steadiness she thought lost forever.

“No word since Sir Bors reported his departure.” Fredrick moved to stand beside her, his stance shifting from guardian to confidant, a transition well-worn between them. “Two days now.”

Gwen laced her fingers across her belly, her eyes drifting to Galahad. “First Arthur, now Merlin. What else did those sorcerer masters share that sent Merlin away?” She studied Galahad’s profile, remembering how both he and Merlin had returned from the druid camp with shadows in their eyes, speaking only of general danger from the stolen artifacts. Their careful words had felt incomplete then—their protection a transparent veil—another barrier between her and the truth about Arthur’s fate.

“We don’t know if that’s the reason for his… disappearance, Gwen” Fredrick replied, his voice low enough for her ears alone. “Though I sensed something had deepened his burden. Perhaps, since his consultation with the masters yielded nothing for Arthur, another source led him down a different path. We’re told he received some vital information and went to investigate. It could be about the stolen artifacts.”

“Trinkets,” Gwen said bitterly. “That’s what I called them after we discovered the theft from the vault. Mere trinkets.” She shook her head, haunted by her own ignorance, the memory of her dismissive words now a poison in her throat. “Now they may cost both Arthur and Merlin’s lives.” It isn’t fair, she thought, commanding the burning in her eyes to cease. I’ve lost so many. How long am I to be forsaken? Resentment rose. Selfishness clung. Self-reproach pierced.

“Sir Bors was clear that Merlin had planned to return,” Fredrick offered, though the reassurance rang hollow even to his ears. “We must trust his judgment.”

“Must we?” she asked sharply. “He abandoned his post without a word to me—to any of us. No. He’s fled. His grief over Arthur has consumed him.” Displacing her anger to Merlin, she bit back a more bitter observation about how, from that first day in Camelot when she’d befriended him in the stocks, Merlin had always circled Arthur like a shadow follows its body. “It isn’t the first time he’s allowed his… attachment to Arthur to eclipse all else, even our years of friendship.”

Fredrick remained silent, his hand falling to his sword hilt, having no answer she knew would ease her mind. That had been unfair—Merlin not there to defend himself. But she knew the man well, how he’d withhold information for his own reason, working alone on his personal crusade for justice.

Gwen’s gaze returned to Galahad, who was leaning over and pointing to a destination on the map, his face grim with determination as the search party leader beside him nodded assent. There was more to this humble knight than she had ever imagined, his keen intellect, noble bearing, and power near equal to Merlin’s. Now she wondered if Merlin had indoctrinated him into his small circle of secrecy, teaching him how to conceal in plain sight. “At least we still have Sir Galahad,” she said, resigned to wait for Merlin’s return to explain himself. “His magic has proven invaluable to the search efforts.”

“Indeed,” Fredrick replied. “Though I fear—”

A ripple of movement near the entrance caught Gwen’s attention—the swell of voices, shuffle of boots, and clink of metal overwhelming Fredrick’s response. Percival was advancing through the crowd, people parting before his imposing height as he navigated toward her. She rose from her seat when he approached, his expression hardened with urgency, a small piece of parchment clutched in his hand. Her spine straightened at the sight, recognizing the weight of such a small thing. She smoothed the front of her red velvet gown, steeling herself as he wordlessly handed the paper to her.

Her eyes narrowed as they scanned the crumpled leaflet. She inhaled sharply, her fingers tightening on the edges. “‘Soulless sorcerers,’” she murmured, her voice tight with controlled anger. “‘Evil men have struck at the heart of Camelot.’” Her jaw clenched as she continued reading. “‘The king’s misguided tolerance of sorcery has left us vulnerable… One of whom—attempted to… liberate the witch Morgana.’”

She lowered her parchment, her lips thinning as indignation simmered at her core. Her gaze returned to the page, each line intensifying the storm gathering within her. When she finished, she looked at Fredrick and Percival’s, their features as taut as hers.

“So he’s done it,” she said, her words clipped as she handed the letter to Fredrick. “He’s revealed the attackers as sorcerers and followers of Morgana after all.”

Percival shifted his large frame, a hand on his sword hilt. “An underhanded blow, Gwen. But at the watchtower, his final words made his intentions clear: ‘I can’t guarantee silence,’ he said. I… didn’t doubt he’d resort to treachery.”

“I had hoped some fragment of honor remained in him, Percival,” she replied, her tone hardening. “Some loyalty to family, if not to crown.”

“Gwen,” he went on, a new urgency in his voice. “This leaflet came by way of pigeon—news from Powys. His rhetoric has already reached villages far beyond the city walls.”

She stared at the leaflet in Fredrick’s hands, the flowing script unmistakably her brother’s. Each elegant stroke seemed to cut deeper than Mordred’s blade had at the stream. “How could he exploit Arthur’s abduction to fuel his cause?” The question escaped her lips before she could contain it, her voice sharp with disbelief. “How could he twist our tragedy into a weapon against those who are doing nothing wrong?”

“Those who merely speculated about sorcerers being involved now have what they’ll consider confirmation,” Fredrick added, his face lined with concern.

Gwen’s fingers trembled slightly before she mastered them, but not before both men had noticed. She nibbled the inside of her lip, disappointment spiking within her. A queen could not afford such visible weakness, she reminded herself, even among my most trusted allies.

But Elyan’s betrayal cut her to the quick. His divisive words lashed out against Arthur—against her very being—each strike a searing wound. Never had she envisioned such chasms dividing them, her younger brother now a stranger on the opposite shore. They’d just mended one betrayal not long ago, and now she faced another fissure, its vastness dizzying to approach.

She spun away from both men, needing distance to collect herself. “I wanted to believe him,” she said softly, blinking against tears of betrayal and rage gathering at her lashes. Had she made a tactical error too great to repair? “To trust him.”

Percival shook his head, hands braced on his hips, unease in his stance. “He’s changed in ways I cannot comprehend – the brother I knew has faded from sight.”

“If Elyan was evasive about his audience with you,” Fredrick offered, his tone steady, “perhaps one of his followers guessed the truth. A notion like this would make any believers’ convictions harder to dispel.”

“I would gladly cling to that belief over accepting his betrayal.” A weary sigh escaped, her composure returning. She moved closer to the men and stared at the leaflet in Fredrick’s hand. “That is his script. He wrote those words himself. His rhetoric continues to fan the flames of fear toward those with magic, my appeal for secrecy cast aside like chaff.”

Concern creased Fredrick’s brow, his eyes tracing the malignant narrative. “The language used is certainly inflammatory…”

“Inflammatory?” Gwen repeated, her tone sharp. “He’s directly using my position against Arthur’s established policies.” She took the leaflet from Fredrick, her finger stabbing at the offending line. “‘Demand that our queen take action.’ As if I would betray everything Arthur has built.”

“He’s exploiting Arthur’s absence,” Percival said, his comment decisive. “An attempt to pressure you into reversing course on magic.”

She lowered the letter as she considered her newest commander with quiet appreciation. Once the gentlest of Arthur’s knights, Percival had grown into his role with tactical insight and an unexpected political acumen that she suspected Arthur had foreseen developing with time. This crisis had surely forced his transformation, molding him into a fine First Knight and commander.

“Gwen,” Fredrick said, his voice gentler, “Elyan genuinely sees sorcery as a peril threatening our kingdom.”

“I know,” she acknowledged after a heartbeat, jaw tightening as memories of that pivotal confrontation surged forth – Elyan’s icy convictions slicing ever deeper. “But using our darkest hour to paint all those with magical abilities as ‘soulless’ and ‘evil’ only breeds division. And linking them to Morgana...” She shook her head. “He knows how such accusations will inflame the people, how much he has hurt me.” Gwen swallowed a painful lump as her gaze found Sir Galahad once more, the knight’s perceptive eyes already upon her from across the room, as if he’d sensed the newest threat encroaching.

“Fredrick,” she said, her voice carrying a resolute edge, “deliver the leaflet to Leon and Galahad, then request their presence here.”

Fredrick strode purposefully to the map table, passing the incendiary parchment to Leon before exchanging hushed words with the men. As Leon’s eyes scanned the leaflet, he faltered a step backward, sorrow clouding his features. Gwen had only recently shared their knowledge of the leaflet’s author with him, and she could see that disbelief still claimed him. He handed it to Galahad, then scrubbed his chin and neck, utter astonishment in his demeanor. The younger knight remained nobly composed, though he glanced toward her several times as he read the letter.

Mere moments passed before the three crossed the room to approach Gwen. As Fredrick returned to his station behind her, Galahad tilted his head. “The winds of division continue to gust against us, my queen,” he said, his words holding a certain cautious wisdom. “To see bonds so severed wounds the spirit.”

Gwen met his gaze squarely, her chin lifting in quiet defiance. As does the secrets you and Merlin withhold from me, she thought. “Unity hangs precariously, Sir Galahad,” she replied, before her eyes shifted to the taller knight beside him. “What do you make of this, Leon?”

Leon’s expression remained troubled. He moistened his lips. “I admit I’m still at a loss over this entire situation, Gwen,” he said, glancing between them. “I’ve known Elyan since he was a young lad still learning to walk. I…” He crossed his arms, denial evident in his posture. “Are you certain he’s not enchanted or bewitched? The Elyan I know would never—”

“This is no enchantment,” Gwen interrupted, though Sir Galahad cast him a questioning glance. “You weren’t there a fortnight ago, when all this started—the night he deserted. At the watchtower, he didn’t make excuses for what he was doing. No, Leon. His convictions are his own and he’s willing to oppose me for them.”

“But surely—” Leon began.

“When I was enchanted by Morgana,” Gwen said, boring her eyes into him, “no one questioned my strange behavior. Not even Arthur. The bracelet twisted my feelings, forced me to do unspeakable things.” Her voice softened slightly. “That’s not what’s happening here. This is Elyan, unchanged by any spell save the poison of his hatred.”

“That hatred runs deep,” a familiar voice behind them intervened. “His pain has found purpose.” The men stepped aside, allowing Gwen to see the friend who’d joined their private council.

“Gwaine,” Gwen said, unable to keep from smiling despite Gwaine’s ominous words. It had been only a week since she’d seen him storming down the corridor after the heated council meeting, but his absence had left a notable void. She accepted his embrace, the informal gesture offering a moment’s reprieve from her burdens.

“Gwen,” he said, stepping back with a respectful nod. Though his usual roguish charm remained, Gwaine’s eyes had changed—an unseen depth that had been absent before.

“You’ve been scarce these past days,” she commented, continuing this fleeting respite. “I understand you extended your leave of absence.” Other questions lingered beneath her statement, yet this was neither the time nor the audience to address them.

Gwaine’s gaze flickered briefly to Galahad, then to Percival, wordless exchanges passing between them. “I’ve been occupied with... other matters of importance. But I’m here now, at your service.”

“You mentioned Elyan,” she prompted, grateful for his leeway to greater concerns.

Gwaine’s expression turned thoughtful as he scratched his chin. “I encountered him two nights ago in the lower town. He had one of these.” He withdrew a crumpled leaflet from inside his vest—identical to the one Percival had brought.

“And you let him go?” Leon asked, his voice soft with disbelief.

“My order,” Gwen reminded, though now certain her stratagem had been an unwise maneuver.

“I made a judgment call,” Gwaine replied. “I gained more by talking to him than I would have by dragging him to the dungeons.”

“What did you learn then?” Gwen asked, her controlled voice concealing her anticipation, her eyes fixed on Gwaine.

But he hesitated, measuring his words. “I’d prefer we talk privately, Gwen. Too many ears here.”

Gwen nodded, understanding immediately, though her mouth had gone completely dry. She gestured toward the back of the great hall where the throne chairs had been positioned. “This way.”

She led their small group through the vibrant war room, servants and nobility parting and bowing respectfully as they passed. Behind the throne chairs lay a small antechamber used for private councils. Fredrick opened the heavy oak door for her, then followed the others inside, the noise of the war room fading to a distant murmur.

The space was modest but well-appointed, with a small table and several chairs, candelabras in corners to balance the light. Tapestries depicting Camelot’s founding hung on the stone walls, their ancient threads preserving the kingdom’s earliest days in woven imagery. A memory flickered across Gwen’s mind—Arthur standing in this very spot after becoming king, practicing an address to the court while she offered gentle corrections to his phrasing, their laughter echoing in this chamber meant for serious matters.

“No one will disturb us here,” Gwen said, turning to Gwaine. “Now, tell me of my brother.”

“Well, Gwen…” Gwaine started, searching for words. “It’s not just about magic; his wounds have become his identity. To be blunt—and I’m sorry—it’s about your father.”

A cold shock ran through her. Her hands moved reflexively—one to her mouth to stifle a gasp, the other protectively to her stomach. “My father?”

“His death haunts Elyan even now. The sorcerer your father sought out, the one who betrayed him...” Gwaine ran a hand through his hair. “In Elyan’s mind, that betrayal has become the measure for all magic. He can’t separate one man’s actions from the entire practice.”

Gwen turned away, her father’s face suddenly vivid in her memory—his kind eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled and the quiet strength in his calloused hands. She remembered his bewilderment, his shock, the hollow ache as Uther sentenced him to death. And through it all, Elyan’s absence—her brother off chasing adventures while their father died alone.

“Father wouldn’t want this,” she whispered. “He wouldn’t want Elyan using the injustice of his death to spread hatred and false accusation.”

“No,” Gwaine agreed. “He wouldn’t. To be honest, I don’t think Elyan was truly aware of why he’s done what he’s done, Gwen. He’s suffered. Beyond measure—still is. Not just from that. Morgana and the nathair didn’t help matters. But you, Arthur, Merlin—people he thought he could trust—buried the sword into his heart.”

Silence fell over the group, Gwaine’s words settling around them like dust after a battle. Percival shifted uncomfortably, while Leon studied the floor, neither man willing to meet Gwen’s eyes.

“He told you that?” she asked, her voice steady despite the ache in her chest, Gwaine’s resurrection of that painful night with Elyan hurtling toward her once again.

“Not in so many words,” Gwaine replied. “When I pressed him, he pushed back—hard—but he despises the incident surrounding Thomas’ execution, and then learning that you loved one of his… killers.” He waited, watching her reaction carefully, but Gwen stared back, her face emptied of all emotion. “He said he’s never truly forgiven you for that.”

Percival spun away with a scoff as Leon’s head snapped up. “That’s unjust,” Leon said, color rising in his face. “This kingdom has flourished because of your union with Arthur.”

“That execution was King Uther’s doing—not Arthur’s,” Fredrick firmly stated.

Gwen raised a hand, silencing them. “None of that matters. What matters is what Elyan believes.” She turned back to Gwaine. “What else?”

“He spoke of corruption—how magic twists people. The nathair’s bite...” Gwaine gestured toward his own neck. “I saw the scars, Gwen. They’re still there.”

“Interesting,” Galahad said, his silence having been so complete that Gwen had forgotten his presence. When she looked at him, he’d conjured several shimmering runes suspended in air, intently studying them. “It is rumored that the serpent’s venom can leave more than physical marks.” He flicked his wrist to turn one of the runes, the unmistakable marks of someone piecing together knowledge in real time. “Its magic can burrow into the mind, leaving shadows that distort one’s perception long after the pain subsides.”

“You’re suggesting his hatred stems from this?” Gwen asked, keeping hope at the edges of her thoughts. “That he is indeed poisoned by magic?”

Galahad glanced up, halting his research, then dismissing the magic runes with a smooth wave of his hand, dissolving them. “It may have given shape to fears already present,” he replied. “A seed planted in fertile ground.”

Percival returned to the group, his features brightening with sudden possibility. “If the nathair still affects him, then Elyan isn’t entirely responsible for his actions. We should find him—help him.”

“I agree,” Leon said. “But shouldn’t we stop these leaflets before they spread further discord?”

“You’ll have to find him first,” Gwaine challenged. “I doubt he stayed within the walls after being spotted.” He shrugged. “But I could be wrong.”

“No,” Gwen said, her eyes never leaving Gwaine. “You right. I need to understand my brother if I’m to help him and counter his influence. What was your impression of him? Not his words, but his state of mind.”

Gwaine’s expression shifted to solemnity. “His conviction is absolute—there’s a fervor in his eyes I’ve seen before in zealots and crusaders. Reasoned arguments won’t sway him.”

“Then what will?” Gwen asked.

“I don’t know,” Gwaine admitted, scrubbing the back of his neck. “But I’ve seen enough to know this: whatever path Elyan walks now, he walks it fully committed. These leaflets aren’t merely words to him—they’re weapons in a war he believes must be fought.”

“All the more reason we must respond quickly, my lady,” Fredrick said quietly, his hand making a small gesture of respectful urgency.

Gwen absorbed each man’s counsel—Fredrick’s gentle urgency, Leon’s tactical concern, Galahad’s arcane insight, Percival’s compassionate hope, and Gwaine’s hard-earned wisdom about Elyan’s zealotry. Each voice offered a piece of truth, yet none held the complete answer. Their gathered presence around her—these loyal knights who had stood with Arthur through countless trials—only underscored the painful absence of those missing. Without Arthur’s decisive leadership and Merlin’s unwavering devotion, the burden of judgment fell solely upon her shoulders. The sister in her yearned to embrace Percival’s optimism, but the queen knew that understanding Elyan’s condition meant nothing if they couldn’t first find him and halt the spreading poison of his words.

“Sir Galahad, these residual effects from the nathair—they aren’t merely intensifying his pain, are they?”

“No, my queen. The serpent’s venom distort perceptions, magnify fears, twist innocent memories into sinister ones,” Galahad explained. “He had no way of recognizing this influence.”

“So my brother is both victim and perpetrator,” she said quietly. The understanding shifted something fundamental in her heart—not erasing her anger, but tempering it with compassion.

“That is so,” Galahad nodded. “Though he bears responsibility for his choices, the lens through which he views the world has been corrupted.”

“Can magic heal him?”

“Perhaps,” he replied. “I am but a warrior, a knight of the realm, Queen Guinevere.”

“Whose other exceptional skills are very much in need right now, noble knight,” Gwen said, remembering how he’d healed Isolde from a fatal wound and aided Merlin with the crop restorations. His display just now with the magical runes providing instant information for him was impressive in itself. “I’m aware that you prefer sword over magical healing, but both are assets Arthur and I have the utmost respect for.”

A small smile came to his lips, his eyes lowering for a moment. “As you say, my lady. I shall consult the wisdom of Master Iseldir and Master Ruadan to cleanse your brother of the nathair’s poison.” He scanned the faces of the others, before returning to her. “However, Sir Elyan may not desire this kind of remedy in his current state of mind.”

“He’d sooner die than submit to magical healing,” Gwaine confirmed, his certainty causing Gwen to silently hold her breath. “Not as he is now.”

“Pardon me, Gwen,” Leon said, retrieving the leaflet from Fredrick and passing it to Gwen. “Look at the parchment and the stroke of the ink.”

She scanned it, the words, the paper. “What am I meant to see beyond the vitriol?”

“The quality,” Leon said, pointing to the edges. “This is not common stock. The parchment is fine-grained, and the ink refuses to bleed into the fibers.”

Gwen ran her fingertips over the surface. “Expensive materials.”

Fredrick leaned closer. “Beyond what a former knight could sustain for mass distribution, even with Arthur’s compensation after the Southron War.”

“I think he’d use those coins to support his followers too,” Percival added. “He could be running low.”

“So Elyan has a benefactor,” Gwen said, her mind racing. “Someone with means.”

Leon nodded. “Someone who can provide costly materials and perhaps a secure location to distribute these missives.”

“A member of the nobility,” Gwen breathed, not surprised that sedition discriminated against no class. She began to pace the small chamber, the implications unfolding before her. “Leon, how many men can we reassign without compromising the search for Arthur?”

Leon calculated quickly, his eyes narrowing in concentration. “With aid descending upon us from all directions, perhaps twoscore knights. Maybe more.”

Gwen ceased her pacing, her voice taking on the unmistakable tone of command. “Then muster them to search for Elyan and his noble conspirator.”

“We’ll start beyond the city walls and move outward,” Leon suggested.

Gwen nodded, then looked at Percival. “Dispatch soldiers at once to begin searching the towns. Appoint Sir Bors to maintain the search for Arthur in Leon’s absence. If Sir Ranulf has recovered from his fever, assign him to assist.”

“Ranulf is well enough now, my lady,” Percival assured. “And I’ll order the guards to begin searching in the Upper. With prayer, we may find something that leads us to larger game.”

“Thank you,” Gwen replied. “Sir Galahad, prepare whatever remedies might cleanse the nathair’s poison from my brother.”

“Yes, my queen.”

She turned to Fredrick as the knights acknowledged Gwen with a bow then departed. “Summon Lord Geoffrey to my study immediately. Together we’ll craft a royal response to counter these leaflets—one that speaks truth to fear.”

“Your father would be proud of the queen you’ve become,” Fredrick said softly, his face softening with pride. “As am I.” He bowed and departed, leaving Gwen alone in the stark silence.

Fredrick’s words about her father pierced through her royal composure, tears welling in her eyes. She pressed one hand against the cool stone wall for support, her head falling below her shoulders. This overwhelming responsibility—for her kingdom, for her missing husband, for her unborn child, and now for her troubled brother—at last drained her remaining strength.

“And what of Elyan when they find him?” Gwaine’s voice startled her. She spun around to find him studying one of the tapestries, fingers tracing the threaded battle scene with unusual interest. “He won’t come without a fight.”

Gwen swiftly brushed away the tears on her cheeks, her shoulders squaring as she faced the question she’d been avoiding—now forced to answer. “He’ll be brought to Camelot—for healing if he will accept it, for judgment if he will not. I am his sister, but I am Camelot’s queen first. I cannot allow his actions to endanger our people, whatever their cause.”

Gwaine chuckled, humorless, deprecating. “Ultimatums. They always work so well with the stubborn ones, don’t they?” His eyes met hers, a flash of disappointment visible for just a moment. “Just don’t forget that before he was your subject, he was your brother.”

Gwen could only stare, her breath in her throat, a hand on her belly.

“My lady awaits me,” Gwaine finished. He bowed respectfully, nobly uncharacteristic of him in her presence. “Fair day, Gwen.”

He left her alone, new revelations churning in her mind, the chamber’s air pressing against her lungs like a vise. The truth of Elyan’s condition—both victim and aggressor—settled into her bones with a cold as certain as Gwaine’s words.

“I’ve never forgotten that, Sir Gwaine,” she finally whispered to herself. Her fingers spread protectively over the child within her, Arthur’s heir who might never know his uncle as he once was.

Chapter Text

Evanescen’s enchantment dimmed around Merlin as he reluctantly released Morgana from his embrace. Her revelation about the prophecy had doused the wonder of the realm like water on flames, leaving only cold dread where the comfort of her touch had been. Turning away, he rubbed his forehead, a thumb gently pressing against a temple. Another foreboding portent now joined the tangle of destinies already ensnaring him.

He shook his head, dropping his arm as he released a slow breath. “Kilgharrah always insisted Aithusa’s presence heralded prosperity for Camelot and Albion,” he said, his voice hollow with doubt, his thoughts grasping at hope as his obsidian cloak billowed in a soft breeze. “I can’t believe he would withhold something this vital from me.”

Behind him, Morgana’s fingers brushed his arm, the brief sensation alone sparking another emotion within him. Merlin turned to find the same concern deepening the contours of her features. “Maybe he didn’t,” she said quietly, her eyes searching his, “but Vyransa… Did you notice her reaction when she first beheld Aithusa?”

Merlin grimaced, his lips thinning as the memory sharpened in his mind, his shoulders tensing beneath his black tunic. “I mistook her surprise recognition of Aithusa as a sign of good fortune,” he admitted, his tone hardened by realization, but his expression softening after a fleeting moment. “That still doesn’t mean she’s aware. She’s ages older than Kilgharrah—even ancient beings can forget. Vyransa was just as shocked over Aithusa’s transformation as the rest of us.” He shook his head, pressed his lips in a thin line. “I don’t believe she would deliberately endanger Aithusa.”

Morgana studied his face before answering, her jaw setting with resolute skepticism that overrode her earlier caution. “Can we be certain? We’ve only just met these dragons, Merlin.” She lowered her voice, leaning closer. “And Nazares...” A visible tremor ran through her despite the ambient warmth between them. “Something about him fills me with disquiet. I question whether seeking them out was wise.”

Merlin stepped away, drawing himself up to his full height, his obsidian cloak rippling like a living extension of himself. Despite the crimson dragon’s foreboding aura, he was but one among the many reds who dwelled here—any one of them could be Aithusa’s future adversary.

“No,” he declared, misgivings clawing at the edges of his thoughts, but his voice emerging firm with conviction. “I don’t regret finding them. And deep down, neither do you. These dragons have as much claim to our skies as any creature of wing. But a truth lies deeper.”

“Yet carries far graver consequences,” Morgana added, her tone not accusatory but laden with genuine concern.

Her words struck like a mace to the chest, forcing air from his lungs and leaving a hollow ache beneath his ribs. Merlin’s gaze drifted past her to where Aithusa sat beneath the strange foliage, her immaculate scales refracting light like countless jewels. The crystalline frost from her breath still clung to the surrounding vegetation, though rivulets of meltwater now trickled down stems and collected in tiny pools on the onyx sand—Evanescen preserving her influence while gradually reclaiming its own nature. Aithusa’s newfound wisdom, power, and magnificence only intensified the horror of imagining her locked in mortal combat.

Merlin felt a shift within himself—where once he’d hidden his power behind kindness and hesitation, now he embraced an authority that he had earned. He squared his shoulders, the movement decisive and commanding. “Before they make any decisions, we need the complete truth from Vyransa.”

His eyelids fell shut as he channeled his concentration, reaching through the mystic tether that had bound him to the great dragon since inheriting his father’s power. Kilgharrah, Merlin projected, infusing his mental voice with both command and entreaty. I would not interrupt these crucial talks lightly, but I need you and Vyransa. In the clearing where Aithusa transformed. It’s important.

A momentary silence stretched before Kilgharrah’s rumbling response filled his mind. I shall come, young warlock. Though summoning Vyransa may prove... complicated.

What complications? Merlin pressed, impatience edging his mental voice, his arms crossing his chest.

She presides over the Council of Elders, Kilgharrah explained, deliberating our potential return to your realm. Dragons who have dwelled in Evanescen for centuries do not easily abandon their sanctuary, nor does their Bronze Elder abandon deliberations at the call of a human—even a dragonlord. Her authority here surpasses even our ancient bonds.

Merlin’s jaw tightened. I understand, but this concerns matters that cannot wait.

Another pause, longer this time. She comes, Kilgharrah finally answered, a note of surprise coloring his mental tone. Though she brings concerns of her own.

“Stay with Aithusa,” Merlin told Morgana, his eyes opening with renewed purpose. “I’ve called Kilgharrah and Vyransa to meet in the clearing. This conversation requires privacy—I’m sorry.”

“Be cautious,” Morgana warned, concern rather than offense shaping her words. “Speak only to those two. We mustn’t alert Nazares if he remains unaware of his potential role.”

With a firm nod, Merlin strode toward the frost-covered clearing, determination hardening his features. Behind him, Morgana moved to Aithusa, who lowered her magnificent head with a gentle trill, frost crystallizing momentarily in the air before dissolving into the warm atmosphere of Evanescen.

Questions crowded his mind as he walked the path back to the clearing. Why would Vyransa conceal such vital knowledge? What purpose could hiding a prophecy of this magnitude serve? Did she fear they might abandon their quest to bring dragons back to Camelot if they knew the full truth? Or was she testing him, gauging whether a mere human—even a dragonlord—possessed the wisdom to handle such ancient portents? Their time in Evanescen had been brief, but the stakes now stretched across both kingdoms and the ages.

The clearing appeared before him, Aithusa’s frost still glistening across the landscape though noticeably thinner now, receding at the edges where Evanescen’s ambient energy pressed inward. The transformation remained a testament to her power—ice persisting in a realm that seemed designed to foster vitality and life. He passed beneath the canopy of frozen leaves that tinkled softly in the gentle breeze, advancing toward the center of the clearing and awaited their arrival.

The air displaced with powerful wingbeats as Kilgharrah descended, the massive dragon’s landing sending tremors through the frozen ground. Merlin adjusted his stance, spreading his feet apart, noting how the frost cracked beneath the dragon’s weight, revealing the onyx sand beneath. Before he could speak, a second, larger shadow passed overhead as Vyransa arrived, her bronze scales burnished to a rich gold in the ethereal light.

She landed with surprising grace for her size, her wings creating a momentary windstorm that dislodged icicles from nearby trees. They shattered against the ground like glass chimes, adding a musical finality to her arrival.

“You summon us from matters of great import, dragonlord,” Vyransa said, her voice neither warm nor cold, but carrying the neutrality of one accustomed to judgment. “What urgency demands such haste?”

Merlin felt the intensity of her gaze—ancient, penetrating, seeing through pretense to the core of truth. His new confidence did not waver, though caution tempered his approach. He’d called them here to confirm suspicions, not to accuse.

“The time of the blood-red ruin is nigh, when two dragons, pale and crimson, take wing and fly. Only joined as one can the realms be free, or all shall fall to eternal enmity.”

As each ominous verse left his lips, Vyransa only stared with stoicism while Kilgharrah’s posture changed, confusion furrowing his noble brow. “What cryptic meaning lies behind those words, Vyransa?” Incredulity laced Kilgharrah’s deep timbre as scales shifted against each other. “Surely not our kin, Nazares?”

The bronze dragon bowed her head, vivid eyes dimming as centuries of knowledge seemed to press upon her all at once, momentarily bending her regal bearing beneath their invisible weight. “I cannot say with certainty, brother. Many crimson-scaled kin dwell amongst us.” Her gaze lifted to meet Merlin’s, ancient wisdom mingling with something akin to regret. “Yet this prophecy rings true—Aithusa’s arrival awakens dormant fears.”

“You knew,” Merlin said softly. “When you first saw her transform, you recognized what it meant.”

Vyransa unfurled her wings partially, then folded them again—a gesture Merlin had never seen Kilgharrah make, perhaps signifying discomfort or contemplation. “The white dragon has been foretold since time immemorial. A clarion of change, yes, but also of conflict.” She exhaled, a warm gust that melted another patch of frost. “I had hoped the prophecy referred to some distant future, not the present moment.”

“You should have spoken of this immediately,” Kilgharrah’s accusation emerged as a low thunder, his scales rustling like armor as he moved protectively toward Merlin. “If Aithusa faces danger—”

“What would you have had me do?” Vyransa interrupted, her voice neither angry nor defensive, but with the certainty of one who has weighed all outcomes. “Announce to all gathered that the crimson ones among us might be destined to destroy the white hope? Create fear and division at the very moment unity is required?”

Merlin laced his fingers together, brought them to his lips as he gathered his thoughts. “This crimson dragon—does the prophecy name Nazares?”

“It names no one,” Vyransa admitted. “That is both its mercy and its danger.”

“Then no red dragon can be permitted to leave this realm,” Merlin declared, his voice hardening with resolve. “Not while the prophecy’s shadow looms over Aithusa. Her safety must be ensured, for the fate of Albion itself hinges upon her light.”

Vyransa regarded him with enigmatic golden eyes. “You cannot alter what has been decreed, young warlock. Prophecies manifest, however we might wish otherwise.”

“Perhaps,” Merlin countered, his gaze unwavering, fate’s prophecies a constant adversary to his conscience and heart. “But their interpretations could hold several meanings. They can be guides along paths we cannot foresee. This could be about an offspring of Aithusa for we know. We cannot be certain, Vyransa, and even if that eventuates—it’s dire. But we can delay it right now for our white dragon.”

The clearing fell silent, save for the faint whispers of the melting frost dripping from crystal-encased leaves. Then Kilgharrah spoke, the depth of difficult choices evident in his words.

“Grant us this request, Vyransa. The tides of the new age press ever stronger against our kind’s ancient ways. To preserve what matters most, compromises must be made.”

“It may be our only chance to forestall this dark prophecy,” Merlin added, the silver clasps on his tunic gleaming as he stepped forward. “I appeal to you as the last dragonlord. Please don’t allow any crimson dragons to accompany us—at least not in the first exodus.”

The bronze dragon studied them both, the ridges of her scales reflecting prismatic light. Finally, she inclined her head a fraction. “As you wish,” Vyransa conceded, her tone measured. “If some agree to depart with you, I will ensure our crimson kin remain in Evanescen—though I foresee resistance to this restriction.”

“Are others aware of the prophecy?” Merlin asked, tension threading through his voice.

“It predates even my existence,” Vyransa replied, her burning gaze seeming to pierce through him. “But Aithusa’s arrival has stirred ancient memories that slumbered in forgotten corners of draconic consciousness. Some may have sensed its significance.”

Merlin inhaled deeply, unbidden images of Nazares’ ice-blue eyes flashing through his mind. Had the crimson dragon already guessed what Merlin now knew? Had he recognized Aithusa’s significance even before her transformation?

“There are further considerations regarding the exodus we must address,” Merlin continued, forcing himself to focus on practical matters.

Kilgharrah shifted, the thin layer of frost crackling beneath his massive form. “Speak your requirements, Merlin. For successful reintegration, no detail can be overlooked.”

“The dragons must acclimate gradually to the realm of men,” Merlin began, his voice steady despite the heaviness of his worry. “They should reach out—through dragon-speak—to awaken lingering dragonlord bloodlines that might still exist despite the horror of the Purge. Only by reforging those mystical bonds can they truly establish themselves beyond this realm.”

“Some of the chosen may not be dragons who fled Camelot, Merlin,” Kilgharrah cautioned. “Many born here have never known human contact. Others arrived so long ago they may have forgotten how to forge such connections.”

Merlin nodded thoughtfully. “Vyransa, did the ancients not create these bonds in ages past? Wouldn’t the same principles must apply now.”

“In the earliest epochs, we existed apart from mankind,” Vyransa explained, her voice deepening with ancient memory. “The dragon-human kinship was crafted by the Triple Goddess herself to unite our kindreds, yet this connection spans merely a few millennia—recent by my reckoning.”

A smile touched Merlin’s lips at the notion of “a few millennia” being considered recent. To creatures who had witnessed the dawn of time, such spans represented mere moments, yet to him these epochs stretched beyond comprehension.

“So this mystical alliance represents just one chapter in your lineage,” he observed. “Tell me then—did you yourself walk amongst humans before discovering Evanescen?”

Vyransa’s head tilted back in surprise, her penetrating gaze turning inward as if searching distant memories. “It has been... countless seasons,” she admitted after extended contemplation. “When my dragonlord Nott drew his final breath, he was the last of his line. I was freed, his bloodline extinguished without an heir. Perhaps a millennium passed before I found my way to this timeless sanctuary. But yes...” Her voice softened. “That bond remains precious beyond measure.”

Merlin lifted his chin, encouraged by her admission. “If such a connection could endure across your unending years, then surely bloodlines carrying the dragonlords’ essence may still exist within mankind’s generations, however faintly.” His expression set with determination, hope kindling within him. “We must seek out those lingering sparks, rekindle those ancient ties. Without the tether of those bonds, I fear the dragons’ return may falter, forcing them back to Evanescen.”

Vyransa dipped her head in affirmation. “An ethereal cord not easily severed, even by centuries of disuse. Your reasoning holds merit, dragonlord.”

“There are additional boundaries I must insist upon before you return to the assembly,” Merlin said, though he hesitated by the subtle arch of Vyransa’s brow ridge. Instinctively, his eyes lowered briefly, acknowledging her subtle rebuke. “Not from arrogance, but necessity, Great Dragon. Though Camelot’s lands embrace magic once more, nearly three decades have passed since dragons graced our skies. We must proceed cautiously, earn trust through measured actions, and locate potential dragonlords… I request a score of dragons, no more, to accompany us in this first wave.”

The bronze elder’s maw parted slightly, releasing a wave of heat and ancient musk that flowed over Merlin, causing him to involuntary shiver. “You mortals and your need to constrain what was once boundless...” Despite her harsh critique, Vyransa inclined her head fractionally, a sigh escaping. “But your wisdom in this matter will be heeded—for a time. More are sure to follow, including those who share crimson scales.”

More. Merlin had wanted them all to return—as many as were feasibly allowed—until hearing and believing the dread prophecy about Aithusa. He moistened his lips, looked at her directly. “You must give us that time, Vyransa,” he replied, holding firm against her reproach. “We’ll establish a sanctuary immediately upon our return. A place where the dragons can remain safe until we locate and reforge bonds with their dragonlord bloodlines. The urgency of this task cannot be overstated—without these connections, the dragons may never truly belong in our realm.”

“Finding suitable hunting grounds will present a challenge,” Kilgharrah stated. “We cannot risk dragons raiding farms for livestock or mistaking human children for prey. Such actions would breed unfortunate... misunderstandings.”

Merlin glanced sharply at his draconic mentor, disturbed by the words and imagery that flashed through his mind. “No. Preying upon human settlements or...mistaking our young for quarry is absolutely forbidden.” Kilgharrah blinked with a feigned innocence, leaving Merlin to wonder if this had been common practice in bygone eras. “A score of dragons should strain no resources, and when more join later, Camelot’s vastness and the kingdom of Albion will sustain them.”

“Very well,” Vyransa said, her tone noticeably cooled. “Have you additional provisions, dragonlord?”

Once more, Merlin inclined his head. “None at present. And you, of me? What are your concerns?”

“My concerns have shifted with our conversation, dragonlord,” Vyransa replied, her golden eyes reflecting the aurora’s light. “Initially, I worried about the wisdom of the exodus itself—numbers, sustenance, cooperation—whether your realm truly welcomed our kind after generations of slaughter. Now I fear something more immediate: what awaits the white one in your world.”

“Prosperity is my hope, Vyransa,” Merlin replied.

“For us all,” Kilgharrah intoned.

“Then let us reconvene with the others, Kilgharrah,” Vyransa said, unfurling her magnificent wings. The downdraft stirred the crystalline fragments around them, sending them spiraling upward in glittering clouds. “Emrys, I shall convey your... conditions, and select our emissaries to the realm of men accordingly.”

With that, she launched skyward, her immense form silhouetted against the ethereal auroras. Merlin turned to Kilgharrah, both of them silently acknowledging the new burdens that lay before them.

“I must inform the king and queen—” The words faltered in Merlin’s throat as Arthur’s disappearance pressed against his chest, his responsibility to the draconic return demanding equal attention. He swallowed with difficulty, his mouth suddenly dry. “Queen Guinevere expressed reservations when I first mentioned finding the lost dragons. She should be prepared for their arrival.”

“I leave it to you to demonstrate the wisdom of our resurgence to her,” Kilgharrah replied, spreading his wings. “For it proceeds now, unstoppable as the tides.”

He leapt into the air, his rhythmic wingbeats fading as Merlin strode back to where Morgana and Aithusa waited, his mind loaded like a crossbow concerning his agreement with Vyransa. Would the other dragons agree to his terms? Could he and Kilgharrah find a sanctuary with expediency? What would the dragons eat? And could he truly control them until help arrived? …If help arrived…

Aithusa turned her luminous gaze upon him as he approached, a knowing gleam in her eyes that made him wonder how much she had intuited about his conversation with Kilgharrah and Vyransa.

“I shall stretch my wings while their deliberations continue,” she said, the magnificent white dragon tilting her head slightly, her cat-like pupils narrowing. “And for you to continue your private conversation with Morgana.”

With a graceful extension of her wings that sent prismatic light dancing across the clearing, Aithusa launched into the air, her form soon disappearing beyond the twisted trees. Merlin watched her go, somehow relieved she had not heard the disturbing prophecy that concerned her so directly. Yet, he wondered if she was already made aware from the ancient knowledge now granted her.

Morgana approached him, concern crinkling her brow. “What did they say?”

“Vyransa confirmed our fears,” Merlin replied, lowering his voice despite their isolation. “The prophecy is ancient, predating even her existence. She has agreed to prohibit crimson dragons from joining the exodus.”

Relief briefly flickered across Morgana’s features before uncertainty returned. “And Kilgharrah? Did he know of this foretelling?”

“No.” Merlin shook his head firmly. “His surprise was genuine. But he supports my decision.” He glanced toward the direction where Aithusa had vanished. “They need time to convey my conditions to the assembly and select which dragons will depart, if any are willing to come at all.”

Morgana nodded, absently brushing crystalline frost from her gown. “How long, do you think?”

“I can’t say.” He scanned the fantastical landscape of Evanescen, its otherworldly beauty shadowed by the prophecy’s implications. “Decisions that span realms require deliberation, even for those who measure time in centuries rather than heartbeats.”

“Then we wait,” Morgana said simply.

Silence fell between them, not uncomfortable but contemplative. Merlin found himself studying Morgana’s profile as she gazed after Aithusa, noting how the ethereal light of Evanescen magnified her beauty, the curves of her face, the fullness of her lips. Much about her beckoned to him like a forgotten sanctuary, unexpectedly rediscovered.

“Do you think we’ve done enough?” she asked suddenly, turning to face him and catching him mid-admiration, warmth rising beneath his skin. “Or have we merely postponed the inevitable?”

Merlin moved closer despite the heat in his cheeks, close enough that he could see deep flecks of azure radiance in her eyes. “Prophecies have shaped my path since before I knew my own destiny,” he admitted. “Some I’ve fulfilled unknowingly, others I’ve defied with terrible results. But I’ve learned one truth—” He reached for her hand, his fingers sliding between hers. “The future is never as fixed as seers would have us believe.”

Her lips parted slightly, acquiescence settling across her features. Her fingers tightened around his. “I spent years accepting prophecies as immutable,” she whispered. “Even when they led me down dark paths.”

“And now?”

“Now I find myself hoping you’re right.” Her voice softened to a vulnerability that stirred his heart, her acknowledgment a sweet melody to his ears. “That some destinies don’t turn out the way we might think.”

“I think ours is proof of that.” He lifted their joined hands and pressed them against his chest, his heartbeat quickening beneath their touch, a silent invitation to a future neither had imagined possible. “We should rest,” he murmured, though he made no move to step away.

“Yes,” she agreed, equally motionless.

Evanescen provided them with a secluded grove not far from the clearing, where luminous flowers provided soft illumination and the strange, twisted trees formed a natural shelter. The lavender sky darkened to a rich indigo, the auroras intensifying rather than fading, painting the landscape in ever-shifting hues. Instead of kissing her as his thoughts had commanded him to, Merlin separated himself and began sharing stories of using magic in his early days in Camelot, tales he’d never expected to relate to Morgana of all people.

She listened with genuine interest, occasionally offering her own perspective from that time. She also spoke of her childhood at Tintagel, memories of her mother that had grown faint with time, how she’d arrived alone and displaced in Camelot, and her complicated feelings toward Uther and Gorlois.

“I never imagined we would sit together like this,” Morgana admitted as the conversation lulled. They sat side by side, backs against a tree trunk that seemed to pulse gently with inner light. “Not as... friends again.”

The word seemed insufficient for what had grown between them, but neither ventured to define it further. Instead, Merlin reached for her hand once more, and they sat in companionable silence as Evanescen’s beauty and sounds surrounded them.

Twilight—or what possibly passed for it in this realm—came with Aithusa’s return. He stirred Morgana, her head resting on his shoulder, his hand still cupping hers. Their white dragon approached with purposeful strides, her scales gleaming in the renewed radiance of the auroras, her face alight with excitement.

“The Council has decided,” she announced as Merlin rose, helping Morgana to her feet.. “Twenty dragons will depart with us. Vyransa has selected them carefully—those most likely to adapt to the world of men and form new bonds with latent dragonlord bloodlines.”

“When do we depart?” he asked, reluctantly releasing her hand, her touch still tingling at his fingertips.

“Now,” Aithusa replied. “They’re gathering now.”

They followed Aithusa back to the central clearing where Kilgharrah and Vyransa stood surrounded by a score of dragons in varied hues—emerald, sapphire, amber, obsidian, silver. None wore crimson scales. Relief coursed through Merlin as he scanned the assembly, though—as Morgana and Vyransa had suggested—he knew this measure merely postponed rather than prevented a foretold confrontation.

Kilgharrah lowered himself for Merlin to climb, his golden scales warm beneath his palms. Morgana hesitated, glancing toward Aithusa.

“Will you carry me?” she asked the young dragon, who dipped her head in acquiescence.

“It would be my honor,” Aithusa replied, her voice carrying such affection that Merlin felt the pang of loss, the strange, yet unbreakable bond between Aithusa and Morgana still a mystery to him.

As she mounted Aithusa, Morgana’s fingers found purchase among the luminous scales with ease, her body seeming to belong atop the dragon as naturally as if she’d ridden her all her life. With a reassuring nod to them, Merlin settled behind one of Kilgharrah’s great horns, his thoughts already turning to the challenges that awaited beyond Evanescen and explaining to Gwen why he’d returned with a score of dragons along with the kingdom’s greatest enemy.

Vyransa’s deep voice carried across the assembly. “Remember our covenant. You return as ambassadors of our kind. Your actions will determine whether others may follow.”

With that final admonition, she launched into the air, leading the assembly toward churning rivers of light that connected Evanescen to the realm of men. As they approached, the fabric of reality seemed to thin, colors bleeding into one another. Vyransa hovered at the threshold, her massive form silhouetted against the swirling energies where the portal’s edges rippled like water disturbed by currents as the others passed through. Her place was in Evanescen to govern those who stayed behind, to prepare them for a future return when the time was set.

In a heartbeat of blinding brilliance, the boundaries between worlds dissolved, and they emerged into familiar blue skies where towering mountain peaks stood shrouded in clouds. Kilgharrah led their formation in a tight spiral around his roost, the score of dragons twisting in his wake like a living tapestry of scales and wings.

As the thunderous chorus of their collective roars echoed across the air, Merlin felt his soul stir deep in his core—ancient connections between dragonlord and dragon now pulsing with renewed vigor through him.

Across the realm of men, that transcendent moment pierced the veil of ordinary existence. Those carrying even the faintest ember of dragonlord lineage seized in mid-step, their souls jolted by ancient recognition. Farmers dropped their plows, merchants paused in counting coins, nobles froze during courtly conversation—each arrested by the primal summons that bypassed conscious thought and reached directly into the blood. Their heads turned toward the mountains as forgotten heritage stirred within them, demanding acknowledgment.

Their dragons had returned at last.

Chapter Text

The sun’s morning rays found Yaminah kneeling for Prime, the first major hour of daylight prayer. Her forehead pressed against the fine silk as psalms and ancient devotions fell from her lips. After three days of sacred obligations and Gwaine’s respectful absence, she now faced her most daunting challenge: taming the magic that God had blessed her with. Yet power stirred within her like wind before a storm, her skin tingling with awareness of every object in her chambers – the flickering candles, the water in her washing basin, even the subtle movements of air through the castle stones.

Yaminah’s concentration wavered as she fought to quiet the flood of sensations. Though her lips continued voicing familiar words, her mind splintered, racing between Gwaine’s devotion, God’s mysterious will, Baba languishing in prison, her distant home, Youssef’s bitter revelations. Terce prayers would begin in just a few hours, requiring her to lead the household in prayers. Yet Sir Galahad was expected soon and would escort her to the millhouse, leaving precious little time for her duties as Al-Sayyidah Al-Jalila.

Focus, she commanded herself. As you have done every morning of your life.

“Our Father, who art in heaven,” she whispered, but memories of Gwaine collided with her prayers once more, shattering her concentration. His patience throughout her sacred observance, his gracious distance maintained even after the Sabbath’s conclusion—both matching his steadfast vigil during her magical awakening before. Each day he honored her needs by staying away, willing to acquiesce to her wishes while sacrificing his own reaching depths within her heart. His absence left an ache that even prayer couldn’t soothe.

Yaminah opened her eyes at the now familiar sound of fire surging, the conflict between devotion and desire triggering her magic to respond unbidden to her emotional turmoil. Her magical flare ups no longer manifested upon her body, but responded to her emotions like invisible extensions of her will, transforming her feelings into physical reality. Every flame in her quarters writhed like living things, casting wild, elongated shadows across the walls like phantom dancers. She observed their reflections with calm before they subsided back to whispers.

The knock at her door was expected after such a magical display—she’d sensed Ishka’s approach before knuckles met wood. “Al-Sayyidah, is all well?” her servant asked, a familiar pattern of devotion threading through with uncertainty.

Yaminah merely looked in that direction, her hands still folded around her cross, then back to the candles. “Yes,” she replied, rising to her feet and adjusting her hijab as she wondered if every flame within her expansive chambers had surged with power, or if the disturbance had extended beyond her walls to the castle itself. How could she function like this – if elevated emotion manifested magic? “All is well.”

“Time draws short,” Ishka reminded, still on the other side of the door. “Concise prayers are just as sweet to God as long and thoughtful ones.”

“A moment,” she called. After releasing a calming breath, she added, “Enter.”

Ishka stepped into the chamber, her curtsey deep but stiff, her dark eyes scanning the room with the cautiousness of one caught between loyalty and faith. Through their shared rituals, Yaminah had felt her people’s confusion transform into something closer to acceptance – if not of magic itself, then of her unwavering commitment to their faith despite it. Yet Ishka’s feelings remained complex, devotion and worry tangled together like prayer beads on a string, and Yaminah recognizing that mastering her own emotions had become as essential as mastering her magic—one and the same challenge now.

“Al-Sayyid Nazir awaits you in the meeting chamber,” her servant said.

“At this hour?” The words slipped out before Yaminah could catch them as she glance toward the door. The steward had unexpectedly arrived from the Northern Plains just before her Sabbath began, bringing urgent concerns that would wait through their three days of sacred observance. His presence had been a solemn reminder of duties temporarily set aside for faith. “The sun has barely risen.”

“Men have never grasped the proper hour for anything,” Ishka murmured, intoning decades of resigned observation.

Such familiar cheek from her servant made Yaminah’s lips twitch into a smile, their bond holding firm. “At least he respected Lauds prayers and didn’t arrive before dawn,” she added, drawing a grin from Ishka. Yaminah drew herself up and headed out of her private quarters.

In the meeting chamber, Ishka moved to the central table where several scrolls lay unfurled and began pouring steaming mint tea into delicate porcelain cups. Yaminah’s gaze shifted to her father’s – no, her steward now – rising from his bow. Her skin prickled with heightened awareness of his presence – not just his physical location, but a complex, yet stable, emotional state that rippled like a stone tossed into a pond.

Al-Sayyid Nazir’s meticulously groomed beard framed features carved by time, each line suggesting diligence rather than age. White hair streaked with dark strands fell upon lean, yet broad shoulders, and discerning eyes told he was a man of strength bound by duty. Yet nothing in his impeccable posture or expression revealed why he thought it was necessary for this early intrusion into her morning routine, instead of waiting for a proper hour.

“Al-Sayyidah, forgive the disruption,” he said. “But these matters require immediate attention.”

Yaminah nodded, though her mind raced ahead to the morning’s already competing demands and now to whatever urgency had brought her steward to her door. She crossed to the table, seating herself on the settee as the al-sayyid chose a cushioned chair opposite her, the familiar aroma of mint tea enriched with cardamom and honey a momentary comfort.

“What business is so pressing they cannot wait until after morning devotions?” she asked him.

“My timing is unfortunate, Al-Sayyidah, but I desire to begin my journey home soon after – to be with my family before this week’s Sabbath begins.”

“Very well,” she replied softly, suddenly feeling the loss of her family.

“The commander of the northern garrison awaits your decision about winter provisions,” he began, unrolling a scroll filled with neat columns of numbers. “And the tribal elders have sent another inquiry about your return date. They grow... restless.” A current of worry that spoke of more than just garrison supplies and tribal politics emanated from him that she couldn’t help but notice.

Restless, she thought with acrimony as he handed her a ledger. The Council of Twelve—men her father’s age or older who sat around the ancient cedar table—unnerved even Baba at times. She had watched from behind the carved screens during countless meetings, observing how they tested him, challenged his decisions under the guise of wisdom. Now they awaited her, an unmarried woman of merely twenty-four facing men triple her age, possessing forbidden powers they will discover soon enough, if not already.

Thinning her lips, Yaminah studied the ledger, each figure and description methodically arranged in the steward’s precise hand. As she absorbed the details, the characters began to transform before her eyes. Each stroke suddenly illuminated, the characters pulsing with vitality as if the ink itself had awakened. The writing transformed into a living language whose beauty transcended mere words, drawing her attention deeper into their rhythmic flow.

“Al-Sayyidah?” A strange voice beckoned at the edges of consciousness.

Yet Yaminah could not pull her eyes away from the magnificent choreography of the script, the words entangling her in their designs. Smooth streams of energy coursed through her, magic unfolding her senses like a flower at dawn. The world around her dissolved into its essential patterns—ink revealing the scribe’s emotions as he formed each letter, the wooden table before her resonating with memories of the towering cedar it once was, Ishka’s breathing carrying notes of concern that shimmered in the air like gossamer threads. Each presence in the room unveiled its true nature to her—not just their physical forms, but the stories embedded in their very existence, singing to her in voices only her awakened magic could perceive.

“Yaminah.” Another voice—stronger, familiar. A gentle touch on her shoulder. “My child.”

A breath caught in Yaminah’s throat as she blinked away moisture on her lashes, her mouth parched as desert sand. She glanced at Al-Sayyid Nazir’s strained expression, then at the hand Ishka had placed upon her shoulder. She looked at the scroll she held, the steward’s script perfect and unchanged. How long had she stared at the magical manifestation? Had the candles flickered in response to her fascination, or had some other visible sign betrayed her magical state?

“Apologies,” she said firmly, continuing her review of the ledger. “I was momentarily lost… in the—calculations…”

“Understandable,” the steward replied, clearing his throat. He drank from his cup, tension in every controlled movement he now made.

“The provisions,” she maintained decisively, meeting his gaze, “we’ll maintain last year’s quantities but adjust the distribution timing. Send smaller shipments more frequently rather than one large convoy.” The decision came naturally, drawn from years of observing her father’s management style, but maintaining focus was now requiring immense effort. A shiver traveled down her spine as she reached for her cup, requiring all her control to steady her hand as she sipped the tea.

“I’ll have the revised orders prepared for your signature by midday,” he said, setting down his drink as he retrieved another scroll. “And the tribal elders?”

“Tell them I require at least another month in Camelot,” she managed, maintaining eye contact with tremendous effort when he paused midway through placing the scroll in front of her. “The delay is necessary and unavoidable.”

“That’s… an excessive amount of time for the Al-Sayyida Al-Jalila to be absent from the palace,” he replied, his tone even but his disapproval unmistakable. He placed the scroll he held on the before her, staring at her. “Queen Guinevere’s coronation was over a fortnight ago. Your return should be of the utmost importance.”

The ink in the open well on the table began to swirl without being touched. The steward’s gaze flicked to it, then back to her face, his expression tightening just enough to reveal he had noticed but was choosing not to acknowledge the phenomenon.

“My duties here require my presence,” she countered, her tone brooking no argument, her fingers clutching the parchment as she willed the ink to stop. “The arrangements for my father’s care during his imprisonment, the negotiations with Camelot’s court regarding our continued trade agreements—these matters cannot be rushed merely to appease the elders’ impatience.”

Al-Sayyid Nazir lowered his gaze in deference, jaw muscles flexing beneath his beard. “As you command, Al-Sayyidah. But the council may insist on sending a delegation if your return is delayed beyond what they deem... reasonable.”

“Then let them come,” she replied, her chin lifting slightly. “In the meantime, I shall continue to administer my duties from Camelot – appoint someone from your office to assist me here, and have the revised supply orders prepared for my signature before Sext prayers.” Yaminah handed the ledger back to him, certain that would be ample time to finish magic training, Terce prayers, study of not just the steward’s important papers, but others concerning the Northern Plains—all before afternoon prayers.

The steward leaned back in his chair, studying her with newfound appraisal in his gaze. “You are indeed your father’s daughter. I see that you have inherited his spirit and his ability to command a room’s attention—perhaps even more powerfully than he did. The elders may discover they’ve underestimated you and face a leader unlike any they’ve encountered before.” He inhaled deeply, standing as he lifted a few of the scrolls. “I shall leave the rest here for your examination, Al-Sayyida Al-Jalila. Ma’a salama.”

“Ma’a salama, Al-Sayyid,” Yaminah replied, rising. “May the blessings of God be upon you and your family.”

He nodded solemnly as a servant entered with Yaminah’s morning meal, passing Nazir as he departed. It took all her concentration not to visibly react to these new impressions that only she could perceive—the bread’s journey from distant fields to table unfolding like a story before her, the servant’s nervousness humming like plucked strings, honey crystalizing on the edges of bowls in precise geometric patterns that whispered of hive and flower.

“He seemed less troubled than I expected,” Ishka murmured, adjusting the tray as Yaminah sat and the servant bowed before withdrawing.

“Al-Sayyid Nazir adapts quickly,” Yaminah replied, lifting a piece of bread to her lips with deliberate control. The food’s texture, temperature, even its essential nature were heightened beyond normal perception. “Perhaps his years managing tribal politics have prepared him for... such unexpected changes.”

Ishka’s concern radiated toward her like warmth from a brazier. “The ink moved, Al-Sayyidah. He saw it.”

“Yet he said nothing,” Yaminah noted, managing two careful bites before a new presence approached—not physical movement, but a pattern of controlled magic and power. Sir Galahad, she realized. Even through the heavy door, she had come to recognize the distinct pattern of his controlled signature, so different from Lord Merlin’s wild energy or Gwaine’s steady warmth.

The gentle knock then affirmed the knight’s arrival, her time of the familiar having run out. She would have to master an impossible balancing act today – managing her household and leadership duties while learning to control abilities she scarcely understood, all while keeping her growing powers from those who depended on her headship.

Her father’s voice echoed in her memory: A leader’s greatest strength lies not in never showing weakness, but in persevering despite it.

“Sir Galahad requests an audience, Al-Sayyidah,” Farouk announced from the main entrance, his voice carrying the formality required of his station. Her trusted guard’s underlying concerns never left him – not for propriety’s sake of men knocking at this hour, but for her overall wellbeing and her battle with magic.

“You may show him in,” she said as Farouk stepped aside with a bow and Sir Galahad entered.

The young knight’s expression shifted from studied neutrality to concern as he studied her face. “Fair day, my lady,” Galahad said quietly, tilting his head respectfully. “It’s been three days since last we spoke.” He surveyed the room, his gaze seeming to touch every object. “How was your holy observation?”

Yaminah knew what he implied – had she destroyed anything with her magic since he or Lord Merlin had not been present to… settle her down?

“Sacred and undisturbed,” she replied evenly, though her fingers tensed slightly around her cup. “The Sabbath offers clarity, Sir Galahad—though perhaps not the kind you’re inquiring about. My powers remained... contained, if that’s your concern.”

“Then your training should be just as… contained,” he said with a smile. “I trust you’re prepared to begin?”

Before she could respond, Ishka positioned herself between Yaminah and the knight. “The Al-Sayyidah has not yet broken her fast,” she stated, her discontentment assaulting Yaminah’s senses so strongly that she gripped the sides of the table. “Nor has she completed her morning obligations.”

“Peace, Ishka.” Yaminah rose from her seat and moved between them, forcing her voice to remain gentle despite the mounting pressure behind her temples. “You know as well as I what we do is necessary and cannot wait.”

“Al-Sayyidah, more disruptions to morning devotions. The improper hour of receiving men—”

“The hour is essential,” Galahad interrupted smoothly. “Unless you’d prefer your mistress to remain at the mercy of uncontrolled power?”

Caution, hostility, and protectiveness crashed over Yaminah in unrelenting waves. The room tilted, colors bleeding together as their emotions drowned her senses, nearly driving Yaminah to her knees.

Ishka, being closest, reached her first, gripping her arm. “Yaminah,” she said breathlessly, the formal title forgotten. Galahad also quickly moved to her side, his supportive touch helping to steady her.

Yaminah straightened, drawing on years of courtly training to maintain her composure as they removed their hands. “Ishka, please prepare a light meal to be taken with me. And inform Camelot’s steward that we require these chambers for a few weeks longer.” When her servant hesitated, Yaminah added softly, “Trust that I know what I’m doing.” Even if I don’t entirely trust myself. “Farouk,” she called, her guard emerging from the servant entrance, a saddlebag already swung over his shoulder, her cloak in his hands. “We are ready.”

Ishka’s displeasure radiated through the corridors as they departed, her prayers trailing behind them like invisible threads of protection and plea. Yaminah’s heart raced with trepidation as they moved through the castle. Dawn and the morning sun that had witnessed her prayers now illuminated a path toward mastering her gifts—or revealing the extent of her inability to control them.

Her fingers briefly touched the empty space at her throat where her pendant once rested, wondering if her father had ever anticipated this day when he first bound her powers. For all the knowledge she had gained watching from behind screens, observing Baba’s leadership, nothing had prepared her for walking this perilous line between her duties to her people and the unpredictable force awakened within her.

At least Gwaine would be by her side, the one constant she desperately needed right now.

Chapter Text

Yaminah made her way through the castle corridors along with Sir Galahad, Farouk following at a proper distance, the thud of their boots doing little to impact the other impressions bombarding her. Each person she passed sent waves of emotion crashing against her newfound awareness, but the objects around her resonated too—old tapestries humming with memories, stone walls carrying echoes of their past, Sir Galahad’s measured breathing. She stopped to press her palm against a cold stone wall that whispered of secrets centuries old, her body shivering involuntarily.  

“Focus on your breathing,” Sir Galahad murmured, balancing her with a hand on her elbow. “Imagine a curtain between yourself and their feelings. You cannot block them entirely yet, but you can dim their intensity.”

She attempted his suggestion, quickly composing herself. Grateful for the temporary reprieve it provided, the curtain felt gossamer-thin and ready to dissolve with each new encounter. By the time they reached the main entrance to the courtyard, her temples throbbed with the effort of maintaining this fragile barrier as new, myriad sensations assaulted her from outside.

She halted at the threshold, one foot poised mid-step, her vision swimming with the force of untamed impressions. For a heartbeat, she considered commanding their return to her chambers—a leader’s prerogative she rarely exercised—the safety of familiar walls beckoning like a haven.

“Concentrate on me as an anchor,” Sir Galahad advised quietly. “One constant presence amid the chaos.”

Yaminah nodded, focusing on his magical resonance, precise as carved stone. Another merged with his—Farouk’s essence as unyielding as fortress walls. Then more came as she descended the stone steps—unfamiliar, demanding, the collective surge from dozens of beings and objects overwhelming her weakening defenses. One arm still supported by Sir Galahad, her hands clenched into fists, her body shivering from the onslaught of so many impressions, her eyes darting to everyone and her senses absorbing everything.

Then she felt it—him. Gwaine’s energy registering in her awareness like a sheltered flame in a windstorm, unwavering despite the turbulence around it. She followed that sensation until she found him with her eyes – a beacon of clarity, reassuringly familiar and irresistible.

Gwaine stood apart from the main activity, near the eastern gate with their waiting horses, one hand absently stroking his mount’s neck while he spoke with Ahmed. Her young guard held a cross-bow in one hand, the other gesturing toward the heavens as Gwaine nodded thoughtfully. Everything else shifted and blurred for Yaminah, the press of foreign emotions receding as she fixed her attention only on her knight, each step toward him more certain than the last.

When he noticed her weaving through the crowd towards him, his conversation with Ahmed fell silent, his posture straightening as his attention shifted entirely to her. The affection that kindled in his eyes sent warmth cascading through her, as though his mere gaze could thaw the tension in her body.

Taking her offered hand between both of his, he hesitated a moment—as though reacquainting himself with her presence—before pressing his lips to her knuckles with deliberate tenderness. Her magic responded instantly, tiny sparks of awareness dancing across her skin where his lips had touched.

“Yaminah,” he murmured, his voice carrying a softness reserved only for her. “I feared you might not come.”

The flutter in her heart brought with it echoes of unresolved conversations about duty and family expectations, yet she wouldn’t let those barriers stand in her way. “I come not just for the services of Sir Galahad, habibi,” she admitted, “but to be in your company after so long an absence is my deepest desire.”

His hand lifted tentatively before he caressed her cheek, stepping closer. “I’ve missed you,” Gwaine said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Questions unasked, discoveries unmapped lurked in their brown depths —yet his smile remained unchanged, that glow of fondness she’d come to rely upon as much as breathing.

Gwaine leaned forward, pressing his lips gently to hers, a tender reunion after days of absence. His scent mingled with morning air as the tension in her shoulders eased for the first time since her Sabbath began. Where their lips met, a sensation unlike anything merely physical bloomed between them—tiny motes of golden light shimmered in the space they shared. His arms slightly coiled around her, the glow of her magic responding to his touch, weaving momentarily around them both like an invisible caress. The connection lasted only heartbeats, but in those precious seconds, her magic hummed through him just as it had during her awakening—though gently, their bond transcending the ordinary once more.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, pulling back, his expression filled with wonder as he gazed at her. “And you’re late.” His smile softened the words, but Yaminah also noticed how his shoulders carried not burden but some… renewed purpose.

She laughed in response to Gwaine’s gentle teasing, but before she could reply, Ishka appeared suddenly, positioning herself between them, a small basket covered with embroidered cloth clutched in her hands.

“Your morning meal, Al-Sayyidah,” she announced, her disapproving posture as stiff as her words. “I’ve included the honey bread and fresh dates. There’s a flask of water—and the Scriptures.” She looked directly at Gwaine. “For prayer and absolution.”

“Thank you, Ishka,” Yaminah replied, accepting the basket and catching Gwaine’s amusement briefly dimmed at her servant’s protective maneuvers.

“The Al-Sayyidah’s wellbeing is my foremost concern, Mistress Ishka,” Gwaine offered with a respectful bend from the waist. “You’ve no further reason to doubt that.”

Ishka merely sniffed in response as she eyed Gwaine suspiciously, her skepticism evident as she stepped away. Yaminah paused at the ambiguity mixed with the sincerity of his words, regarding him with a questioning stare as Ahmed came forward, relieving her of the basket, tying it to her horse and blocking her view of Gwaine for a moment.

She watched Gwaine mounting his steed, his eyes holding some subtle message beneath the tension that Ishka had brought along with her. Then he winked, a smile coming to his lips, that playful spark returning. Ahmed shifted again to help her mount, breaking their connection and shielding Gwaine from her sight until she was seated upon her saddle. Farouk swung himself into his saddle near her as Ahmed and Ishka turned and departed, but by then, Gwaine had steered further away from her.

The small party rode through Camelot’s already awakened streets. Yaminah managed to ignore the sensory onslaught this time, finding herself tethered to his essence like an invisible thread between them, while trying to decipher the subtle change in his demeanor.

Gwaine had maneuvered himself beside her, their knees occasionally brushing as their horses moved in tandem. His eyes frequently sought hers in silent communication that at times needed no words. In other brief moments when his guard lowered, a shadow crossed his features, like a man who had glimpsed both treasure and the price required to claim it. Once, when their eyes met unexpectedly, she caught a fleeting impression of resignation before his smile returned, masking whatever revelation had momentarily broken through his defenses.

As her thoughts dwelled on this puzzle, the small ceramic figurines displayed on a merchant’s cart suddenly animated, dancing and bowing to each other before freezing back in place. The vendor jumped slightly, his hand going to his heart, while nearby customers pointed and laughed, delighted by the unexpected performance.

Yaminah froze in mortification. Farouk’s vigilance intensified behind her as Sir Galahad, riding ahead, turned sharply in his saddle, fixing her with a meaningful look and releasing a grunt-like sigh of concern, turning his horse around. Gwaine, however, caught her eye with an amused grin that conveyed both appreciation for her magic and sympathy for her struggle to control it.

“Breathe, my lady,” Sir Galahad advised, sidling beside her. “Remember that barrier between yourself and others’ emotions. Try imagining closing a door in your mind.”

“That would be easier,” she replied through gritted teeth, “if I knew where such a door might be.”

Gwaine hummed thoughtfully. “Maybe it’s less about finding doors,” he suggested, “and more about choosing which feelings merit your attention.” His reliable presence calmed the turbulent waves assaulting her, reestablishing himself as that fixed point amid the chaos. The inexplicable way he affected her emotions matched how deeply she affected his—a wordless understanding neither seemed ready to name, though it bound them together more surely than any vow.

Beyond the city walls, a panorama of magical consciousness engulfed her. Each blade of grass pulsed with its own vital spark. Morning dew captured sunlight, every droplet offering a distinct melody to her newfound perception. Birds darted overhead, their life force trailing behind them like ribbons in the wind. Tree limbs began to shiver wildly, their leaves whispering a disconcerting melody, startling birds to flight and sending a doe and her fawns fleeing. Yaminah swayed in her saddle, fascinated, yet dizzy from the onslaught. Her breaths became shallow, her head as heavy as stone, nature’s perfect impressions dancing behind her eyelids like the constellations themselves forming and dissolving.

Gwaine reached for her hand holding the reins, halting their progression as his other hand firmly grasped her arm. “It’s okay, Yaminah,” he said, his essence trapped at the edges of her consciousness where the landscape’s living embers reigned unbidden. “I’m here. Let me in.”

Sir Galahad had returned to point, but then drew his horse alongside them when he observed the effects of her distress. “Close your eyes,” he instructed, his eyes alight with scholarly wonder. “Concentrate only on your horse’s movement. Let the rest flow past you like water.”

Yaminah tried, but the earth itself hummed beneath her mount’s hooves. The ancient forest that bordered their path breathed with collected power, centuries of growth and decay creating patterns that entranced her. Even the morning mist carried whispers of magic. She couldn’t endure this alone – only Gwaine offered refuge in her storm of sensations.

She eyes found his as his gripped tightened, searching beyond their warmth for the essence of him, her mind clawing past the torrent of images and emotions. Then Gwaine’s power broke through, enveloping her like a comforting blanket—no, a lover—and shutting out the invasive world. As her breathing normalized, that feeling of gain and loss crept in with him, and for a fleeting moment, she shared her fears with him.  

“Gwaine,” she whispered, her voice finding strength even as her magic swirled uncertainly. “I cannot bear the thought of losing you.”

“You won’t, habibti,” he promised, a breath escaping him. Gwaine seemed to swallow his words, glancing away before adding, “I’m here as long as you need me.”

Need me. As long as. Yaminah swallowed this veiled truth, the realization digging into her heart as assuredly as a blade: Gwaine was prepared to leave if her role and responsibilities dictated. Though she needed him now, not just for the strength and security of their magical connection, she yearned for something permanent—a future together that seemed increasingly impossible with each new day.

Their journey forward began again, and Yaminah moved ahead to ride beside her mentor, allowing Gwaine’s vigilant presence to sustain her, yet capturing both their feelings of loss for later observation. “How do you bear it?” she asked Sir Galahad, her knuckles clamped on the reins. “All these... voices?”

“Your aura flares with each new sensation,” he replied, leaning forward with keen interest. “Like sunlight through stained glass, the colors shift and blend.”

“You… see colors?” she asked, struggling to maintain her seat as another wave of sensation washed over her. “I feel... everything. Their essence. Their nature.”

“I know, my lady,” he replied. “Each sorcerer perceives magic differently. I see patterns of light and color. One sorcerer I knew spoke of seeing songs. Your sensitivity to the inherent nature of things is... unusual.”

Yaminah glanced sideways, catching Gwaine in her peripheral vision as he rode beside Farouk. Though now positioned behind her, his presence registered with her magical senses as clearly as if he were still at her side. This strange sensitivity to him – stronger than to anyone else around her – left her uncertain. What did it mean that she could feel him so distinctly? And what would become of this connection when duty inevitably pulled them in different directions? She looked forward, pushing these questions aside along with the rest—for now. There were more immediate challenges to face.

Finally, they reached the old millhouse. The building’s weathered stones held a different kind of energy – older, more settled than the castle’s busy corridors. Water churned through the millrace – the channel that once powered the wheel – its steady flow beneath the disabled mechanism providing unexpected solace to Yaminah’s magical receptivity. As they dismounted, Yaminah wandered closer to the flowing water, feeling strangely complete, especially when Gwaine came to stand beside her.

“The millhouse has stood empty for years,” Sir Galahad explained. He whispered a spell, his arm outstretched toward the entrance of the structure. “So Merlin and I repurposed it. Its isolation and proximity to flowing water make it ideal for experimentation and your initial testing.”

“Farouk,” Yaminah said, ascending the structure’s worn stone steps, each one radiating decades of use and weather, “remain outside.”

Sir Galahad led them inside, the interior surprisingly transformed into a proper workroom, more spacious and functional than its outside appearance suggested. Without a word, he sent small flares of golden light to candles placed in corners, each wick igniting as his magic touched it. Around them, dust motes danced in the sunbeams, while a series of chairs arranged near the hearth hinted at longer sessions to come. The space breathed with purpose – a sanctuary carved from abandonment and designed for magical discovery.

Gwaine moved immediately to the shelves lining the walls, his fingers skimming along leather-bound spines and unfurled scrolls. He paused at a particularly ornate volume, tilting his head to read its embossed title, curiosity evident in his posture despite his warrior’s bearing.

She gravitated toward the massive oak table centered in the room, studying the array of objects laid out with careful arrangement: several scrolls and tomes neatly stacked, crystals of various shapes and sizes, unlit candles placed in a geometric pattern, bowls of water and earth, strips of silk, and a few items whose purpose remained mysterious to her untrained eye. She traced the edge of the table, feeling the wood’s age beneath her fingertips, its surface worn smooth by years of use.

“Before we begin,” Sir Galahad said, minutely adjusting a few items on the table, “understand that these initial tests may seem simple, even beneath your station. But they are necessary to confirm the nature of your abilities.”

“My station matters little here,” Yaminah replied, though standing in this humble space in her fine hajib felt suddenly absurd. “I am simply a student seeking understanding.”

“A student with untrained power that responds to her emotions,” Gwaine pointed out. When both she and Sir Galahad looked at him near the door and leaning against a wall with a tome in his hands, he shrugged. “I’ve felt it too—from the beginning—remember? Every surge of magic that passed through you… And today…”

“Yes, about that.” Her mentor’s tone shifted to something more academic. “It’s unusual for untrained magic to accept another’s touch during crisis, let alone seek stability through one without magic in such a manner. We should explore that connection as well, though perhaps at a later time.”

Heat rose to Yaminah’s cheeks at the memory of Gwaine’s hand in hers, her magic reaching for him even when she did not. The intimacy of that connection—raw power flowing between them—felt more revealing than any physical touch they had shared. Even now, across the room, she could sense the echo of that connection between them—a bridge her untrained abilities had built without her conscious direction. She moistened her lips, remembering their kiss in the square as she turned to her mentor, avoiding looking at Gwaine. “What would you have me do first?”

“First,” Sir Galahad said, opening one of the books and thumbing through its pages, “it’s been six days since the binding spell’s removal, and your magic has not stabilized properly, I’m afraid.” He stopped his search, a hand on a particular page. “We’ll need the next few days alone for observation and basic control.”

“Days?” Yaminah asked, the water’s rhythm beneath the floor growing more insistent with her rising concern. “I cannot abandon my duties for days of mere observation.”

“My lady,” Galahad replied, “your magic has been bound since childhood. Now it surges without pattern or constraint. We must understand how it manifests naturally before attempting any form of training.”

“He’s right,” Gwaine added from his position. “You’ve seen how it responds to your emotions, to others’ presence. Even to animals. Better to master these basics first.”

Their wisdom was undeniable, even as duty and necessity pushed against her. Yaminah pressed two fingers to her temple and thinned her lips. She envisioned herself before the Council of Twelve, surrounded by commanders, officials, servants, and visiting royalty—each radiating their own needs, ambitions, and concealed emotions. If she could not master these abilities now, how could she possibly navigate the treacherous waters of leadership where every subtle shift in feeling might trigger her magic? Her responsibilities to her people demanded this mastery, however long it took. “What exactly will these observation sessions entail?”

“Simple exercises in awareness and control. Learning to recognize your magic’s natural patterns without trying to direct them. Like watching a river to understand its currents before attempting to navigate its waters.”

The millrace seemed to pulse in agreement beneath them, its consistent flow a reminder of forces that could not be rushed. Sir Galahad began arranging objects on the table as he placed three white candles in a triangle pattern. They remained unlit, though she could perceive potential energy within them, like a held breath waiting to be released.

“We’ll start with something basic to allow your body and mind to adjust to your unbound power. Please sit here.” He indicated a wooden chair positioned at one point of the triangle.

Yaminah settled into the chair, acutely aware of every sensation – the rough texture of wood beneath her hands, the subtle draft from the high windows, Gwaine’s quiet breathing by the door.

“Close your eyes,” her mentor instructed. “Focus on the space between the candles. Don’t try to do anything – simply be aware.”

She complied, though closing her eyes only enhanced her other perceptions. The millrace’s constant flow provided a calming rhythm beneath the silence. Sir Galahad’s controlled magic moved around her as he circled the table. Gwaine’s warmth remained constant, anchoring.

“Now,” Sir Galahad’s voice came from behind her, “I’m going to light the candles. Continue focusing on the space between them, but tell me what you experience.”

Another whispered spell, then heat bloomed in three points around her. Even with eyes closed, Yaminah could track each flame’s location perfectly. More than that – she detected how they pulled at the air, creating minute currents that brushed against her skin.

“They’re... dancing,” she said softly. “Not just the visible flame, but the heat itself moves in patterns. Like... like the geometric designs in our sacred texts.”

“Interesting.” Her mentor moved again and set something down with a clink. “And now?”

New sensations joined the dance – a cool smoothness that she recognized as crystal, its energy different from the flames but no less precise in its patterns. The interaction between heat and crystal created something else, a harmony she struggled to describe.

“It’s all connected,” she tried to explain. “The fire, the crystal, the air – they each have their own rhythm, but they’re part of a larger pattern.”

She heard Gwaine shift position. “That’s not typical for a first session, is it?”

“No,” Galahad replied thoughtfully. “Most beginners sense only the most obvious magical energies. This level of pattern recognition suggests...” A sensation of curiosity rose within him. “My lady, please open your eyes, but maintain your awareness of these connections.”

Yaminah obeyed. The three candle flames burned with perfect stability, unlike their wild behavior in her chambers earlier. Between them sat a clear crystal sphere that seemed to capture and refract both flame and morning light. As she watched, the refracted patterns began shifting, forming intricate geometric shapes that reminded her of home. Her eyelids fluttered, water building behind them.

“Don’t look away,” Galahad instructed, though tension had entered his voice. “But be aware – the patterns you’re seeing aren’t in the crystal itself or flame or the air. You’re beginning to influence them. You’re perceiving the underlying magical structure of our world, the fundamental patterns that most sorcerers spend years learning to recognize.”

“Is that... unusual?” she asked. The designs grew more complex and beautiful, yet somehow familiar.

Before he could answer, Gwaine’s voice—closer now—cut through her concentration: “The flames.”

Yaminah blinked rapidly, her vision adjusting from the abstract patterns to the physical reality before her. The candle flames had grown, stretching toward the crystal between them like hungry fingers. Her breath caught in her throat, her eyes widening at the sight. With her concentration broken, the flames surged higher, feeding off her rising alarm. The crystal began to hum, its resonance building to a painful pitch.

“Calm, my lady,” Galahad commanded with ease as the crystal began to vibrate, lifting slightly from the table. Books flew from shelves, parchments whirled through the air, and the remaining crystals on the table cracked with spiderweb fissures.

Galahad’s hand shot forward, golden light spilling from his fingertips as he attempted to contain the growing instability. “Shield yourselves!” he called.

Gwaine lunged forward to pull Yaminah away from the table. The moment he moved between her and the crystal, energy exploded outward, shattering Galahad’s hastily formed containment spell. Everything slowed for Yaminah: shards of crystal spraying in all directions – Galahad’s hands weaving another containment field to capture the projectiles – Gwaine’s arm raising to shield his face as he blocked her body with his own. Yaminah blinked when he collapsed to his knees with a strangled cry, stray crystal shards embedded deep into his palm.

“Gwaine!” Yaminah cried, kneeling beside him. “No!” Her connection to him turned his pain into her own experience, blood already seeping between his fingers where fragments had pierced flesh and muscle. Her magic had done this—another barrier between them, more proof of how dangerous their bond might be. Farouk rushed into the millhouse, hand on his scimitar, quickly assessing the damage as dust rained from the ceiling beams, yet he said nothing.

“Let me see your hand,” Galahad ordered, dropping beside him, a thin line of blood appearing across his cheek where a fragment had grazed him. His eyes flashed gold, blue light emanating from his hands as foreign words spilled from his lips. As he began the healing, Yaminah knew this was no simple injury. The crystal’s magic had gone deep, fragments still pulsing with the energy she’d unwittingly poured into them. “I tried to capture them all. I’m sorry, Gwaine.”

“Your—sword hand,” she gasped, tears welling in her eyes. She squeezed his arm, willing time to reverse days, weeks—back to before Youssef.

“Not your fault,” he forced out through clenched teeth, his agony radiating toward her. “Some wounds are... worth the price.”

Yaminah thinned her lips, wondered if he meant more than his physical injury. His sword hand was now bloodied and useless, and Gwaine’s eyes held that same guarded expression she’d glimpsed earlier. Another reason for him to leave me, she thought.

She glanced at the scorched table, at Gwaine’s trembling hand, at the evidence of power she couldn’t control. Tears fell as guilt manifested in new sensations – the air around her grew heavy with moisture, and she felt something vast and powerful stirring overhead, responding to her distress. The millrace below transformed from its constant rhythm into an angry roar, its force making the old building shudder.

“The shards are embedded in muscle,” Sir Galahad muttered, his healing magic probing deeper. He glanced at Yaminah apologetically. “This will take a moment, my lady. I need you to focus as before—a door or a curtain—this time guarding against your own emotions.”

She pulled a shuddering breath, yet Gwaine’s precious blood drip persistently onto the floorboards as the water’s fury matched her rising panic. Wind began to howl against the high windows and building, rattling shelves. The remaining candles on the table flared to life, their flames stretching toward the ceiling.

Gwaine reached toward her with his uninjured hand. “Yaminah, look at me. Only me.” Despite his pain, he tried to rise. “I’ll be alright.”

“Stay still,” Sir Galahad commanded gently, pressing Gwaine back down with firm pressure on his shoulder. “You’ll only make the damage worse. My lady, your magic responds to guilt as much as fear.” His voice was tight with concentration as he worked. “Accidents are an unavoidable part of the process. You must learn to accept these incidents will happen.”

“Accept?” The word came out as a sob. Another crystal shard emerged from Gwaine’s flesh, bloody but still gleaming with her uncontrolled power. “I may have ruined his life, or worse—I could have killed him.”

“But you didn’t,” Gwaine insisted. “And you haven’t.” Sweat beaded on his forehead as Galahad extracted another fragment. Gwaine winced, then smiled weakly. “Besides, I can use my other sword hand. Yaminah, I’m still here. Still trusting you. Never doubt that.”

“Three days,” Galahad said, not looking up from his work. “Give me three days of observation and basic control exercises before we attempt anything more complex. Your magic is like a wounded animal right now – lashing out at perceived threats, protecting itself the only way it knows how.”

Yaminah watched sliver after sliver being extracted from Gwaine’s hand, each one a painful realization of what her unmastered power could do to those she cared for. With Gwaine, the choice between duty and love had seemed difficult before; now it carried physical danger as well. Could she truly have both? Or would her magic always stand between them like an invisible serpent, waiting to strike? The reservation in his eyes told a story she wasn’t ready to hear—recognizing that his “always” had limits she’d never considered until now.

“Three days,” she agreed, as the first heavy drops of rain began to fall outside.

Chapter Text

Arthur pressed a quivering knuckle to his lips, trembling with fatigue, his mind recoiling at the prospect of another session with the enchanted circlet. His jaw ached from grinding his teeth through each brutal session, his throat raw from screams he’d never imagined could tear from his own mouth. Hunched closer to the fire beyond his cage bars, legs crossed beneath him, Arthur stared into the flames before a deep cough erupted from his chest, the sound repulsive as it echoed in his ears.

Time had lost all meaning—he knew neither the hour nor how many days had passed, the waiting between torments as excruciating as the circlet’s magical executions themselves. The faces of his spectral victims haunted—all staring, all begging—while he could only suffer alongside them before dying as they had. But how many more deaths awaited? How many more hangings, beheadings, and burnings must he endure? How many more... drownings? The thought of being pulled again into a watery grave sent a violent tremor through his weakened frame.

A choked sob caught in his throat, his breath faltering as his chest constricted. He pressed his fist harder against his lips, trying to stifle the cough, a weakness he didn’t want reverberating through his cavernous tomb. Yet his body betrayed him—shivers coursed through his frame as another painful, dry cough expelled.

How much longer could he endure? Each death, each agonizing end, chipped away at his resolve. The condemned pursued him, their pleas for mercy lingering long after the visions faded. This was his penance for his own ignorance and arrogance, though even those he had sentenced faced but a single moment of pain—a swift stroke of the axe, a short drop from the gallows—while he was forced to die again and again, experiencing each agony in full measure.

Arthur drew in a labored breath, willing himself to remain strong, to cling to hope despite his deteriorating circumstance. And yet the prospect of facing another execution, another brutal death, filled him with terror he’d never known. Especially drowning. Not again with the circlet’s dark magic forcing him to relive his greatest shame—the druid children’s terror as his men threw them into the wells on his first command. Their panicked faces, their desperate gasps, now became his own torture as water filled his lungs in punishment for sins he could never undo.

The memory clung to him like a sodden cloak, brought back to life in the torment of his mind. For several moments, Arthur remained motionless, absorbing the cavern’s rhythms—water dripping from rock formations, stones shifting in distant passages, and the hollow absence where his screams had once echoed. The coppery taste of fear lingered on his tongue, while the damp chill from stone seeped through his tattered clothing.

Arthur lifted his head and stared into the flames as if he could absorb their defiant energy. He couldn’t change the past, couldn’t save those children, but perhaps... perhaps he could still save himself. Despite his raw shoulders and wrists, and the worsening aches in his joints, he must continue to probe for weaknesses in their operation—only three captors, no other guards, Dodd’s lengthy absences, the unlocked door when Mordred brought his paltry meals.

But even as he cataloged these observations, doubt crept in like the burn of phantom rope that had stolen his breath during today’s hanging. How could he possibly escape? Just from echoes alone, his prison appeared to be enormous, with tunnels that branched in many directions. Even if he broke free, which path would lead to the surface? How many days’ journey underground? Would he need torches? Weapons? The little water they provided barely sustained him now—he’d need to find streams or pools within the caverns. Game would be scarce this deep; he might survive on bats, insects, or cave fish if he could fashion traps. And what of his captors? Three sorcerers, each with powers beyond his comprehension, would hunt him through passages they knew intimately.

Yet Mordred had hesitated. The boy’s hands trembled when placing the circlet, his eyes averting Arthur’s before the screams began. Was that reluctance? Remorse? Once, Arthur had thought Mordred might prove the weak link in his captors’ chain. But all traces of resistance to performing the ritual had vanished by his third invocation, the druid accepting his role as executioner and administering the torment as expertly as his masters.

“You will die, Arthur—over and over.” Killian’s taunt rang in his mind. “You’ll hear your victims’ anguish with your very ears as you scream for mercy.”

Arthur closed his eyes, his throat aching as he swallowed scant moisture. “Guinevere,” he whispered, pushing aside the torment, his heart remembering the loss and longing as another chill racked his body despite the nearby fire. “Give me strength... courage. Please... I don’t know how much longer I can hold on...”

The words caught in his throat, the admission of weakness tasting like defeat. His vision blurred, each heartbeat hammered against ribs, containment broke. With only the crackle of fire and the rasp of his own labored breathing, he allowed himself to feel the full weight of his despair. For a moment, in the oppressive quiet of his tomb, Arthur Pendragon—warrior, king, and symbol of Camelot’s strength—wept without sound or shame.

My Guinevere. Gone… Truly, I do not want to endure here… knowing you do not await me... I need to be with you… I—can’t… I need—you… What must I do? How…?

Guinevere. Think of her…

Through his blurred vision, his tears dropped on the stone ground before him. He stared at them, used them as a focal point. Think only of her, he commanded himself. He closed his burning eyes and delved deep into his memories, his mind racing to find her—not from when he saw her last, or when he first truly noticed her in Ealdor, but further back another decade—yes, there… Guinevere...

The memory came to him like a cool breeze on a sweltering day. A new arrival at the castle – Morgana’s handmaiden, just as skinny as his father’s ward. Gwen, she said her name was, curtsying upon introductions. He remembered he’d barely looked at her, his next prank on Morgana already forming in his thoughts as Gwen withdrew into Morgana’s shadow.

But now, through his older, tormented eyes, he saw them both clearly. She was twelve while he was only eight. In his mind, Arthur imprinted her pretty face and sweet smile, reshaping their past into a balm for his wounded spirit.

He let his mind drift to a time that could have been. Picturing himself at ten, he paid attention to Gwen as she went about her duties, her braided hair adorned with wildflowers as she carried linens or trailed after Morgana. In his reimagining, Arthur didn’t ignore her or treat her as just another servant. Instead, he saw himself approaching Gwen, striking up conversations, making her giggle with some foolish jest. They were friends in this vision, and the warmth of this imagined connection filled the void in his heart left vacant by his real Guinevere.

He imagined the three of them – Morgana, Gwen, and himself – playing together in stolen moments between lessons and chores. He pictured them laughing, sharing secrets, forming a bond that transcended rank and station early in their relationship. My God, why didn’t he see her sooner in reality?

As he grew older in this alternate history, his feelings for Gwen deepened, blossoming from friendship into something more that he was still too cowardly to face. So he saw himself at fourteen, fifteen, his heart racing whenever she was near, his eyes following her whenever she entered a room, his refined poise crumbling towards absurdity. He could see the blush on her cheeks, the shy glances she’d send his way, the unspoken acknowledgment of a deeper affection that, even in this imagining, was difficult to act upon. But she was there, with him. And that was enough for now.

In this version of their story, as they grew older, he didn’t wait until he was crowned prince to kiss her for the first time. Instead, he envisioned stolen moments at sixteen, secret meetings in shadowed alcoves, the brush of hands and the whisper of promises he intended to keep. He imagined the thrill of a forbidden love, the ache of knowing they could never truly be together, not while his father reigned and the gulf between their stations remained so vast.

Yet in this dream, this hopeful rewriting of their history, he found the courage he’d lacked in reality. He was twenty-one, standing before his father in the council chamber, declaring his intentions to make Guinevere his wife. Arguments followed, threats to abandon birthright, weeks of cold silence. Yet Gwen remained by his side, and eventually, Father relented—though not with blessing, with resignation.

In this cherished what-ifs, Gwen was elevated to nobility, given lands and title befitting the future queen, allowing their courtship to flourish in the open. By the time he became king, their union was a testament to the change they would bring to Camelot. He saw a future where their love was celebrated, not condemned, where Gwen sat beside him on the throne as his equal, his partner in ruling Camelot and in life.

The tears fell cold again, for his Guinevere had been that, and more. These visions filled him with a bittersweet longing, a glimpse of a path not taken. Yet they also infused him with strength. Arthur would cling to that imagined history, that dream of a love that had always been destined. In this moment, in this place of darkness and despair, he would live day by day with her in his thoughts, reshaping their story and letting it fortify his failing body.

“I must endure,” he whispered, his voice hoarse but steady. Hold tight to Gwen’s memory, to the strength of their bond that even death could not break, Arthur lifted his chin and stared defiantly into the flames. “For you, my Guinevere. For the love we shared and the life we built, however brief. I will not let them win. I will not let this break me.”

He straightened his shoulders, ignoring the ache in his muscles, the bite of raw wrists and back. He was King Arthur of Camelot, and he would fight, he would survive, for the sake of his kingdom. He would find his way back to a future that was still worth believing in. He and his people would honor Queen Guinevere forever, remembering what she inspired and the compassion she held for all.

A harsh cough tore from his throat, rattling his chest and sending a spike of pain through his battered body. He hunched forward, spitting phlegm onto the stone floor as he gasped for breath. A shiver ran through him despite the nearby fire, and he recognized with grim clarity that it wasn’t just the cave’s chill. Fever taking hold, burning from within – a deep, aching heat alternating with waves of cold that no external warmth could remedy.

Arthur closed his eyes, a bitter laugh escaping his cracked lips, an echo he hoped would taunt his captors. As if the torture and the crushing grief weren’t enough, now illness crept to sap what little strength remained in his weakened frame.

A flicker of grim satisfaction passed through him as he considered the possibility that this illness might claim him before his tormentors could complete their work. Well then. If his fate was to die from sickness rather than at the hands of his enemies, he would embrace it as a final act of defiance.

With a shaky sigh, Arthur reclined on the animal hide and curled onto his side between them, seeking what meager warmth he could find, and let the memories of his love for Guinevere carry him away from the unrelenting reality of his nightmares.

Chapter Text

Iseldir stood alone at the sacred altar, seeking answers in the basin where only reflections danced back at him. Three days had passed since the vision seized him during morning prayers – fire searing through his blood only to be quenched by a cold that pierced to marrow. Even now, his fingers trembled slightly as they breached the water’s surface, seeking solace where certainty eluded him.

He’d gathered the elders that very night, their council extending until starlight gave way to dawn. None doubted what he had experienced – such visceral physical manifestations came rarely, even to one with his experience. Yet the interpretation divided them. Was this truly the prophesied moment when Mordred became Arthur’s bane, or merely one thread in destiny’s complex tapestry?

“The sword has fallen,” he whispered, reaching for the cloth beside the basin to dry his hands, the word tasting bitter as unripe berries. “But does Arthur’s story end here, or might it yet turn to another page?”

Yesterday he’d spoken with Master Alator, who’d remained in Camelot to aid in the search for the king. The Catha priest’s face had grown somber as Iseldir described the disturbance in the magical currents he’d experienced.

“The signs cannot be ignored,” Alator had told him, his brogue thickening with concern. The High Priest had clasped Iseldir’s arm then, his clear blue eyes reflecting the burden they shared. “Such potent visions do not come without cause. We must prepare the queen for the possibility that King Arthur may never return.”

Iseldir traced a final blessing over the sacred waters, the scent of cedar and vervain from nearby ritual braziers enveloping him. A soft breeze played through his curly locks as he turned toward the path leading to Camelot. Emrys should be told first, but repeated attempts to reach him through their mental connection had yielded only silence – a void where Emrys’s consciousness should have answered. Such absence could only mean the wizard had ventured somewhere beyond the reach of druidic magic, or faced interference powerful enough to block their connection. Iseldir knew Emrys was alive – the prophecies spoke of him as eternal – but the silence unsettled him deeply.

Now, the responsibility rested solely on his shoulders. Queen Guinevere deserved to know what had transpired, even if the news brought her nothing but sorrow. Iseldir gathered his traveling cloak and staff, pausing only to inform the elder druids of his intention. Madoc nodded gravely, while Gethin voiced concerns.

“You bear a heavy message for Camelot,” Gethin cautioned, his fingers tightening around his own staff. “What if our interpretation proves incomplete? The queen already bears the burden of a kingdom.”

“And if our understanding is correct?” Madoc countered. “Would you have her learn of her husband’s fate from rumors whispered by those who lack our experience? The queen merits hearing this from those who comprehend and respect its significance.”

“And from those who care about her,” Iseldir said with quiet finality. Gethin’s thoughtful restraint, Madoc’s straightforward certainty. Both had valid perspectives, yet neither fully captured what compelled him most. He turned to Gethin, his expression softening. “But rest assured, I will be clear about the ambiguous nature of prophecies, where clarity sometimes eludes even us.”

With blessings of safe passage and clear speech from the elders, Iseldir journeyed through the forest paths, his staff marking a steady rhythm against the earth. Throughout the morning’s walk, he rehearsed his words, all too aware that this prophecy would wound the queen as deeply as a sword, no matter how delicately it was delivered.

The sacred woods gradually thinned after several hours of travel, giving way to the white towers of Camelot, gleaming against the clear sky like a beacon—or a warning. Approaching the northern gate, Iseldir marveled at the transformation since his last visit mere days ago. A sprawling tent city had emerged on the plain before Camelot’s walls—banners from Nemeth, Gawant, and other allied kingdoms fluttering in the breeze. Knights bearing the colors of Arthur’s vassal lords mingled with Camelot’s own guards in discussions around tables strewn with maps. Supply wagons from distant domains formed queues at the gates, evidence of the loyalty Arthur had cultivated among his peers. Closer to the castle, guards patrolled the battlements with heightened vigilance, scanning all who entered with the same watchful eyes that had greeted visitors since the king’s disappearance. The guard captain nodded in recognition and waved him through without questioning.

Throughout the cobbled streets of the upper town, Iseldir observed the familiar signs of a kingdom in crisis, evidence of the search effort touching every corner. Citizens hurried past with bundles of supplies—water skins, food parcels wrapped in cloth, coils of rope slung across shoulders, and torches. Children darted between adults bearing water, while the occasional cry of a runner delivering messages echoed between buildings. Iseldir sensed the kingdom’s unity in crisis—these were Arthur’s people, bound together in their determination to find their king.

So different from when Iseldir had delivered an anti-magic leaflet into King Arthur’s hands a mere seven days ago. People moved with purpose, some he noted, occasionally glancing toward the castle towers as if the stones themselves had news to share. Where once suspicious eyes had followed his druid robes, now some townsfolk looked to him with desperate hope—as if his connection to magic might yield answers where conventional methods had failed.

Iseldir continued toward the citadel, his pace unhurried despite the urgency of his mission. The weight of what he must tell Queen Guinevere grew heavier with each footfall, bringing him closer to a moment that could forever alter the queen’s life.

As he crossed the main courtyard, he glimpsed Sir Leon mounting his horse along with at least twoscore knights preparing to depart, their faces fresh with determination. Across the way, Sir Percival and Sir Galahad stood before other clusters of men and women – military troops and all classes of civilians – distributing maps and instructions to new search parties. How many had already returned empty-handed? How much longer would hope sustain them without the truth he carried?

After the checkpoint at the citadel entrance, Iseldir followed a page inside, gathering his thoughts for the difficult conversation ahead. Yet the castle itself seemed to reflect the city’s industrious labors – servants rushed about, nobles alongside military advisors, and even courtiers aided exhausted searchers lining the corridors. Despite the purposeful activity, an air of suspended anticipation pervaded every corridor, as if the entire castle held its collective breath awaiting news.

Iseldir followed the page silently through these active halls, both of them sidestepping the occasional obstacle. How different the path Arthur had chosen from his father’s, embracing what Uther had despised, he thought. Under Arthur’s rule, sorcerers found protection under law for the first time in decades. Considerations for a sorcerers’ council that would include warlocks, witches, and other masters working directly with the crown now swung in a balance. With anti-magic undercurrents still flowing beneath the surface, this fragile progress toward unity between magic and the throne raised a troubling question—would Queen Guinevere continue what Arthur began if the worst proved true?

The page stopped before a polished wooden door carved with Camelot’s crest, the rampant dragon with wings unfurled and talons extended. “Master Iseldir to see the queen,” he announced to the guards.

“Remain here,” one instructed, then stepped inside while his companion remained vigilant. Moments later, he reappeared. “The queen will see you now.”

Iseldir entered a modest but elegant room where Queen Guinevere stood beside a map-strewn table, Sir Fredrick at her side. They separated slightly at his entrance, suggesting an interrupted conversation—perhaps strategy or personal counsel. The queen moved toward her desk filled with neatly arranged papers and scrolls, stopping behind it as her knight took up position a few paces back, the subtle clink of metal and creak of leather punctuating the quiet room.

“Master Iseldir,” she acknowledged, her fingers trailing briefly across a parchment on the desk. “You requested an audience. Is there an urgency?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” he replied, bowing respectfully.

“Have you news of the king?” Queen Guinevere asked, hope and vulnerability intertwined in her question.

Iseldir paused, searching for words. How does one begin such a conversation? How to convey what he had witnessed without crushing the last remnants of hope that sustained this woman? Even his rehearsed speech seemed inadequate in this moment.

“I fear I do, Your Majesty,” Iseldir answered, his voice gentle yet firm. “It does not bode well.”

A heartbeat of silence filled the chamber. The queen’s breathing hitched almost imperceptibly, her eyes never leaving his face. Sir Fredrick took half a step closer to her, the gesture both unobtrusive and fiercely protective.

“I wish to hear it nonetheless, Master Iseldir,” she said, her chin lifting slightly. She lowered herself into her chair, settling behind the desk as if gathering herself for what was to come.

Iseldir cleared his throat, stepping forward, his staff clicking on the flagstone. “Three days ago, during our morning prayers, I experienced a vision. But first, I must tell you that I’ve spent days attempting to reach Emrys through our mental connection, yet he remains beyond my reach.”

The queen exhaled lightly, her eye lowering before returning her gaze to him. “Merlin has been absent four days now, with no word.” She shook her head. “We’ve had search parties looking for both him and Arthur.”

“It is... unusual,” he admitted. “Emrys has always been responsive to such calls, even from great distances. His silence troubles me deeply.”

As they spoke, Iseldir noted the way the queen’s fingers rested motionless upon the desk rather than fidgeting with worry—unlike some rulers who might pace or seek constant reassurance. Such discipline no doubt had been forged by what these days demanded of her, but the knowledge he held would test even her remarkable resolve.

“Now, Master Iseldir,” Queen Guinevere said, her voice steady, “what news do you bring of my husband?”

“A disturbance in the magical realm suggests that the prophecy concerning King Arthur and Mordred has come full circle.”

The queen’s brow furrowed slightly. “Explain this prophecy,” she requested, a new wariness entering her gaze.

Iseldir paused, his lips thinning. Of course. Emrys would not have revealed this dreadful foretelling of the king’s demise, potentially evoking unnecessary alarm that could follow like a wolf in shadow. However, if Emrys and Sir Galahad had disclosed the magical curse of the circlet, surely they would have mentioned how it intertwined with prophetic fates.

Once again, he cleared his throat, deciding it best to deliver the foretelling directly, without embellishment. “There is an ancient prophecy known to few druids about Arthur’s bane,” he said, his voice faltering on the final word. “That Mordred would strike the fatal blow against the Once and Future King.”

Queen Guinevere remained perfectly still, only her lips parting slightly. A silence expanded around them, thick and suffocating. “Are you saying that Mordred has… That Arthur…?”

Her right hand moved to rest upon her abdomen, her gaze distant, focused on something far beyond the stone walls of her office. The devastation on her face transcended mere shock or grief—it was the look of someone whose world had suddenly, irrevocably fractured.

For several heartbeats, she remained thus, her breathing shallow, her fingers splayed protectively across her belly. When she finally moved, it was with the cautious deliberation of one navigating unfamiliar terrain.

Only then did her expression begin to transform, the initial sorrow slowly giving way to necessary questions with visible effort. “Continue, Master Iseldir. What exactly did you witness in this vision?”

“During our morning prayer ritual,” he said, surprised by the tremor that entered his own voice, “I felt the moment the sword fell.” He closed his eyes, visibly reliving the experience. “Fire and ice coursed through my veins simultaneously—scorching heat followed instantly by a bone-deep chill. It was as if the very fabric of destiny shifted beneath my feet—a prophecy centuries in the making reaching its fulfillment.”

He pressed his fingers to his temple, as if the memory itself caused physical pain. “I felt a severing—as violent as an axe striking bone. The sensation ripped through me with such force that I could barely stand. But in that moment, I knew.” He looked directly at her. “The sword has fallen, Queen Guinevere.”

“And this means Arthur is dead?” The queen’s question came softly, her voice finally betraying the emotions she’d fought to contain. Sir Fredrick moved closer, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. She glanced up at him briefly, grief shadowing her features.

“The signs suggest the prophecy has been fulfilled,” Iseldir answered carefully as she returned her attention to him. “Though without a body, I cannot claim absolute certainty.”

Queen Guinevere’s lips twitched, tightening then relaxing, her chest rising with a deep breath that trembled slightly on its release. Her eyes glistened as she fought the moisture wetting her lashes. After a moment, she refocused on him.

“There is something I don’t understand,” she said, her voice steadier than her hands. “If the circlet’s magic is powerful enough to kill the wearer, why wasn’t I informed how much danger Arthur truly faced? Did you not know until your vision, Master?”

Iseldir briefly lowered his gaze. How could he respond? He revered Emrys, yet she was his sovereign.

“Please,” she entreated, his hesitation prompting her to slightly lean forward, “tell me what you discussed with Merlin and Sir Galahad.”

“Your Majesty,” he began carefully. “May I speak of prophecies themselves?” He traced circular patterns on the floor with his staff, his eyes following the movement. “They are like ripples on water.” Magic subtly manifested visible currents in the air above the motion, like water disturbed by a pebble’s fall. “Clear at the center, yet blurring as they expand outward. What seems certain in vision often manifests in unexpected ways.”

The queen’s gaze held him, her expression caught between royal composure and raw grief. “Explain,” she whispered, a slight quiver that betrayed her effort to cling to reason rather than collapse into despair.

“Prophecies show possibilities, not certainties. They reveal patterns woven into the fabric of time, but never how those threads ultimately bind together.” Iseldir’s voice softened. “What I witnessed suggests the prophecy’s fulfillment, yet I’ve learned enough to know they twist like rivers finding new paths to the sea.”

“You speak in riddles, Master Iseldir,” Queen Guinevere said, her fingers now restless against the desk edge. Sir Fredrick’s brow creased with concern as he crossed his arms. “Are you now uncertain of what you claimed to have seen?”

“I am certain of what I witnessed,” he affirmed. “The signs were unmistakable. But their interpretation...” He paused, choosing his words with deliberation. “The prophecy speaks of Mordred as Arthur’s bane, of a fatal blow. Perhaps that blow has been struck. But ‘fatal’ may take many forms, and death itself has sometimes proven impermanent, as druid chronicles have witnessed throughout the ages.”

The queen swallowed hard, her face contorting briefly as if tasting something both bitter and sweet. “You came to tell me my husband is dead,” she said, her head tilting slightly as if to better examine this puzzle, “yet now suggest he might not be?”

“I came to share what the signs revealed,” Iseldir corrected gently. “That the prophecy has reached a crucial moment. But again, prophecies, like living things, rarely follow the paths we expect. The ancient texts speak of Arthur as the Once and Future King—a title that suggests a journey beyond death.”

“So you offer both despair and hope in the same breath,” she said finally, eyes full of sorrow momentarily closing as if to shut out the weight of possibilities.

“I offer truth as I understand it,” Iseldir replied. “To claim certainty where none exists would dishonor both your wisdom and my calling.”

 “Yet your first instinct was to bring this news directly to me.” A single tear escaped, glistening like a solitary star against the dark of her complexion. “Your urgency suggests more conviction than your words now imply.”

“The vision’s power compelled me into action, Your Majesty,” Iseldir replied. “I have witnessed many magical disturbances over my lifetime, but few that left me physically shaken with such force. I felt bound to seek you out, believing you should know what I had seen—while acknowledging its potential meaning rather than proclaiming certainty.”

“And the artifacts?” Queen Guinevere asked, her fingers drumming once against the desk before stilling. “What did you reveal to Merlin?” Sir Fredrick’s lips thinned and eyes sharpened at the mention of the cursed objects.

May Emrys forgive me, Iseldir thought as he nodded acquiescence, his fingers curling around the smooth wood of his staff. “We spoke of three objects taken from Camelot’s vaults by Mordred. An opal circlet, a jet pendant, and a tourmaline brooch—ancient artifacts of rare magical power. When properly aligned by someone with knowledge of both eastern incantations and Old Religion magic, they form a weapon capable of inflicting unimaginable suffering.”

Sir Fredrick’s posture tensed, his arms falling to his sides. “What kind of suffering?” The question emerged from him, deep yet gentle.

“The circlet forces its wearer to relive the deaths of others—to experience their final moments as if they were his own.” Iseldir replied, his voice growing heavier as the queen’s expression dissolved into one of dignified devastation—grief contained but not diminished by her royal bearing.

“Arthur is a warrior,” she said softly, lost momentarily in remembrance. “He’s seen much battle, felt the weight of many deaths. He…” Her lips quivered – she lowered her gaze, her fists balled as her thumbs worked across them. “Over the years, before we were wedded, his sleep was sometimes broken by unresolved guilt over his own actions, over his father’s orders despite better judgment.”

“The circlet would make him feel death’s terror and pain. Not once, but perhaps repeatedly, without mercy or respite. A cruel instrument of vengeance.”

The queen’s complexion took on an ashen cast. Her eyes drifted to the window, Iseldir detecting a darkness gathering around her—a shroud of utter grief pooling like water in a basin. Sir Fredrick moved silent as snow drift to her side. For several moments, she said nothing, her shoulders slumping almost imperceptibly before she straightened them with visible effort.

When she finally spoke, her voice emerged hollow, barely above a whisper. “And Mordred has fulfilled this prophecy.”

Iseldir felt the burden of revelation pressing down upon him as he watched the queen traverse the treacherous waters between duty and despair. His role as messenger had brought him no joy, only a profound sadness at witnessing her pain. Yet he owed her the complete truth, not just fragments that might preserve false comfort.

“The prophecy never specified the nature of the blow or the weapon used, Your Majesty,” Iseldir explained, his voice gentle as autumn rain. “Alator and I were certain Mordred did not have the knowledge or the power to control the circlet. While many elders through the ages assumed Arthur would die in battle, once this abduction occurred, we also recognized that Mordred had conventional weapons through which the prophecy might manifest.”

The queen’s fingers trembled slightly before she pressed them flat against the desk. A flicker of realization crossed her features, grief gradually giving way to something sharper as connections formed in her eyes. When they met Iseldir’s again, her gaze had hardened with a terrible understanding.

“Merlin knew about this prophecy all along,” she said, the words forming slowly as this new betrayal took shape. Her voice dropped to a near whisper, sharp with accusation. “Perhaps for years.”

Iseldir felt a pang of guilt as he witnessed this transformation—he had not intended to create discord between the queen and Emrys, yet his revelations were doing exactly that.

Sir Fredrick’s boots scraped against stone. “Merlin has always acted with Arthur’s best interests at heart.”

“By keeping secrets—I know.” She glanced sharply at her guard. “By deciding what we should and should not know about magical threats.”

The knight looked away briefly, his rugged features conflicted as he flexed his fingers. “Merlin carries burdens we cannot fully understand, Gwen,” he said with tender care.

Iseldir watched this exchange with thoughtful consideration. Though his relationship with Emrys differed from the men who called him friend, he understood the complexity of their loyalty.

“In my experience, Your Majesty,” he offered, “those with great power often believe they must shoulder certain knowledge alone. It is rarely malice that drives such decisions, but an honorable sense of protection.”

“That does not lessen the pain their choices may cause others.” Her Majesty regarded him with a penetrating gaze, her eyes revealing a calculation beyond mere anger or grief. “When Arthur returns—” she said, emphasizing the word with deliberate certainty, “matters of trust will need to be addressed. Until then, we continue the search with every resource at our disposal for him and for Merlin.” Her tone made it clear—the discussion of Merlin was temporarily closed, but not forgotten.

The queen rose from her seat, a subtle signal that their discussion had reached its conclusion. “You must be tired from your journey, Master Iseldir. Can I offer you a meal and rest before your journey home?”

“Thank you for your kindness, Your Majesty, but I believe it best I return to the encampment.” Iseldir stepped forward, his staff marking a reverent tap against the stone floor. “Rest assured, my queen. The druids will continue our search for the king through our own methods. Your unwavering conviction in the face of such prophecies reminds me that destiny is not merely foretold but forged—by courage, by will, by the refusal to surrender hope. Perhaps that is what the Once and Future King truly means—that even in darkness, Arthur’s legacy endures through those who carry his vision.”

Queen Guinevere seemed to struggle with words for a moment, a shine brightening her eyes briefly before she blinked it away and smiled weakly. “Thank you.” She tilted her head respectfully. “Your counsel, though difficult to hear, was much valued.”

Iseldir bowed from the waist. “I will send word immediately should we discover anything of importance.”

Heading toward the door, he could hear whispers and the rustle of clothing behind him when a thought occurred to him as he reached for the handle—a small detail about the prophecy’s wording that might offer additional insight. He turned, but halted mid-step.

The queen stood with her back to him, wrapped in Sir Fredrick’s arms. Her shoulders trembled visibly as silent sobs shook her frame. The composed sovereign of moments before had vanished, replaced by a woman drowning in grief too vast to contain. In that unguarded moment, Iseldir glimpsed the true measure of her love for Arthur – a force perhaps as powerful as any prophecy.

Iseldir caught the knight’s gaze, but then quietly withdrew, closing the door without a sound. Whatever wisdom he might have shared could wait for another day. Some burdens required privacy to bear, even for a queen.

As he made his way through Camelot’s lively corridors, the significance of all he had witnessed settled upon him. The prophecy’s apparent fulfillment, Emrys’s unexplained absence, the fracturing of trust among those who should stand united—each thread spun into a tapestry far more complex than he had anticipated when setting out that morning.

Yet as he passed beneath Camelot’s gates, he found himself remembering the queen’s deliberate words: “When Arthur returns”—not if, but when. Perhaps, he reflected, that stubborn hope held more wisdom than all the centuries of prophetic knowledge combined.

Chapter Text

Consciousness fragmented into shadow. Arthur reached for her—for Guinevere, his light, his anchor in the tempest of his torment. Her image flickered like a distant flame, wavering in his desperate grasp, fading like a dream before the nightmare engulfed him.

Pressure crushed his chest, like a vice tightening around his ribcage. His chest seized, lungs burning for air that wouldn’t come. Water—though he knew it wasn’t real—flooded every sense, every nerve in his body registering the drowning as truth. The icy cold penetrated his skin, settling deep in his marrow.

“Mordred,” Arthur breathed, the word barely escaping his lips while in his mind brackish water filled his mouth, its foul taste making him gag. “Mordred—you—have a choice.”

The boy didn’t move, his stare indiscernible as Arthur tried to move his arms, kick his feet, propel himself upwards for life-giving air. His limbs refused to obey, bound by an invisible force, as if conspiring with the water itself against him.

Precious air in his lungs rose in bubbles before his burning eyes, the salty water stinging them mercilessly. Arthur’s lungs convulsed, the pressure building until his mouth opened involuntarily, seeking relief that would not come. The truth pierced through—no escape, no reprieve. Only the dark depths drawing him downward, claiming him completely.

It comes, his mind warned. Then let it!

His thoughts surrendered to the inevitable, embittered acceptance replacing his earlier dread as spectral tendrils ensnared his limbs, dragging him deeper into a watery grave.

Ghostly forms materialized in the murky depths alongside him—mostly children with grey and shriveled skin, hollow sockets where eyes should have been, their clothing reduced to ethereal tatters. Their arms reached for him, their bony fingers grasping at his flesh. Through the water filling his ears, their voices somehow reached him—garbled yet distinct cries forming a haunting chorus: Help us! Save us! The suffering victims of his past decisions, come to witness his penance.

Merlin, the knights, his father—faces of people throughout his life blurred together, appearing and vanishing faster than heartbeats, no single image lasting long enough to grasp. Camelot’s towers, childhood chambers, battlefield tents. Rights, wrongs—his life unraveled in fragments, each memory less substantial than the last as the cold penetrated to his core, numbing him from within as his final moments ebbed away.

Guinevere. Her name, the last flash of light dying in his consciousness as darkness claimed him once more.

Mordred forced himself to remain motionless when Arthur called to him – the king’s torturing unbearable. His mind had built walls within walls, fortresses of indifference that crumbled with each passing day. He wished he could close his ears – the strangled gurgles of “drowning” sending cold shivers through him, like icy fingers trailing down his spine. Vengeance for his slaughtered kin no longer sparked satisfaction at Arthur’s pain, only a growing sickness in his gut that no amount of justification could quell.

Killian’s lips curled into a satisfied smile as he dissolved the rock cuffs, his pleasure in the king’s suffering making Mordred’s stomach roil. Light danced in the man’s eyes watching Arthur’s limp form, the same hunger that had driven him for days now temporarily sated by another successful execution.

Mordred gripped Arthur’s shoulders, easing his torso upward while sliding his legs over the side of the stone slab. The king’s head lolled against Mordred’s chest as he positioned him in a near-sitting posture. Arms straining under the deadweight, he hoisted Arthur from the altar. The king—body slick with sweat—nearly slipped from his grasp as he dragged him to the cage. Depositing Arthur upon the musty furs, the stench of unwashed flesh and damp bedding seared Mordred’s nostrils.

He exited the cage and moved to the small rock shelf they’d fashioned into a preparation table, feeling Killian’s eyes tracking his every movement. His fingers worked instinctively preparing the king’s meager breakfast—a routine performed so often, he carried it out without conscious direction.

The scuff of Killian’s boots and fading footsteps uncoiled tension in Mordred’s muscles. His shoulders slumped, hands trembling visibly as mist formed from his shallow breaths. Killian’s presence loomed even in absence, clinging to Mordred like mold to damp walls. Each day, the man’s eyes grew darker, hungrier—Arthur’s anguish feeding rather than satisfying his appetite for suffering.

Mordred glanced toward the entrance of the alcove, his mind wandering down the tunnels, deeper and upward, where Dodd had reinforced the magical barriers with fresh alerts and more sensitive detection charms. The spells formed an invisible prison—the king in his cage, him in this labyrinth of stone, a hollowed tomb for them both. Mordred chewed his lip, flinching when the tang of copper spread across his tongue, his teeth breaking skin.

After completing his routine, Mordred returned to the cage with water and gruel. Kneeling beside Arthur, the sight before him cinched his heart. The vibrancy that once emanated from the king had dimmed, though not extinguished. Arthur’s chest rose and fell with quiet breaths, his face smudged with dirt and grit. A week’s growth of beard darkened his jaw, unkempt and matted. Dark circles rimmed his closed eyes, evidence of restless sleep and perhaps relentless torment. His hair—once bright as gold—now lay flat against his head, while a week of sweat and grime dulled the regal presence Mordred remembered. Yet, even in this state, Arthur’s jaw remained set with defiance.

His gaze drifted to the crackling fire, its warmth failing to touch the coldness spreading inside him. Two days ago, when Dodd’s threats finally broke his resistance, he’d cast the spell that summoned the hanging. The words had flowed from his lips with disturbing ease. His fingertips had tingled, magic surging through his veins with raw, unleashed power as Arthur writhed beneath the spell’s hold. Pride and shame had twisted together, leaving Mordred lightheaded, sick to his stomach, yet strangely hungry for that power again.

The moment Arthur had finally stilled, the jewels in the circlet brightened to a painful brilliance, forcing Mordred to look away. The gems had painted eerie patterns on the cavern walls before the torches dimmed, then flared back with unnatural blue flames. A freezing wind had rushed through the cave out of nowhere, blowing at their clothes and snuffing out several torches—impossible this deep underground where no breeze should reach. Even now remembering that moment raised the hair on Mordred’s arms—as if magic itself had issued a warning against what they were doing.

Yet, the strange disturbance had neither slowed the frequency of Arthur’s executions nor stopped Killian and Dodd from demanding Mordred’s participation. Eight days of witnessing the king’s suffering—and now his own share in the torment—had hollowed Mordred further. The thrill of power he’d first felt had soured, leaving only a sullied taste with each execution that followed.

The king’s soft moan pulled Mordred from his troubled thoughts, Arthur’s brow twitching into a crease before his features smoothed again. With each passing day, with each execution, he seemed to linger in “death’s” embrace before reluctantly returning to consciousness. This change had begun two days ago, the king’s eyes noticeably vacant longer, a part of him seeming to remain somewhere beyond their reach.

Arthur’s hands began to tremble, his body shivering and fingers flexing as if fighting something unseen. Mordred placed his palm lightly on the king’s forehead as he’d seen his druid elders do when calming fevered clansmen. Finding Arthur’s skin moist and warm to the touch, Mordred murmured a quiet word—not a spell, just a sound of comfort—until his movements slowed.

He gently clasped the king’s hands, Arthur’s fists still clenched. Carefully easing his fingers back, Mordred saw the palms, where longer fingernails had dug deep imprints, breaking the skin—blood still fresh in the crescent-shaped wounds from the torture just minutes ago.

Arthur’s red shirt, mostly intact on the front except where he’d ripped the bottom for wrists and ankle wrappings, hung loose and untucked, the linen wrinkled and damp with sweat. Mordred carefully turned him onto his side. The fabric at the back clung to the king’s skin, stuck by sweat, dried blood, and fresh wounds. Gently, Mordred lifted the tattered edges to reveal inflamed patches where the stone slab had chafed flesh raw. Fresh injuries overlapped older warrior’s scars—medals of past glories now blending with marks of torment.

Reaching into a small pouch at his belt, Mordred retrieved a tin of salve he’d prepared from cave moss and herbs. The sharp herbal scent briefly overpowered the metallic tang of blood and sour stench of sweat that filled the cage. His hands trembled slightly as he applied the green paste to the wounds, Arthur’s breath hitching, a string of unintelligible words tumbling forth. Mordred swallowed hard, his throat constricting, Arthur flinching unconsciously through the ministrations of his touch.

“Gwen,” he murmured before a low moan escaped his lips.

As gently as he could, Mordred eased the king back onto the furs, arranging his limbs as comfortably as possible. Lifting his wrist, he unwound the frayed wrap, wincing at the raw flesh beneath—reddened circles where rock had ground against skin. He removed Arthur’s other worn bandages and scooped more salve onto his fingers, applying it liberally to each wound before tearing strips from his own tunic to create fresh dressings, including two for the king’s palms. He wrapped each injury with care, making sure the bindings were secure but not tight enough to cause further pain. Arthur’s furrowed brow gradually relaxed, his unconscious agitation settling as the soothing herbs began their work.

Mordred sat back on his heels, tracing every line across the king’s face. The disheveled man before him bore little resemblance to the crown prince who had once extended his hand to him. His fingers tingled with the ghost of Arthur’s firm grip guiding him to safety, the memory of the prince’s warmth seeping through his cloak as they rode together. Arthur had risked his father’s infamous wrath, defying royal decree to return a frightened boy to his people. Mordred never knew if Arthur’s courage had cost him anything dearly, but those acts of kindness now lay buried beneath years of blood and betrayal. Still, after all this – hadn’t Arthur paid for those transgressions?

The question invaded Mordred’s thoughts, lodging in his chest like an unwelcomed intruder. Before him was a proud king, defiant against his tormentors while each moment for him stretched into an eternity of pain. Mordred’s gut twisted as he watched Arthur’s fingers curl reflexively against the matted furs. Hadn’t he been punishment enough? When would the scales finally balance, ending this cycle of vengeance and retribution that had dragged them both into this dark, forsaken place?

Lost in his questioning thoughts, Mordred noticed Arthur shivering despite the sweat of fever on his brow. The second cage caught his eye—empty, waiting for the queen who would never come. His boots scuffed against stone as he crossed to it, fingers closing around an unused fur, the thick pelt heavy and coarse against his calloused hands. Returning to Arthur, he draped it over the king’s form, then left after one final look. The metal door clanged shut behind him—no need for locks anymore.

At the entrance of the alcove, his steps halted when another moan from Arthur punctuated the silence. Mordred’s fingers curled into fists, then relaxed, then curled again. His gaze trailed to the tunnel where Killian had disappeared.

Something was changing in them—beyond their usual cruelty. These last few days, Dodd’s voice had begun to shift mid-sentence into Killian’s rougher tone, neither of them seeming to notice. Yesterday, he’d caught Killian speaking to himself in shadows, arguing in their two distinct voices.

Mordred’s throat constricted, a bead of sweat trailing down his temple. His hand brushed the dagger at his hip—would he be quick enough? His legs trembled beneath him as Arthur’s soft moans drifted from the cage. The sound pulled him back like an invisible thread, his feet moving before his mind had decided. Each step toward the cage instead of his alcove was a choice, a boldness that could cost him everything. Killian’s cold assessment from yesterday haunted him: “A liability,” he’d overheard him whisper to himself, yet Arthur’s suffering drew him forward, his hand reaching for the cage’s door.

Beside Arthur again, Mordred slipped a hand under his neck, startled by the warmth that met his touch. A mild fever radiated through the king’s skin, heating Mordred’s palm like early morning sun on stone. Arthur’s head shifted slightly against his supporting arm, still unsettlingly light. The cup trembled in Mordred’s other hand as he pressed it to Arthur’s mouth. Cool clay rim caught on cracked lips, water spilling over them rather than between them. Droplets traced paths down Arthur’s jaw, disappearing into his beard. Not a single swallow – the king too deep in unconsciousness even for this basic instinct.

“King Arthur,” he whispered, his voice low, urgent, barely louder than the flickering of the torches on the damp cavern walls. “Drink…”

Arthur’s lips moved, parted open a little more, a faint whisper of breath escaping them. Mordred tried again, tilting the cup gently, this time more water going into the king’s mouth.

“My lord, wake up,” he said, his words edged with a desperate plea, Arthur’s slow intake and unconsciousness sending a chill of apprehension down Mordred’s spine. “King Arthur…”

Arthur stirred, a shudder rippling through his body. Then his chest heaved, a harsh cough erupting from him. Mordred jerked back, startled, spilling what was left of the water onto the king’s chest, the liquid darkening the fabric of his shirt. Light coughing had first started last evening, but the sound Arthur made now scraped against the stone walls, distressingly loud in the quiet alcove. Glancing anxiously toward the entrance, his heart pounded a frantic rhythm against his ribs. This hacking worried him—perhaps the result of the dank cave air—but a sign of the king’s worsening condition.

He rose, pacing the small confines of the cage, his gaze darting between Arthur’s prone form and the alcove’s entrance. The king’s warrior frame, built from years of training and battle, dwarfed Mordred’s slim build. He couldn’t carry Arthur out of here—the king would need to walk, at least partly on his own strength. Mordred’s breath clouded before him in short, sharp bursts as he imagined the labyrinthine passages awaiting them, an arduous journey through darkness and danger.

His eyes fell to Arthur’s bare feet, and a new worry seized him, the realization as chilling as the cave’s damp air. The king’s heavy boots would echo through the tunnels with each stumbling step, the leather soles scraping against stone like a beacon to Killian’s ears. Yet leaving Arthur barefoot would mean slower progress through the jagged passages and a greater risk of injury.

Cold sweat beaded on Mordred’s brow as he glanced beyond the cage, eyes searching the shadows until he spotted Arthur’s discarded foot coverings and boots nearby—protection at the cost of stealth. Bolting to his feet, desperation overwhelmed caution as he rushed from the cage and quickly grabbed them.

He knelt at Arthur’s feet and lifted one, the weight of it unexpected in his hand. Sliding a sock on and taking care not to disturb the fresh-wrapped bandages, the cloth whispered softly as it moved across the arch and over the king’s ankle. Despite his cautious touch, Arthur grunted with pain, the sound low and guttural. The king’s face contorted in a grimace, the pained expression magnifying Mordred’s fear of discovery, every sound a potential alert in the stillness of the cave.

After putting on the second sock, Mordred started with the first boot, slipping it over the king’s toes. The stiff and unyielding leather creaked softly, resisting his efforts, making the process more difficult than he’d anticipated. As he pulled the boot over the heel, the leather brushing against his wounds, a deeper groan of pain escaped Arthur’s lips.

“Guinevere,” the king uttered, followed by a throaty moan.

Mordred froze, his heart pounding, the blood rushing in his ears, watching Arthur’s face for signs of waking. His motions couldn’t be helped – the discomfort a necessary evil. When the king settled back into his slumber, Mordred released a shaky breath, the air hissing through his teeth. He continued, pulling the boot up with fumbling fingers.

He repeated the process with the second boot, his movements more confident now that he’d succeeded with the first. Arthur murmured “Guinevere” again, but a louder groan pierced the stillness. The king’s body shivered, jaw muscles tensing visibly beneath his beard. Mordred paused, fingers hovering hesitantly, then pulled the boot into place over Arthur’s jagged breathing, the scuffed toes peeking out from beneath tattered trousers.

Mordred sat back on his heels, surveying his handiwork—the battered leather would shield Arthur’s feet from the cavern’s jagged stone floors. Perhaps more vital, they might provide enough stability for the king to bear his own weight, if only briefly.

His mind’s eye traveled the path they would need to take—dark tunnels branching in confusing patterns, each footstep potentially announcing their passage through them. Mordred’s fingers found the small knife at his belt, tracing its hilt for reassurance, while his other hand flexed subtly, magic stirring beneath the surface of his skin. His druid spells might surprise Killian, but for how long? Their lives balanced on the precarious edge between steel and sorcery—one wrong step, one moment of hesitation, and Killian would overpower them.

“King Arthur,” he whispered, lowering his face until his breath stirred Arthur’s disheveled hair. Stone bit into his knees as he leaned closer. “You must listen, my lord. The queen lives. I’m here to return you to her.”

Arthur’s eyelids dragged open, the blue of his irises honing in on Mordred with startling clarity. His hand shot up suddenly with unexpected strength, fingers clutching Mordred’s tunic.

“What did you say?” he rasped, his voice like steel against stone, his glare burning into Mordred and demanding truth after days of agonizing lies.

Chapter Text

Reality fractured when Aithusa pierced through the veil between worlds, the crossing like swimming through liquid dreams, each wingbeat drawing them closer to home. Morgana’s presence upon her back was both heartwarming and exhilarating, yet Aithusa’s senses instantly jolted as she passed from lavender auroras through the aether’s endless depths and into shocking azure skies.

“Such brightness!” she called out, her voice streaming across the winds to Kilgharrah, who led their formation. “The sun here burns with such intensity.”

Kilgharrah’s deep chuckle reached her from where he flew, Merlin secure upon his back. “You see the world anew, young one. This realm has always possessed this vibrancy.”

Twenty dragons trailed behind in spectacular formation, sparkling scales of emerald, sapphire, amber, and silver gleaming like scattered jewels. Their minds brushed against Aithusa’s—curious, wary, euphoric—as they tasted man’s realm after decades of absence, some after generations, others for the first time. Knowledge older than mountains flowed between them alongside wonder fresh as spring rain, ancient memories of forgotten skies rousing from centuries-long rest, while the landscape below sparked both recognition and unease for those in the familiar.

The wind coursing past Aithusa’s wings unveiled fresh discoveries beyond normal comprehension as she absorbed the world’s sensations. In her previous form, she’d experienced the air as mere resistance. Now, with her enhanced senses, she detected subtle variations in temperature, volatile forces charging the air from distant storms, restless currents invisible to mortal eyes—the atmosphere itself telling stories her younger self could never have fathomed. Behind her, she could discern the other dragons’ soft rumbles of wonder, some releasing brief puffs of steam or flame as they too marveled at the realm’s clarity.

Aithusa banked gracefully on the currents, gliding closer to Kilgharrah. Yet tension radiated from their riders—Merlin’s shoulders rigid as his gaze darted between her and the horizon, while unease flowed through Morgana’s connection despite the priestess’s gentle touch upon Aithusa’s neck. Both had shed the wonder that Evanescen’s splendor had kindled in them, now consumed by some other matters.

Why do you look so troubled, Morgana? Aithusa asked. Is this not also a moment for celebration?

Morgana stirred on her back, her voice soft in Aithusa’s mind. Of course it is. It’s just been—

Overwhelming. Merlin finished, his intensity burning as fierce as the sun. So much has happened so quickly, and there’s still much to do.

Indeed, she replied. I still do not understand many things. Aithusa executed a graceful spiral around them, her new form cutting through the air with precision that would have been impossible in her previous body. As you can see, I have centuries of knowledge flowing through my mind that I know as well as my own heartbeat. And yet... She hesitated, suddenly uncertain.

What is it, Aithusa? Morgana leaned forward, genuine curiosity replacing her worry.

To whom do I call master?

Aithusa felt Morgana’s grip tighten instinctively on her scales, while her dragon eyes caught the roiling muscles beneath Merlin’s tightened jaw, their tension floating between them and into her consciousness. She sensed a deliberate barrier rising around both humans’ thoughts, shielding them from her.

The question had pulsed within Aithusa’s consciousness since before her transformation. Her sorcerer and her priestess have always been protective of her, she reflected, each offering gentle guidance and love that endeared her to them. But now, she didn’t need such safeguarding, nor simplicity—no longer was she frail, vulnerable, and unable to speak. What she craved was truth.

Dragons belong to no one but themselves, Kilgharrah interjected firmly. Yet the bond between dragon and dragonlord transcends mere partnership—it is a sacred union of souls, forged by the Old Religion itself. A sharing of essence rather than a claiming of it.

That is so. Aithusa lifted her chin, frost briefly materializing around her nostrils as she exhaled. Merlin called me from my egg, yet my bond with Morgana runs deep as the oldest roots. Ancestral memories speak of dragonlords commanding with voice, yet also of a few priestesses who communed through heart. I’ve always felt both bonds—complete in their own natures—separate yet unified in purpose.

Your heart recognizes something that ancient laws never accounted for, dear one, Morgana replied, warmth threading through their mental connection.

We’ve known you’ve always been special, Merlin acknowledged. You mean a great deal to us all. Yet sadness crept into his voice, his gaze shifting skyward as his mental barriers reasserted themselves.

Aithusa released a soft, crystalline sigh, frost particles shimmering briefly as she turned to scan the horizon, yet her thoughts remained on her friends. How many times had she curled beside them, listening as they spoke of matters considered beyond her comprehension? Merlin’s divided devotion—how his focus had constantly drifted to King Arthur despite the growing fondness between him and Morgana. Even her younger self had recognized the bond with his sovereign was as sacred in its way as her connection to Merlin himself.

And Morgana. Once proud and stubborn, now transformed through isolation and reflection. Aithusa recalled those first nights in the cave with her, how Morgana’s fingers had trembled stroking her scales, seeking comfort in the darkness. Their minds had touched even then, before the first images bridged the gap between them. Aithusa had sensed something warm kindle within Morgana – a recognition that she was not utterly alone. When fever had claimed Morgana after their initial contact with the lost dragons, Aithusa had refused to leave her side, sensing a familiar fear in the depths of Morgana’s mind—abandonment. Now, as they soared above the clouds, that same fear lingered beneath Morgana’s consciousness, tinging the realm of men with melancholy.

Despite the crossroads where she and her friends now stood, Aithusa turned her thoughts outward, her transformed vision revealing details previously unnoticed about the world below azure skies—the intricate patterns of forests and meadows stretching to the horizon, the network of rivers threading through valleys like silver veins. Mountains rose in the distance, their peaks capped with snow despite the warm season, standing as ancient sentinels to countless human kingdoms.

Aithusa allowed herself simply to exist in this moment of return, savoring the carefree sensation of floating through skies her ancestors had once claimed as birthright. As they approached the familiar silhouette of the mountain range where Kilgharrah had made their home, she released a jubilant roar that crackled with frost, announcing to the world of men that dragonkind had returned. The other dragons answered in kind—a thunderous chorus of voices that rolled across the mountain peaks, echoing through stone valleys.

Thoughts of concern shifted through Kilgharrah’s consciousness. This habitat cannot accommodate us all, the great dragon said. Merlin, perhaps now is the time to consider the practicalities of housing so many.

I know, Merlin said, leaning to view both sides of the landscape below. The forests surrounding Camelot are unsafe. Scores of knights and soldiers search for Arthur there—and the regions beyond for several leagues.

There are countless places throughout the world, but my memory of dragon havens has faded with the passing centuries. My instinct tells me it’s best we remain as close to Camelot as we can.

Great Dragon, I’m curious, Morgana said, scanning the mountain peaks they circled. During my time here, I could never determine where these mountains lay. How distant are we from Camelot?

Uncounted leagues around the world, Morgana, Kilgharrah replied. I chose these remote peaks precisely for their isolation when I dwelt alone within the range’s temperate areas. Without the aether’s magic, Camelot lies many days of flight away—even at dragon speeds.

Upon Aithusa’s back, Morgana stiffened in surprise, yet Merlin’s lips curled sideways in understanding. He’d never located this peak on his own, always depending on Kilgharrah to transport him, but Aithusa understood the concept that her younger self never truly considered. The gifted memories now residing within her grasped the vastness of distances, while her personal experiences had been limited to this mountain range and brief flights to distant locations under Kilgharrah’s watchful guidance.

An emerald-scaled dragon glided forward from the formation, his sleek form suggesting youth despite several pale battle scars marking his hide. Though smaller than many of the other dragons, confidence emanated from his bearing as he approached.

I am Eldrath, he announced, his mental voice carrying a gentler timbre than Kilgharrah’s. Aithusa tilted her head, curious about this dragon closer to her age. Before my dragonlord fell in the early days of the Purge, he’d told me stories about a refuge—a valley in mountains near Camelot’s southern border—hidden by magic older than humankind. The sanctuary’s location was lost long ago when the high priestess who created it perished, taking the secret of its entrance with her.